Page 87 of My Shy Alpha

I can’t read the tone of her voice. My eyes snap open as wide as they can be, staring up at her for answers.

She eases the red slip of paper from my hands, knowing when I get like this, I can’t bear to speak at all. As she reads the details, I want to curl up, blending into the dirt. I don’t have to be reading it with her to remember what it says; I already memorized the whole thing through my tears the past two hours in the principal’s office while Dad was too busy to pick me up.

To the parents of:Aliya Matsuoka

Your child has received:1 day of limited recess

For the following reasons: The yard duty found Aliya climbing a tree in her skirt. Her behavior encouraged other students to climb after her. When she was told to get down, she fell and scraped her knees. Her behavior was not age-appropriate, and if she’d like to wear skirts, she needs to follow the school dress code and wear shorts beneath them.

Mom’s face says it all, dissolving from pity to something dark. Wait, is she mad at me? A small part of me hoped she’d understand. I just wanted to run free like the boys do. Be just as adventurous as them. Maybe Mom would get me, see that difference in how we’re raised and hate it too?

It doesn’t seem to be the case. Mom doesn’t say anything, but I can feel her anger. It spices up the air between us, raising my shoulders the whole way home. I want to crawl back onto the bus, allowing it to drive me off somewhere deep in the forest so Mom and Dad don’t have to deal with me anymore.

Then she says what I never want to hear. “How could you do something like that, Aliya? This is so unlike you.”

I blubber into silent tears, even though I thought they had all dried up.

Mom’s right. I’m always too “unladylike.” I forgot that when I climb trees, the whole world looks under my dress.

When Dad gets home, I want to beg Mom not to tell him; it looks like he had such a bad day at work that I’m scared he lost his job. But he didn’t lose his job, and Mom tells him anyway.

He scrubs his face, looking even more tired. I wish I could wash the worry off his forehead, but I’m the one who put it there.

“What did your teacher think about this behavior?” Dad says. “You need to be on your best behavior to get into Westfield schools. You’re not going to Greenfield after the shit I had to witness today.”

“Takahiro!?” Mom gasps.

“Sorry,” Dad hisses, scrubbing his forehead. “Today has been a nightmare. We’re definitely getting her some shorts, An. I can’t imagine if one of her teachers–”

Dad chokes on his words, wincing like he’s hurting. He hangs his head in his hands, and Mom rushes me to my room. Once I’m all alone there, I shrink into the bottom cubby of my closet beside my mud boots, spiraling into heavier tears.

Mom and Dad aren’t usually strict, but they change around what other people think. But aren’t strangers the people they warn me about? Why should I care about them?

Amy doesn’t seem bothered by my actions. She’s mad like I am inside: why did I get a suspension when those boys didn’t?

But Mom and Dad don’t agree with Amy. Sometimes, they share the same, scared look. They think they’re hiding it from me. But I only see them do that when I do something weird.

Something unfixable is wrong with me, and I can’t figure it out.

I’m 14.

I’m a prime, subservient example of a well-behaved young woman. I smile hiding my teeth, stifling my laugh to a breathy, polite giggle. I keep a calculated, one-foot space between everyone I know unless they give me express permission to enter their invisible bubble. I cross my legs when I sit, even when I wear jeans.

If I disobey any of these rules, I have to heighten them somehow - make up for my wrongdoings.

But other people don’t seem to care about rules as much as me. A classmate looks at my legs in Algebra I, reaching his hand into his pants. I pretend not to notice, hiding the discomfort in my shoulders and racing heart with a neutral, focused stare at the whiteboard. He’s a guy, right? A teenage boy. He can’t help but be tempted when he looks at me.

And I don’t have room to complain. If I’m not careful, a freak like me will fuck something up beyond repair. Destroy the world with me in it. I should be lucky anyone looks at me like this.

I zip through ages so fast that I can’t keep up. My dearest friends and newfound college independence loosen two decades’ worth of rules. I kiss Amy on the lips over a dare, and realize girls’ lips attract me too. We meet Kira, and I’m too happy for Amy to be bitter that I know our friendship will never be just-us-two again.

Then I see his bright, convincing smile across campus. That blonde hair blaring even brighter in the sun.

Steven is 21.

I’m 19.

Steven knows what he’s doing. He’s always on time, and I want to be too. I want to run track like him - a natural, graceful beauty on the field that leaves everyone drooling in his wake - but I’m a klutz. For some reason, he still chooses to look at me. I feel special.