Chapter 5: Throwing Away the Past

Chapter Five

I didn’t go back to class that day—I went straight home.

I walked the two blocks in a daze, the sun glaring off the pavement. The bell had saved me; no one stopped me as I slipped out. When I reached my porch, I fumbled for my keys, hands shaking.

Rushing into my room, I tore the place apart, messing up my bookshelf, wardrobe, and dresser.

My books landed in piles on the floor. My favorite hoodie, the one Derek gave me in eighth grade, ended up in the growing heap. A ticket stub’s paper edge nicked my finger; the little sting felt right.

I grabbed a big cardboard box and gathered everything Derek had ever given me, tossing it all inside.

Concert tickets, movie stubs, birthday cards with his messy handwriting—all of it. Every memory, every little reminder, buried under layers of stuff. The weight of the hoodie settled like a final stone.

The box was packed full. I made sure I didn’t miss a thing.

I even found a tiny pink eraser with his initials scratched on it. For a second, I almost kept it—but then I tossed it in.

I picked up the box, ran downstairs, and threw it all in the trash.

I stood on the curb, heart hammering, and watched the garbage truck drive away. It felt dramatic, but necessary—like shutting a door I’d left open for too long.

After all this, my parents weren’t home yet, so I called my mom.

I sat at the kitchen counter, phone pressed to my ear, knees tucked to my chest. The house felt too big, too quiet.

"Hello, sweetheart, what’s up?"

Her voice was warm, familiar. Just hearing it made my throat tighten.

"Mom, when you get home, go tell Mr. and Mrs. Peterson that I’m breaking up with Derek. Also," I said coldly, "from today on, Derek isn’t allowed in our house. The farther he stays away, the better."

I forced the words out, steady and cold. I wanted her to know I meant it, that this wasn’t just a fight—it was over.

When Mom came home, she looked at the slap mark on my face, anxious and angry.

She dropped her purse on the floor and rushed over, cradling my cheek in her hands. "Who did this to you?" she demanded, her voice trembling. "We’re calling the school in the morning."

I told her what had happened recently.

I started with the first slap, and the words poured out—Lauren's taunts, Derek's laughter, the water bottle, the final blow. My mom listened, jaw tight, hand never leaving mine.

My mom was furious, and immediately went to knock on the Petersons’ door.

She barely let me finish before storming across the hall. The hallway smelled like someone’s casserole and fresh laundry detergent; our footsteps echoed.

Mrs. Peterson was still confused, and my mom explained everything in detail:

She didn’t sugarcoat anything—she laid it all out, her voice sharp enough to make the neighbors peek out their doors. I sat on my bed, hugging a pillow, heart pounding with every word.

How Derek slapped me, how he watched the transfer student bully and ridicule me without doing anything, and how he finally stood in front of her to protect her.

My mom’s words were loud enough for me to hear—each one landed like a gavel. The truth was finally out in the open.

Mrs. Peterson’s face turned pale.

I pictured her sitting there, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. She’d always thought Derek could do no wrong.

Our two families had always been close, but that day, because of me, a crack appeared.

The hallway felt colder, the air heavy with something broken that couldn’t be fixed. It was like losing another piece of home.

But my mom didn’t blame me. She gently said,

She sat beside me on the bed, rubbing my back in slow circles. "You did the right thing, honey," she whispered. "No one has the right to treat you that way."

"Our Natalie can’t be bullied by anyone. No matter what you choose, Mom and Dad support you."

She squeezed my shoulder, her voice firm. "We’re meeting the counselor tomorrow. This school says it has a zero tolerance policy—we’ll hold them to it."

All the hurt and sadness I’d been holding in burst out. My nose tingled, and I hugged my mom and cried.

We sat together for a long time, my tears soaking her sweater. For the first time in days, I didn’t feel so alone.