Nothing had changed since high school, not since Brock had been taken away from me. Bullies don’t grow out of it; they just get older, and I grew more tired. I walked into the house, ready to tell Trish that she was a slut and that I’d heard what she had said about me, but I found her passed out cold on her bed with a baggie of something white by her head. I almost shook her awake, but instead I grabbed the car keys on her dresser and decided to direct my anger at someone else. Maybe it was because Abel had pretended to be nice to me. Maybe it was because he had me fooled that he was like Brock. I don’t know what I saw in him that reminded me of my past, but I couldn’t let it go. I sped down the highway, weaving in and out of traffic as I pulled my phone from my pocket and sent a quick text to Abel. Where would I find an arrogant prick at noon on a Sunday? I dropped my phone and continued toward the old house, and after a minute or two, he replied. How would I know how Donald Trump spends his weekends?
