It’s Charlie.
And he’s drunk off his ass.
He stumbles into the classroom, tripping over his own feet, one hand landing on Anna Kirkpatrick’s shoulder. She twists her face in disgust and pulls away from him as I stand up, dropping my iPad to the ground.
“Marnye, baby?” Dad calls out, and a bevy of dark snickers takes over the room. “Where are you?”
My whole body’s frozen over, and I feel rooted to the spot. Zack is quicker to react than me, bulldozing his way out of the aisle and grabbing Charlie by the shoulders.
“No, I want to see Marnye,” Dad slurs, trying to throw Zack off. But despite their age difference, Zack is about a million times stronger. He gets my father under control, hustling him toward the door as the entire class looks on in silence.
“Guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Becky Platter sneers, and the room lights up with laughter.
“If you need a minute, you can excuse yourself, Miss Reed,” Mr. Carter says, but he doesn’t correct Becky for her comment. Why should he? Most of these kids have the staff wrapped around their fingers. Cheeks flaming, I pick my way down the aisle, and head up the steps, holding back tears.
Shoving my way out of the mixed media room, I find my dad slumped against a wall, Zack’s hold just barely keeping him upright. I’m torn between being worried and upset, my emotions a wild turmoil inside of me. I love my dad, but his behavior, it’s … it’s fucking unacceptable.
“Do you know what you’ve just done?” I whisper, choking back the tears. “You’ve given them the ammo they really need to take shots at me.”
“They?” Zack asks as Dad groans. The man’s barely conscious. My yelling at him isn’t going to do a thing. So much as I want to voice my anger, I take up his other side and help Zack lead him toward the front where the cars are waiting to ferry parents back and forth from the cabins.
“Don’t worry about it,” I murmur, feeling Zack’s dark eyes still on me. He says nothing as we move down the hall and out the door, along the corridor, and into the courtyard.
“Your dad got some news last night,” Zack tells me, but when I ask what it is, he clamps all the way up. Jerk.
I’m soaked in sweat by the time I get my dad into the back of the car. Zack pauses, like he’s not sure whether he should stay or go.
“He needs you,” I say lamely, holding up a palm. “He can barely walk let alone change his clothes and get into bed. Just make sure he sleeps facedown.” My eyes lift up to meet Zack’s, those dark pits that are completely and utterly unreadable. “I don’t know why you’re helping me, but … thank you.”
“Don’t bother,” Zack says, sliding into the backseat next to my dad. He slams the door, and the car starts off down the side road that leads to the lake. I watch it until it disappears, closing my eyes and doing my best to gather myself before going back to class. It isn’t easy, not with my hands shaking, my shirt sticking to my back with sweat, but I manage.
As soon as I walk in the door, I can feel it, the weight of their judgement, the depth of their hatred.
I settle myself into my seat and manage to hold back my tears for the rest of the day.
Next week, I might not be so lucky.“Please tell me more about Zack,” Miranda begs, lounging on my bed and watching as I examine my borrowed costume in the mirror. We still have two weeks until Halloween, but apparently, the party here at Burberry is a huge deal. Not that I’m surprised. I’m pretty sure all the parties here are big deals.
“What’s there to tell?” I ask, turning to the side and wondering why every costume Miranda’s brought over for me to try on is so short and low-cut. Oh wait. Remember that scene in Mean Girls when Lindsay Lohan has the voiceover about Halloween, explaining that it’s a day for girls to dress slutty without actually being called sluts? Not that I agree with slut-shaming, but that statement is still, unfortunately, true.
“He was so dark and mysterious,” she mumbles, burying the lower half of her face in my pillow. “Pretty sure he has a thing for you.” I snort and decide that wearing a red bodycon dress with horns and Prada heels isn’t going to work for me. Miranda sees the expression on my face and slaps the bed with her palm. “How clever is that outfit?! It’s a conceptual thing, like The Devil Wears Prada, you know?”
“I got it,” I tell her with a small laugh. “I just don’t think it’s going to help my reputation as the Working Girl, you know?” Grabbing the next outfit off the stack, I head into the bathroom and start to change into another nearly identical costume. “And Zack does not have a thing for me. He’s always hated me.”
