“What do you think, Working Girl? My mother’s on the schoolboard, and she really likes Becky. After all, we’ve been friends for years.” She taps a sharp nailed pink fingernail on my tablet screen. “I noticed you checked off choir in the No Thank You section of the form. But girls like you need to expand their horizons, don’t you think?”
I’m shaking, but I don’t say anything to her, not right now. What good would it do to cause a scene? Instead, I look forward and pretend I don’t notice Tristan making his way over to sit behind me.
Okay, so, I’ve been assigned to choir. Fine. That doesn’t mean I can’t try out for the academy orchestra. Without skipping a beat, I click the link to the sign-up form and start to fill it out when a hand clasps onto my shoulder. Glancing back, I see that it’s Harper again.
“Don’t you dare,” she hisses, but I jerk from her grip and continue what I’m doing. “You try out for the orchestra, and I’ll kill you myself.” This time I do turn around, meeting the harsh blue of her glare. Tristan sits stoically beside her, his face locked into a mask of arrogance that seems impossible to break. But I saw it, during Parents’ Week, his perfect façade shattering into anger.
“Instead of threatening me, maybe you should ask why you’re so afraid of me?” I raise both brows, and then hit the submit button. Harper’s pink painted lips curl up in a snarl, but she doesn’t say anything, choosing instead to ingratiate herself to Tristan.
On the plus side, as class continues, and Becky plays her first piece, I realize it right away: I’m a lot better than her.
Good for me. I’ll have to be if I want to win that seat.
After classes are done for the day, I spend a few minutes looking for Miranda, and then give up, heading to The Mess without her. As soon as I walk in, I know something’s wrong.
Creed is lounging on top of a table like a lazy prince, all coiffed elegance, one leg straight out in front of him, the other bent at the knee. He’s resting on his left elbow, and in his right hand, he’s holding a stack of paper. His icy blue eyes lift to mine as soon as I walk in the door.
“There wasn’t a moment in middle school that I didn’t feel like I was under attack. The siege came from all sides: an alcoholic father at home, a mother who didn’t want me, and classmates who’d made it their personal mission to destroy me.” He pauses, the edge of his mouth curling up in a smile. His captive audience turns to look at me, a knowing gleam in their collective gazes.
Without realizing it, I drop my bookbag to the floor. My knees feel weak, and my head swims. No, this isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.
Creed clears his throat again, and peers back down at his phone.
“For the longest time, I couldn’t figure out why they hated me so much. When I did, it nearly broke me. One day, when I was at my lowest, I sat down on the floor of the girls’ bathroom and I swallowed a bottle of prescription pills I’d stolen from my mother’s purse. Ironically, the first and only time she’d visited me in years was going to be the last time she’d see me: that was my plan. Use her pills, end it all, let the pain fade away.”
My heart is thundering so fast, I can barely hear Creed reading my scholarship essay aloud to the room. Blood pounds in my ears, as loud as the ocean waves against the rocks outside. As Miranda said, I put my heart and soul into that essay. It was everything to me, the whole story of my life, and my ticket out of poverty, into Burberry Prep, into a future that didn’t involve train cars converted to houses or relying on my dad’s on-again, off-again welding work for food and clothing.
I felt like I’d been gutted, like pieces of me were lying on the floor at the feet of the Idols and their wicked Inner Circle.
Memories flickered in my head, memories of Zack bursting into the room and kneeling beside me, putting his fingers down my throat, making me throw up. If he hadn’t gone in there after me, I might very well be dead. And yet, he was one of the instigators, one of my worst critics. I’d never understood that, how he changed after that moment.
“Stop,” I choke out, but Creed just smiles bigger, Zayd grinning from ear to ear on one side, Tristan standing stoic and silent on the other. “Just stop.”
“Bullying nearly broke me, so much so that I tried again, just two months later. I tried to slit my wrists, and I failed at that, too.” Creed pauses as Zayd roars with laughter and Tristan crosses his arms over his chest. Game set and match, his face tells me. I can barely see Harper, Becky, and Gena standing beside him. They’re getting blurry. The whole room is swimming.
