Page 51 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
“Fine,” I squeak.
Miranda looks over her shoulder and then back at me. “He was… cooperative?”
I purse my lips, unsure of my voice, and nod.
Satisfaction blooms on my aunt’s face. “Good. That’s what I needed to hear.”
She leaves, and suddenly I feel lost at sea. The house is more enormous and empty than ever before.
She didn’t ask how I am. How I’m doing.
Just that Ryder did the required work.
Maybe she really wouldn’t care if I wrote the entire essay for him?
I trudge upstairs to my room. I drop my materials on the desk and collapse onto the bed without changing out of my uniform.
My phone buzzes with a text from Jill:“How was day 2? Any better?”
I stare at the message, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard. How do I even begin to explain? That I had a panic attack in front of the boy who hates me? That I confessed I think my parents’ death is my fault?
I set the phone down without responding.
Outside my window, dark clouds still linger on the horizon. The storm has passed, but I can still feel it in my chest. That tightness. That fear that any moment thunder will crash and I’ll break apart all over again.
Tomorrow I have to face school. Face Ryder in English class. Face the possibility that he’ll tell everyone what I said. That my grief and guilt will become just another rumor circulating through Ashworth Academy’s perfect halls.
Ten
Thehallwaybetweenthirdand fourth period the next day is a war zone.
I press myself against the lockers, clutching my books to my chest as bodies surge past. The crowd is worse than usual. A pep rally announcement has everyone moving in the same direction at once.
I try to time my movements, waiting for a gap that never comes.Just get to history class. Just get through the day.
My nervous system is still fried from this morning’s English class. For fifty-three minutes, I was convinced Ryder Hamilton was going to destroy what’s left of my life. All I could think about was how vulnerable I was during yesterday’s tutoring session. How I revealed truths to someone I shouldn’t have.
The thunderstorm ripped me apart and left me unfiltered. I can’t believe the things I told him about my parents’ accident, and how I was supposed to be in the car. That I wasn’t because I faked being sick.
I spent the entire class playing out the worst scenarios in my mind. I was sure he’d tell everyone my horrible, selfish secret. That he’d describe my panic attack in horrendous detail. That he’d label me a killer and tell perverse stories about my parents, ruining their memory forever.
But he didn’t.
He sat behind me in complete silence. Not a word to Brooks, or a comment to anyone.
Just the sound of him settling into his chair. The rustle of paper as he pulled out the novel. The scratch of his pen against notebook paper.
Every small sound made me flinch. Each one felt like the moment before he’d speak and weaponize what I’d told him.
Instead, I used the fifty-three minutes to torture myself.
But I don’t trust that he’s not saving the information. Waiting for the most damaging moment to reveal what he knows.
Someone shoves me from the side, forcing me back inside my body. I push forward, apologizing as my backpack bumps someone’s shoulder. The crowd shifts suddenly, and I stumble sideways.
My elbow hits something hard. There’s a sickening crash of metal and glass hitting the floor, and the noise cuts through the hallway chaos.
Conversations stop.
