Page 2 of Lessons in Cruelty

Made each other cry.

Made each other bleed.

And the older we got, the harder it was to keep pretending that it was only a game. Until we both had to accept it wasn’t.

It’s been three years since I’ve been home. I’m not sure what’s waiting for me on the other side of the door. If that green-eyed boy remembers me, it definitely won’t be a welcome party.

So why the hell do I pray he hasn’t forgotten?

I tug at the fraying sleeve of my beige cardigan as I trot up the front steps of Agony Hollow College.

With fall only a couple of weeks away, the early morning sunlight hitting my back is barely warming me at all, yet it’s bright enough to penetrate deep into the thickly carpeted foyer of the sprawling Victorian-era building.

I’ve driven past this place several times the past week. Every time I’d imagine myself walking through the front door.

I still feel like an intruder, even with a text on my phone proving that I have every right to be here. I’m prickly under my clothes—a sure sign I’m sweating. I’d love to take off my cardigan, but in my rush to make it on time to my first class, I forgot to put on a bra.

The past few days have been absolute hell, and I look and feel the part. Hair brushed with my fingers. No makeup. No freaking bra. And to top it off, I grabbed one of my most obviously dilapidated pieces of clothing to fix myself.

Is this what a meth addict feels like when they’re strung out?

When I glance down and see my jeans have a ketchup stain on them, I nearly turn around and leave.

But then I’d be a loser, and everything I’d have done up to now would be for nothing.

Everything I’d gone through? Meaningless.

Hell to the fucking no.

The receptionist behind the large, curved help desk gives me a double take when she sees me coming. I rip my hands out of my mousy brown, shoulder-length tangles where I’d been trying to coax them into something resembling a hairstyle, and give her a bright smile.

I must look psychotic, because she stiffens up like I’m holding an assault rifle, not a brand new pink notepad with a bunch of random letters embossed in gold on the front cover. I thought it was some kind of acronym when I bought it. It starts with STFU, which I know is code for shut the fuck up, but the rest is gibberish.

It was literally the last one in the only stationery-cum-bookstore in town. That’s what happens when you leave your college shopping for the week after classes begin.

Someone’s running a vacuum over the carpet a couple of feet away. A pair of faculty members coming down the stairs I assume lead up to the first floor of the renovated manor.

Surprisingly quiet, despite the Hoover, but I guess everyone’s already on their way to class.

“Hi!” I slap my notepad down on the counter, blowing a chunk of hair out of my face, trying to look breezy. “So, I’m supposed to start classes here? I’m guessing there’s a schedule or something I need to collect?”

I overcompensate sometimes.

The middle-aged receptionist purses her lips and. “We sent out orientation packets over a month ago, sweetie. Did yours not arrive?” she asks, raising her voice over the sound of the vacuum cleaner. To her credit, she only sounds mildly condescending.

I freeze, my brain scrambling furiously. “I was overseas!” I yell, at the exact moment the janitor turns off his vacuum.

My voice rings through the roomy foyer. Everyone else in the vicinity has gone silent. Even the two teachers have stopped to stare at me.

God. You’d swear I was leading a marching band through a library.

I clear my throat, and whisper, “I only just got back. Must have missed it.”

“Name?”

“Haven Lee.”

“Lee…Haven…yes, here you are.”