Page 24 of Bound By Fury

Lifting my chin, I try to keep my face neutral. I know I have serious RBF, and I’m making a conscious effort to seem more approachable. Even though it turns my stomach, because I know I wouldn’t have to do this if I were white.

The food is stationed around the room in a U, and my stomach growls violently at the smell. When I spot a make-your-own-pizza station, I head toward the garlicy-cheesy goodness. Halfway to my destination, I overhear something that stops me in my tracks.

“They don’t give a fuck! A girl goes missing, and they did fuck-all to find her. I don’t care what they say, one of those idiots knows what happened to Fiona.”

They’re talking about the girl from the missing-person posters and articles online.

I open my crossbody bag and pretend to search for my lip balm as I lean closer.

“Tomorrow night they’re having a vigil for her, but Dr. Rogers said I can’t hand out flyers, so I paid Forrest a hundred bucks to stuff the T-shirt canons full of them. It’s gonna be like girl-on-the-milk-carton confetti.”

What she’s said is so absurd that I snort. Realizing my mistake, I quickly cover my mouth, lifting my eyes to find the girl in front of me scrutinizing every inch of my face.

“Who are you?” she asks, her head tilting to the side. She’s got ice-blond hair and skeptical hazel eyes framed by long, mascara-dark lashes. She’s exactly the kind of girl that would have broken my heart back home.

“Uh,” I stammer. “I’m Harper. I’m new.”

“Obviously,” she says. “Didn’t anyone teach you that it’s rude to eavesdrop?”

Well, she’s certainly got me there.

“Totally, totally,” I nod. “I was just curious about the girl that went missing. The one that ran away?”

Her eyebrows pull way down over her eyes. “She didn’t fucking run away!”

Whoa. “Okay,” I say, holding up my hands. “Sorry, I didn’t know, just going off what I read online.”

“Do you believe everything you read online?” she asks, condescension dripping with every word. “In this age of disinformation dissemination? Really?”

Okay, now she’s starting to piss me off.

“No, I—”

“Where are you from? Because if you’re going to make it at this school, you’re gonna need better critical thinking skills than that.”

“What? I—”

“This is a college preparatory academy, not your grandma’s Facebook feed.”

Oh my god. Embarrassment and anger warm the back of my neck.

“Hold on,” I spit. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”

Laughing, she looks me up and down, a sneer pulling at her top lip. The girls standing behind her share a knowing look, like she does this all the time. “I don’t care who I’m talking to,” she says, stepping forward until we’re nearly nose to nose. “You don’t know who the hell you’re messing with, new girl.”

Some of the students at the surrounding tables are starting to notice our exchange. My heartbeat quickens, a thrumming sitting at the base of my throat. That tingling is back again. My eyes skate around the room, searching. A faint buzz whispers across my skin.

“That’s interesting,” I say before I can stop myself, dizzy with static. “Because I could tell you the exact same thing.” I pull back my shoulders defiantly.

I know I should walk away, but my feet are glued to the floor.

The girl’s face is splotchy red, but whoever she is, she thinks we’re evenly matched. I can tell from the glint in her eyes that she’ll stand here all day if she has to.

“Oh my god!” one of her friends butts in, throwing her arm between us. “Why are you being so aggressive? She didn’t do anything to you!” she yells, her voice quivering like she might cry even though this has absolutely nothing to do with her.

Aggressive. Black women are always accused of being aggressive. Like we don’t have good reason to be. Like we don’t deserve to melt the world with our rage.

An itch creeps under my skin, like a million tiny sparks stinging me over and over again. This feeling is becoming too familiar. The convenience store. The funeral. The dream.