Page 4 of A Deal with my Bully Roommate

"Do you want me to get you a different one?" I ask, my voice tight. I’m trying to keep the tremble out of my hands, but it’s impossible. I feel exposed, raw, and terrifyingly close to breaking.

"No," Avery says, leaning back and crossing her arms. "I want you to sit. Right there." She points to the chair directly across from her. It’s the seat usually reserved for her few friends, or more often, left empty since she has no friends.

I hesitate. "Avery, people are watching."

"That’s the point, Harper. Sit."

I slide into the chair, feeling like I’m stepping onto a stage. The whispers get louder. I can practically hear the rumors being typed into group chats in real-time. Did you see Harper Price? She’s literally Avery’s lapdog now.

"Eat," Avery commands, pushing a small container of yogurt toward me. "You look like you’re about to faint, and I can’t have my assistant passing out in the middle of the dining hall. It’s bad for my brand."

I look at the yogurt, then back at her. For a second, the mask of the vengeful scholarship student slips, and I see a flash of something else in her eyes. It’s not pity—Avery is far too smart for pity—but it’s a strange, sharp curiosity. She’s watching me the way a scientist watches a specimen under a microscope, waiting for me to snap, or cry, or scream.

“She wants to know why I’m letting her do this,” I realize. “She wants to know where the fight went.”

How do I tell her the fight left me the moment I realized I’d rather be humiliated by her than ignored by everyone else? How do I explain that every time she barks an order, it’s a tether that keeps me from drifting away into the void of the life my parents have built for me?

"Don't be late to the library tonight," she says, eating her salad quicky. I focus on my own meal. "I have a ten-page brief due, and you’re going to be my research lead. And Harper?"

I look up at her, my heart doing that traitorous, jagged little hop. “Yeah?”

"Fix your eyeliner," she says, her voice devoid of emotion. "You look like you’ve been crying, and it makes you look weak. I don't like weak assistants.

Before I can respond, the shadow of two people falls over our table. I don’t even have to look up to recognize the perfume—expensive, floral, and cloyingly sweet. It’s Chloe and Sarah. They’ve finally worked up the nerve to bridge the gap between their "untouchable" table and this scene of my total degradation. They’re acquaintances who followed us from high school, people who know I’m the queen bee and Avery is the scholarship student.

"Harper Price? I thought it was you.” Chloe’s grating voice makes my turn around, materializing my social downfall. “What are you doing following this loser around?" She gives Avery a once over, staring at her oversized, pilled sweater with a look of theatrical disgust. "I knew the housing at this university was a gamble, but I didn't realize they were letting people wear thrift store rejects in the main dining hall. Is that wool, or did she just shave a stray dog?"

Sarah giggles, that shrill, empty sound I used to encourage. "It’s the pilling for me. It looks so... gritty. Do you think the scholarship covers laundry detergent, or is she too busy saving up for a personality that doesn't involve used books?"

I feel the blood drain from my face. This is the script I wrote. These are the lines I wrote. I look at Avery, expecting her to snap back, but she just sits there, her jaw tight, her eyes fixed on her salad. She’s used to this. She’s taking it because she thinks I’m enjoying it. She thinks I’m the one pulling the strings from the shadows.

But as I watch the way Avery’s hand trembles—just a fraction—against the table, something inside me snaps. It isn't a slow burn; it’s a sudden, violent explosion of self-loathing. I’m the one who made Avery a target. I’m the one who told everyone she smelled like "poverty" back in tenth grade just because her mom worked at the hospital.

And I can’t listen to my own echoes anymore.

I stand up so abruptly that my chair skids back against the floor with a sharp, piercing screech. The entire cafeteria goes dead silent.

"Shut up, Chloe," I snarl.

Chloe blinks, her mouth hanging open. "What? Harper, I was just—"

"I said, shut up," I repeat, my voice low and vibrating with a heat that shocks even me. I step toward them, my shadow falling over their expensive, perfectly curated outfits. "At least Avery has a personality that isn't bought with a platinum card. At least she’s here because she’s actually smart enough to be, not because her father donated a wing to the library.” I don’t have to look at Avery to know her jaw dropped. I might be acting as her assistant because of her deal, but defending her in public is so out of character for me.

“Harper, what is wrong with you?” Sarah asks, looking between Avery and me. “Don’t tell me you’ve made friends with the charity case?”

It’s too late to turn back now. “We’re in high school Sarah. Grow up. Avery is no longer just a scholarship student.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Chloe and Sarah look like they’ve been slapped. They scramble to gather their bags, their faces pale.

“And leave me alone.” I turn, but not before I see Avery’s eyes wide and shocked, staring at me with her fork suspended mid-air. I can’t stay here. My mask is slipping.

I turn on my heel and walk straight out of the dining hall, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm.

“What did I just do?” I think, my mind racing. “I just burned my only bridge to social survival for the girl who hates me.”

CHAPTER 3

Avery