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That was the last thing she said to me before she began the lesson. Nothing about the rich bitch comment. Nothing about the snickers, the stares, and the whispers that followed me as I made my way toward the empty seat either. One girl stuck her foot out, making me trip as I walked by her. My stomach pitched, and I grabbed hold of a desk to keep myself from falling flat on my face. The boy at the desk sneered at me, his lip piercing glinting under the dull florescent lights.
“Back off, bitch. I didn’t say you could touch my shit. You think you just own everything here?”
I snatched my hands away and found my seat. My face burned, and if the lingering snickers from the rest of the class were any indication, everyone in the class could see the blush that painted my cheeks red. Embarrassment flooded me, and I forced my gaze up to the front, attempting to keep my attention on Mrs. Wright. It was hard; her lecture voice was incredibly boring.
Maybe that’s why it was easy for the other students to allow their attention to drift back to me.
The staring. That was the worst part.
I could feel their gazes creeping over my skin like ants.
Slut, skank, whore—they whispered those words to me, their quiet voices cutting through Mrs. Wright’s droning lecture. I was far from innocent and had heard them before, but the way they threw them at me with such vehemence made my stomach flip.
And this is only day one.
Five
Second and third period were about the same. My reprieve came in fourth—gym.
I was a little late, so by the time the other girls were filing out of the locker room, I was stepping inside. They gave me the same harsh looks, but I was at least able to change into my gym clothes in peace. And there were no opportunities for anyone to trip or shove me, considering most of my gym time was spent filling out forms.
Did I have any medical conditions the coach needed to be aware of? Did I have medications like an inhaler or an Epi-Pen that I would need to have access to when we did outside activities? Was I interested in sports? Would I like to have information on the track try-outs?
No, no, no, and no were my answers. And Coach Green was chatty enough that by the time we were done sorting out the first-day paperwork, gym was over and it was time for lunch.
Thank God.
Since we all left the gym at the same time, however, I didn’t miss the other girls in the locker room this time. The redhead from my first class trailed in after me, talking loudly with a few of her friends. I ignored her and the other girls as they changed back into their street clothes, moving quickly to my locker to grab my things, intent on getting out of here without any trouble.
Maybe I should’ve known that was a hopeless wish.
I heard them too late. Without warning, I was flanked with my shirt off, jerked around to face the redhead and shoved back against my locker. The lock dug into my spine, the shock of pain making my eyes water. The girl was taller than me, though that was mostly due to the impressive heeled boots she wore.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t little Miss Rich Bitch,” she taunted. “I thought they were lying when they said you’d been enrolled here, but holy shit, karma must be fuckin’ real.”
“Listen.” I swallowed, steeling myself. “I don’t know why you don’t like me, but I promise whatever it is, I’m sure it’s just a complete misunderstanding—”
The girl laughed. “Nah, it’s not a misunderstanding, cupcake. We know who you are… and we know who your daddy is. You ever heard of Westhill Apartments?”
My brows furrowed. That was an apartment complex my father had bought up a few years ago. He’d turned it into a luxury townhouse community.
“Yes. I—my father—”
“Your father,” she sneered, imitating my voice. “Yeah. Your daddy bought that up for pennies and then turned it into some rich fuck establishment. You know how many families from that old complex got kids that go to this school? You know how many of us got thrown out on our asses when our landlords decided your daddy’s pennies were worth more than ours?”
I blinked at her, not even sure what to say to that. Dad had said those buildings had been dilapidated. Abandoned. That he’d been doing the community a service when he bought them to bring in some higher-end buyers—
“Why don’t we talk about Tenner’s Bakes? Huh? Or the clothing swap on 24th? Or any of the businesses that were doing just fine before your daddy thought that he needed to gentrify what wasn’t his?”
“There must be a mistake—”
The girl slammed her hand against the locker beside my head. I jolted from the rattling that reverberated through my body.
“Ain’t no mistake, cupcake,” she snapped. “My father lost his shop in your daddy’s little buyout spree. You know how many years he worked at that store? And for what? Some ass that had too much time and money on his hands to know what to do with it, dangling all that cash in front of our landlord? You know we were three months out from being able to buy the place ourselves? Three. Fuckin’. Months. Dad works at Papa John’s now.” Then she snickered. “At least he ain’t in jail.”
Adrenaline surged through me, and I pushed back at her, shoving hard at her chest. “Don’t talk about my father—”
The two girls that had flanked me took one shoulder each, driving me back into the lockers as the redhead gripped my chin. Her self-manicured nails dug into my skin.
