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I skim his text, my heart beating double time.
Xavier: I wish it could be you.
I look up, meeting his eyes. Xavier won’t budge, staring at me so hard my skin prickles. Pain wraps me up like a hug I can’t escape. It’s too tight.
Too strong.
I wish it was me, too.
It hurts so bad I pretend I didn’t see his text and shove my phone into my back pocket. I should be happy. My drunk speech at the party seems to have done the trick.
All signs point to people buying my story about Zac not being a student at Easton. The confessions are slowly becoming old news, along with the whispers in the hall.
The name-calling has also gone extinct.
So, why do I feel like I’m dying?
I’m close to finishing my lunch when a loud voice echoes from the intercom on the ceiling, reverberating through the cafeteria.
“Aveena Harper, please report to the principal’s office immediately.”
The chatter dies down right away, and every single head turns in my direction. To think I used to wish I could be the center of attention, virtuoso sister and all. I must’ve been out of my fucking mind because this is my worst nightmare.
What could Xavier’s mom possibly want with me?
I glance at Dia.
Worry gleams in her eyes. “Tell me after?”
I nod in agreement and pick up my tray. I throw the rest of my food away before heading out of the cafeteria under the entire school’s scrutiny. I plop down on one of the stackable chairs outside of Principal Emery’s office a few minutes later.
Not a single sound can be heard inside.
I play with my fingers nervously, shifting in my seat until the soundproof door creaks open. Easton’s vice principal, Mr. Hall, comes into view, acknowledging me with a nod.
“Come on in, Aveena.”
Wait… he asked me here?
I falter into the room to find Xavier’s mom standing into the corner of the office, a blend of shame and guilt plaguing her delicate face. Mr. Hall gestures for me to take a seat at Mrs. Emery’s desk. I do so without question. I’ve been here once before. After I kneed Axel in the balls and Xavier’s mom gave me detention.
The office is a boring shade of gray, two large windows illuminating the small space. Mr. Hall sits at the desk, a clear indicator of who’s in charge today.
Why are they looking at me like I committed a crime?
“You’re probably wondering why you’re here, so I’ll just cut to the chase,” Mr. Hall says firmly. “Do you know what this is?”
Mr. Hall angles the old computer on the desk toward me.
I swallow hard at the texts on the screen.
“Who wrote the confessions?
#FindZacAndLove”
The private group.
“Pretty hard not to. Everybody in school does,” I say.
