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“He was a prince, wasn’t he?” Mom asks, and I gaze at her blankly, wondering if she’s referring to Dad. “The boy downstairs. The prince. The one who’s been on the news all weekend.”
Luke. I swallow. “Yes. And?”
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Jessa.” Her look of concern is back, and I rub the toe of my school shoe against my heel. As if I know what I’m doing. How could I possibly? I’ve never been in a relationship with four other boys before and, before arriving at Lochkelvin, I’d never exactly dreamed of starting a political war.
“Whatever I’m doing,” I say, drawing myself up to full height, rocking my Lochkelvin blazer like it’s a royal cloak, “it’s none of your fucking business.”
It’s cold. It’s callous. It’s not what the woman who gave birth to me deserves.
But it’s what’s deserved by the one who shattered my life into a before and after, the one who humiliated me so badly that I ended up seeking refuge in this insane asylum in Scotland.
It’s funny. I always knew I had the potential, the propensity to unleash a storm.
From my crazy unhealthy obsessions with boys with power, with men with power, I knew I could be bad.
Lying about the ritual that first semester? Getting the girls into trouble? Conspiring with Benji to bring down themonarchy?
Yeah, I could be bad. There’s a side of me thatisless saint and more sinner.
But as I meet the shocked gaze of the small woman in front of me, treating my own mom as though she were nothing more than a stranger in a waiting room, I realize something.
I’m not just a sinner.
I’m a monster.
