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Chapter Twenty-Six
Phoenix
Returning to school wasn’t something I wanted to do. I’ve spent the last week doing my classes online, and I loved that. It gave me more time to dance in the studio, but the counselor was right. I was using dance to hide, and why should I be hiding anyway? I hadn’t done anything wrong. I shouldn’t be ashamed of what happened to me. My past has only made me stronger.
I knew eventually I would have to return to the Ducane’s house. I don’t want to outstay my welcome at Cami’s, and unfortunately, getting my own place or going home to Australia still isn’t an option for me.
I’ve really struggled to hate Logan and Stryker for all they’ve done, I’ve even tried to be friends with them, but no lie I tell myself or anyone else can change how I feel. I can’t expect Stryker to be honest with me if I can’t offer the same to him.
He’s hung around all week, and I’m not sure who my apprehension is punishing more—him or me. He is slowly working his way into my heart. The night he met with Logan was hard for him. He was turning his back on his friend for me, and that didn’t sit right.
As I stepped through the front doors of the school, the segregation is as clear as the discord between groups. It hadn’t occurred to ask my friends about the fallout from Dean’s party. I was so wrapped up in my own feelings, I never thought about how any of this may have rippled through other friendships.
There are two clear sides, and judging by the expression on each face I pass, one side is of reproach, and the other is of sympathy. I’m guessing sharing details of a traumatic event in someone’s life was where people drew the line.
I can feel Logan’s eyes on me as I make my way to my first class. I know he’s angry with me because I came between him and Stryker. It wasn’t my intention for that to happen, and I still don’t fully understand it. I’m sure Stryker has his reasons, but he has to feel comfortable sharing that with me on his own. If the atmosphere in here is anything to go by, then I’m in for one hell of a long day.
By lunchtime, the tension in the air is palpable. It’s clear who was siding with who. Most are happy to stay out of things that don’t involve them, but others had all week to come up with new names and comments to throw at me. It’s no surprise that Taylah is at the center of pot-stirring; she couldn’t wait to ramp things up even further.
It didn’t miss my attention that she had an extreme makeover, either, and trust me when I say, the pixie look just isn’t doing it for her. Every time she looks at Logan and what’s left of his group, she is shooting daggers.
“What went down there?” Nudging Jonah’s shoulder and motioning between her and Logan.
“I’m not too sure. I heard they had a big blow out after the party, but the whole makeover thing? Yeah … that I have no idea about.” He pulls me in close. “How has this morning been for you?”
“I’m not going to lie, J, it’s been hard. The names and comments have ramped up, but what’s strange is that for every person that tries to come at me, there is also someone quick to step in to defend.”
I feel it before I hear the shocked gasps from my friends.
“Oops.” Taylah’s fake gasp hits me moments before her plate of taco salad topples into my lap. I jump up from the table, brushing frantically at the wave of burning nacho cheese running down my arms. Taylah and her girls are laughing openly, but Cami, Luca, and I didn’t see the humor. I saw Logan’s eyes on me again from across the room, more green than blue today. What’s going on behind that stormy gaze? I feel the knot in my throat rising, and I don’t wait to find out what happens next.
I race down the halls toward my locker. I know I have my dance clothes in my bag, and maybe Jonah can lend me his hoodie. I just needed to peel off the hot embarrassment of my cheese-covered dress and calm down.
Have the halls always been so quiet during lunch? I throw my locker door open, the first tear sliding down my cheek without permission as everything from the week catches up with me.
A folded piece of paper falls to my feet as I pull out my bag, on the same pale, yellow stationery that has been shoved into my locker for days—here and at the studio. I freeze, glancing both ways down the empty corridors, looking for a sign of who might be leaving me these strange messages. I don’t want to react, knowing whoever it is could still be watching me, but my heart sinks every time I find a new note in my things.
Trembling, I open the note and read:
So glad you’re back. I missed your pretty little face. Soon my sweet. Soon you will be all mine.
