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Not that I know for sure. I’ve gathered my knowledge from watchingCSIandNCIS—my Saturday night shows.
Whether I’m off my mark or not, that’s a fuckton of drugs, and I think I just found my fight-fire-with-fire factor.
On that thought, I grab my phone and manage to take a picture of the drugs in the cupboard before Chad closes the door.
Isabelle’s advice made sense, but look at today-Am I supposed to just do nothing?
Chad slashed the tires on my car. That’s a huge deal. If he’s capable of that, what will he do next?
If I at least do this one thing—which is to alert Principal Kolyav—it might help my situation with my monster.
When Chad walks to the table in the center of the room, pours some of the powder on a little silver paper, and starts snorting it, I decide I’ve seen enough.
I don’t want to wait until he joins in the fuck session like the others now have.
What a group of entitled assholes.
Well, I’m sure they won’t be happy when they discover what I’m about to do.
* * *
“Are you okay?”Mom asks the moment I walk into the house.
She is standing by the stairs tending to the flowers in a vase.
From the expression on her face, I can tell she’s been dying for me to come in.
She called earlier, but I didn’t answer. It was just after I went to the principal’s office.
Mom spent the day doing charity work at the shelter. I guessed Cal must have gotten hold of her and told her what had happened to me.
“I’m fine.”
“But someone slashing your tires is not okay.”
“I’m fine, Mom. There’s no need to worry.”
“Do you know who did it? Cal called the school and asked for a recording of the camera surveillance, but there was nothing there. No one can explain why, but it doesn’t change the fact it happened.”
Of course, I can’t imagine Chad leaving any evidence to incriminate himself. There are cameras in that area of the parking lot, so there should have been surveillance video, unless it was switched off or something.
I’ve already taken matters into my own hands, so I don’t want to make things worse by getting my mother involved.
“I don’t know,” I lie, and she knows my answer for a lie. She always knows.
“Billie, I just want you to be safe. If someone is bothering you, I need to know. This is just day two, and obviously, this has to be about your father. Nobody would do something like that to you.”
“I don’t want to talk about Dad with you.” I try to push past her, but she blocks me.
She reaches into her jacket pocket, pulls out an envelope with the UCLA logo on it, and holds it up for me to see.
Shit, shit, shit.
That has to be a response to one of my query letters. Or even my admission letter. I requested that all correspondence be emailed to me, but I forgot to ask that nothing be posted.
“Can we talk about this?” Mom raises her brows.
“Why? So you can scream at me again?”
