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Chapter Six
I spentyesterday going down one rabbit hole after another, trying to figure out how to feel or react. The shock of the article and my impending return to school had eventually worn off, but I was still no further than before. My fight-or-flight instincts were in a battle of tug of war. One moment, I was ready to take the entire Westbridge High population with its QueenBitch at the top head on—who are they to pass judgment over me? A minute and four seconds later, I was close to dialing George's number to pick me up—because why would I do that to myself? Or my family and friends, for that matter? I expected a lot, but statutory rape? This was spiraling out of control at an inconceivable rate, and I felt more helpless than when I was trapped in my crashed Jeep.
Nate’s small act of revenge gave me some satisfaction, though Katherine deserved a lot worse after this article.
Rhys fell asleep around one in the morning, but no matter what I tried to relax, it didn’t work. Finally, I gave up and snuck out of bed.
Sitting in front of the vanity, I typed in Nate’s number: Hi.
The bubble immediately popped up: What’s wrong? It’s one in the morning in VA.
I can read the clock. Thank you very much, dear brother.
In response to my sassy reply, he sent me the emoji with the straight mouth and raised eyebrow. Who knew that bantering with my big brother would give me the type of normalcy—the distraction—I needed?
I can’t sleep, I admitted.
Talk?
I thought that over. Can’t. I don’t want to wake Rhys up.
We ended up texting for over an hour, and I confessed how my conflicting emotions confused the hell out of me. Shouldn't I be one or the other? Nervous/worried or don’t care.
We talked through my different trains of thought, and in the end, Nate helped me realize that both extremes are a reasonable reaction to my current situation.
My (at times) unstable brother made a pretty decent therapist.
Now,standing in the school's hallway, a semi-circle of probably more than fifty juniors and seniors forms around me. I stare at the words on my locker. And stare some more.
Wes has taken a step back, sponge in one hand and what looks like a Clorox wipe in the other. He won’t look at me. "Dude, I tried. I have no fucking clue what they used to write this shit." Contempt drips from every word.
Rhys and Denielle have gone rigid on either side of me. Where Rhys is shaking with rage, Den is eerily still, eyes narrowed on the words.
Out of the corners of my eyes, I notice the number of students surrounding us increases. Everyone wants to have a front-row seat to the show.
Nate’s last message before saying goodnight reverberates through my head: Remember what’s important. You’ve done nothing wrong. Your boyfriend and adopted family love you and would do anything to protect you. And so do I. Nothing they do will change that. You’re in charge. Don't let your emotions overpower your intelligence. That's what they want. George will be outside the school if you need him.
I’m in charge.
I pull my shoulders back, take two steps away from Denielle and Rhys, and unlock the door to the little space of privacy I have at Westbridge High. My books are where I had left them over three weeks ago. Grabbing what I need for my morning classes, I turn, look at Denielle, and plaster a smile on my face that makes my cheeks hurt. "Ready?" I chirp, ignoring my audience and envisioning blinders around my face like at a horse race. I will not give them the satisfaction of acknowledging them—or worse, cowering.
Den narrows her eyes at me, peers at Rhys sideways, but plays along. "Sure thing, babe."
We fall into step beside each other, and the mass of students shrinks away as we make our way down the hall. Rhys and Wes follow close behind. There is no way he'd let me walk alone, so I don't even attempt to leave without them.
After we say our goodbyes, and I promise to stay put until one of them is back to walk me to my next class, I swivel on my heels. Having to spend my first three classes without my best friend, my senses go on alert as soon as I enter the classroom. All conversations stop, and the air is instantly charged like lightning is about to strike. Just as I sink into my chair, Bria and Hailee, two girls who were always friendly with me and occupied the desks surrounding mine, get up and move to the back of the room. My body tenses, and I concentrate on keeping my breath steady. I zero in on a spot in the front and put on my best George expression—none.
Don’t let your emotions overpower your intelligence.
The only person not abandoning his seat is Lucas, a boy from the chess club. He meets my eyes when he approaches his desk in front of mine but turns his focus quickly to his shoes. Miss Foy, our American History teacher, furrows her brows at the new seating arrangement until her gaze lands on me. Her eyes widen for a microsecond before she composes herself. This is only her second year of teaching, and she probably has no idea how to handle the situation. Hence, she ignores it.
Class itself passes quietly, and when the bell rings, I take my time gathering my things. I can't leave anyway until one of my bodyguards arrives. I'm bent sideways, dropping my notepad into my messenger bag, when my textbook shoots off the table and lands under the chair next to me. I inhale to the count of four before slowly turning in the direction my book got launched from.
"Oops." Bria shrugs, a sweet smile turning her mouth into the perfect target for my fist. Instead, I do nothing. When she doesn't get a reaction from me, she walks away with a huff.
I exhale slowly through my nose and lean down to reach for my book when something slams into my head, and I can barely catch myself before face-planting onto the linoleum floor.
"Slut," the owner of the bag—the weapon of choice—whisper-coughs.
