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Blood starts pounding in my ears. Balling my fists, I take a deep breath, uncurl my fingers, and grab my book.
Do. Not. Engage.
The next twoperiods go similar, and it's getting increasingly more difficult to keep my cool.
Instead of my classmates moving away, my lab partner in AP Chemistry, Arianna (Ari), stumbles and spills the nitric acid we're using for our experiment. It ends up all over my chem book and splashes on my lab coat. After ripping the white fabric off and making sure it didn't hit anywhere else, I stare at her incredulously.
"Oops." She smirks and begins cleaning up, acting as if nothing happened.
Is that all these girls can say?
Of course, she timed it perfectly with our teacher rummaging around in the back of the room. By the time he pulls his head out of the supply cabinet, everything appears as before—minus my lab coat.
I’ve never talked to this girl outside of class, and I didn't think she was associated with Katherine. I'm starting to wonder if the Wicked Bitch has put a hit out on me.
In third period, Algebra II, I find a big fat "WHORE" carved into my desk. My pulse quickens, but I keep repeating my new mantra in my head. My pointer finger traces the indentation. It's a good quarter of an inch deep. How the hell did they manage that without Mr. Mann noticing?
Cocking my eyebrow theatrically, I place my textbook over the word. I count back from thirteen, unclenching my jaw before I do permanent damage to my teeth. It won't do any good using them as my personal punching bags. Though, I'd probably feel a lot better.
Fourth period, I get my first reprieve. Denielle and I share P.E., and as soon as she is at my side, no one glances at me twice. Lunch passes similarly. People stare at the four of us sharing the table, but no one dares to speak up or fake cough an insult in my direction. I don't keep what happened in periods one through three from my friends; there is no point. One of them would find out eventually. I've been the talk all morning. So far, I was kidnapped, followed by my kidnapper kicking me out when I sucked in bed. (The thought of Nate and any intimacy triggers my gag reflex.) The next rumor was that I was pregnant and faked my kidnapping while I was getting an abortion. Some guy even suggested I delivered the baby and gave it up, to which I made the first eye contact. The speaker was some dude from the soccer team. He's probably middle class in the school's social hierarchy and therefore seemed to have missed what happened to Rhys's friends who ran their mouths. I bit my tongue. Asking him if he had paid attention in sex ed would’ve been a waste of oxygen—I had a flat stomach three weeks ago.
My last class of the day is French, a subject I always looked forward to. However, after the previous six periods, pretending not to hear any of the whispers—some not so quiet—I'm mentally drained. Rhys will pick me up from here, as he’s right above me on the senior floor, and then we can finally go home. Thinking about getting out of here, I miss the noise level in the class rising. When the mumbles and gasps register in my brain, it's too late. Something wet hits me from behind, and I instinctively duck. Not fast enough, though.
What the fuck?
My shoulders scrunched up to my ears, hair dripping into my face, I take inventory. I'm not hurting, so it’s not chemicals this time—or at least nothing that could burn my flesh off. Then, I take a whiff and gag. The stench of algae and...fish penetrates my nostrils. I don't want to touch whatever is at the back of my head, but I have no choice. With a trembling hand, I slowly reach back and disentangle the object from my bun. Holding it between thumb and forefinger, I force myself to look at it—it being a half-dissected fish from, I'm guessing, the biology lab. The liquid still dripping down my face is probably water from the numerous tanks the school has for said fish. I swallow the pool of saliva in my mouth but end up choking in the process. The stench and visual make my stomach revolt. I let the dead animal fall to the floor, and after briefly closing my eyes to collect myself, I turn in my seat. The row behind me is occupied by several cheerleaders, including Emma and Sloane. I scan both of them with narrowed eyes, and where Sloane looks shocked, Emma is radiating glee.
Did she throw this thing at me?
Madame Morel chooses that moment to enter the room and stops in her tracks. "Mon dieu, ce qui s’est passé ici?" What happened here? Whenever she gets upset or flustered, she falls back into French, even though she's lived in the U.S. since she was a child. I face my teacher, and when no one answers her question, I speak up for the first time all day.
"It seems this fish ended up in the wrong classroom. May I please go clean up?"
There are a few snickers around me, and I hear a huffing sound from the cheerleader's row, probably pissed that I don't burst into tears or lose my shit. But I swore to myself that I wouldn't do that, no matter what happens today. They will not see me bow down. Between Turner and all the other secrets Nate and I still need to get to the bottom of, I refuse to let a bunch of girls in too-short skirts and over-curled hair break me.
"Absolument. Vite. Go get cleaned up."
As I exit the room—with my bag, since I have no intention to return—I hear my teacher demanding who’s responsible for the mess. Of course, she doesn’t get a response.
After a quick detour to the bathroom, where I hold my entire head under the faucet followed by wringing my hair out and putting it back into a bun on top of my head, I strip out of my hoodie. It caught the brunt of the attack, and for that alone, I want to sic my big brother on them. This is my favorite piece of clothing these days. I stop at my locker, grab my jacket I had stashed there earlier, and head to the Defender.
Sitting in the security of Rhys's car, I pull out the new phone Heather handed me before school this morning and send him a message: Waiting in the car for you.
I follow that with a text to Den and Wes, in case they had planned to come to pick me up as well: Left early. Waiting in the Defender for Rhys.
When none of them respond, I double-check that the bubbles have the small "delivered" underneath.
Did I put their numbers in wrong?
I haven't finished that thought when the front door of the south wing bursts open, and I see Rhys and Wes rush toward the parking lot. A few seconds later, the side door of the west wing opens and reveals my best friend, turning in the same direction.
Uh oh.
All three stop in front of the Defender, and we stare at each other through the windshield. Rhys takes three more steps and tears the passenger door open.
"What happened?" Then, he inhales and holds his hand over his nose. "Jesus Christ, Cal, what the fuck is that smell?"
"Dead fish." The adrenaline spike from the incident has worn off, and I’m too exhausted to even be upset at this point. All I want is to go home and take a shower.
