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“No, I mean, why are you here at Stonehurst? Did you come here deliberately to fuck with me? Destroying my family wasn’t enough for you? Running away to hide for four years so you didn’t have to face what you did?” Noah’s words drip with venom. He slams his fists on the table. “You had to come to my school and fake being stupid just so I’m forced to tutor you.”
“I’m not faking anything.” A lie, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Noah spits on my essay. The glob of saliva lands on the large F scrawled at the top, making the letter appear bulbous and wobbly. “That essay is so comically terrible it can only be fake. It reads like you’ve never written an essay in your life. But I’ve been at school with Mackenzie Malloy since I could walk. I know she’s a cold, calculating, clever bitch. And this,” he gestures to the papers, “is just another one of her attempts to manipulate me.”
“That’s not what’s happening here.” I long to tell him the truth, that I haven’t been in school since I was thirteen, that I thought all the books I’ve read would help me muddle through this year, but now I see school isn’t about knowing the information but presenting it in a certain way that’s completely alien to me, and I’m freaking out that my inability to craft an essay is going to be my downfall in a horrible and bloody way.
“My brother is dead. My mother killed herself because of what your family did, and you still think all you have to do is bat your eyelashes and the world will fall down to worship you. That shit may work on Eli and Gabe, but not with me.” Noah stands up. “I don’t need this. We’re done.”
“You haven’t tutored me!”
“If you flunk out, I’ll be doing this school a favor.” Noah’s eyes blaze with triumph. “Goodbye, Mackenzie. Have fun failing. I hope this is the last time I have to endure your presence.”
Mackenzie
My days at Stonehurst Prep fade together into a torrent of misery. When I first sent in my faked transcripts and signed the enrollment forms, I prepared myself to be ignored. Years living alone in that house of secrets will do that to you. Hell, I built myself a mega-bitch Ice Queen persona to keep the peons away. But I knew now I couldn’t fade into the background – the whispers, the leering looks from the guys, the notes left on my locker describing cruel sexual acts, the Photoshopped pornography tacked to every noticeboard and saved to every lockscreen is only the beginning. Mackenzie Malloy is made of shadows and secrets. She doesn’t fit. We have to destroy her.
Alec LeMarque’s eyes follow me everywhere, devouring my body in a way that makes me squirm. He’s not finished with me yet.
But not even he is as terrifying as Noah – the dark-haired god whose hatred could carve out my heart and pound it to rubble. Loathing rolls off his body in waves, threatening to sweep me away. Hatred like that can be intoxicating – I know, because I already had a gallon of it surging through my bloodstream.
I’ve only seen George once since we ate our lunch together under the bleachers. She was heading down the hall toward the Art suite. I waved and called out to her, but either she didn’t hear me or the wrathful gaze of Noah and Alec as they headed the other way silenced her. She slammed her locker and ran the other way.
That hurt more than I’ll ever admit. I lost a friend before I even knew what one was.
I wish I was smart so at least the schoolwork could be a distraction, but my F in history is my top grade so far. I wish I had college applications and tests to focus on, so at least my days would have meaning. I struggle through the classes, barely understanding a word my teachers say. It’s like they’re speaking a foreign language. I’ve finally learned what’s come of not setting foot inside a learning institution since I was thirteen. Some days, I debate taking Gabriel up on his offer to tutor me, even though I know he’s barely a better student than I am.
There are only two bright spots in my days. Ms. Drysdale teaches history and political science. She’s young – mid-twenties I think, and with her short, trendy haircut and band tee shirts peeking out from beneath mens’ blazers with the sleeves rolled up, she has this punk rock pixie vibe that’s refreshing in this stuck-up school. She looks like someone I’d want to be friends with, in another life, when I could choose my friends.
She has a way of making history come alive. I lean forward on my elbows and listen with rapt attention as she talks about the Founding Fathers, or the Tudor Kings, or the Spanish Inquisition. I find myself nodding along with the familiar stories I’ve read, and devouring the extra reading lists she gives us.
The other bright spot is homeroom and chemistry class with Gabriel. He doesn’t seem to care that everyone else at this school hates me. He makes flirty conversation and fucks up every single assignment. But most importantly, he makes me laugh. I relish it, knowing that with him, at least, my laughter doesn’t come at a price.
After class Gabriel always offers to walk me to my locker, but I know Eli will be there, waiting with his kind smile and intense eyes, and I can’t deal with that remnant of the old Mackenzie, so I fake women’s problems and hide in the bathroom.
Too late, I realize Gabriel’s attention paints a target on my back.
Apart from shooting daggers at me with her eyes every time she sees Gabriel and me together, Cleo hasn’t been actively targeting me. Instead, she keeps her nose in the air whenever she passes me in the halls, as if I’m beneath her notice. Her minions do her bidding instead, stealing my things and spreading rumors about me that make me feel unsafe when I pass guys in the hall.
I believe that’s the best they’ve got, that rich bitches like Cleo are incapable of real cruelty.
I’m wrong.
I have gym last period on a Wednesday, which I surprise myself by enjoying. It might have something to do with sneaking glances at Eli in his tight-as-fuck shorts. Scratch that, it’s definitely because of Eli’s ass. But also it’s fun to run around, kick a soccer ball and pretend it’s Alec LeMarque’s stupid head.
This week we divide into guys and girls for fitness drills – seeing how many push-ups, chin-ups, burpees, and other tortures we can do. I’m surprised that most girls – even the fit ones on the cheerleading team – give up after a few half-assed attempts. I’m the only girl who can do a proper pushup, and I hold a chin-up for longer than anyone else.
“Mackenzie Malloy.” The gym teacher, Mrs. Anderson, waves me over after class. “You impressed me today. You’ll be getting an A on this unit.”
“Thanks.” An A in fucking gym. I’ll take it.
“Cheerleading tryouts are next week,” she continues. “I expect you to be there.”
“Cheerleading?” I can barely hold back the sneer. The old Mackenzie would’ve bounced around in a short skirt and high ponytails, turning somersaults like it was nothing. But cheerleading is for girls with normal lives, who have boyfriends on the football team and futures worth cheering for. I have none of those things. It’s bad enough I have to go to school with Cleo – I don’t intend to be afflicted with her presence on my own time.
“I saw you out there today – you’re strong. We need someone to replace Candice as base since she broke her leg over the summer. Did you keep up your gymnastics training?”
“Gymnastics? No, I…” I remember all the trophies scattered around my old room. I must’ve been a gymnast before. “I haven’t been keeping up officially, but a lot of it is dance moves, right? I definitely dance.”
