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That's . . . new.
"I said," I repeat, flashing my teeth, "that I think I love you."
She blinks at me. "You're crazy."
"That's the consensus, baby girl," I reply with a wink.
I laugh when she recoils, shifting her desk away from me in disgust.
2
AVERY
Idon't know why the creep at the desk beside me won't stop staring. He's been gawking at me for almost the entire class, and I just want him to stop and leave me alone. The creeper's stare is intense. It's like a demon climbed out of hell to sit beside me with brown irises so dark they nearly match his black pupils and messy, chocolate-colored hair that tickles his eyes. I don't think he's even blinked in the last five minutes, and I swear he lacks normal human reactions.
Is he breathing?
Also, who the hell says I love you to a person they just met?
Apparently, the guy next to me does, the weirdo.
I shouldn't even be at this place, except my father thinks this one might actually work this time.
Pfft, yeah right. I doubt it.
I've been to the best inpatient rehabilitation centers across the continental United Statesandabroad. I've been hospitalized three times with feeding tubes shoved down my throat and undergone intensive therapy since I was eleven years old.
I'm not stupid enough to think that my parents want me cured, not anymore at least. I've become the daughter that doesn't exist, the one they don't talk about. My mother will never be proud of me, while my father will claim to be, but when push comes to shove, he will pussy out like he always does. They don't give a shit about me, despite what my father wants to believe. It took seven years for my mother to even admit that I might have an eating disorder because that would mean the esteemed Mrs. Bardot had to accept that she probably gave me one.
If that wasn't bad enough, my father doesn't see his wife for what she is and forgives her most awful transgressions, namely fucking me up. His brain knows what she's done to me, but I don't think his heart will allow him to see it. She does no wrong, while I am shuttered, locked away from the world in my crumbling tower.
I am so over trying to get better. I think I wanted to a few years back at least, but at some point, I just stopped caring about recovery and wanted control instead. I can't take it anymore, the doctors, the specialists, the rehabs, my parents, and most of all, the weird boy seated next to me who keeps playing with something in his pants pocket that I don't want to think about. He's looking at me like he's trying to bore a hole through my skull and pinpoint my thoughts. I make the mistake of making eye contact with him, and he still doesn't blink, the robot.
A moment later, the bell finally rings, and I leap into action, jumping up, gathering my shit, and beelining away from the creeper.
"Hey, Firefly," he calls to me, and I keep on walking. "Don't run away!"
"Go to hell," I murmur, and I don't care if he and his demon eyes hear it. I also definitely don't give one flying fuck that he looks like he walked off a fancy European runway and smiles like he knows exactly what emotion to emulate to get into a girl's pants.
I don't care about him at all.
Not one tiny bit.
Wait . . . where am I going?
I don't know where my next class is, but I also don't care. It doesn't matter. This stuff is all temporary. Just like always, my father will grow tired of all the money he's throwing at this place soon enough, and then I'll be called into a meeting with him and the headmistress—the uptight bitch who runs this place—while he pulls me from here and carts me off to somewhere else.
It's like counting to a hundred at this point. I can predict the pattern in my sleep.
He'll get unhappy with my lack of progress and want to bring me home.
My mother won't let me come home.
He'll send me somewhere new.
Rinse and repeat, just like he's done for the past six-odd years and sixteen private schools and wellness centers.
I continue down the hall, dipping between students walking to and from class and filling the hallway. I'm looking for a bathroom, but I have no idea where I am going. Guards mill about like they own the place, not that I care that they all look like they majored in how to give you a bad day. They carry the batons that leave welts for weeks after they hit, but still, they don't scare me. I've been here before, not here exactly of course, but at places like Chryseum Reformatory Academy.
