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Even after all this time, these people could still reject me. I’ve fantasised about this moment so many times, but the second I step through that door, the daydream is over. It’s stupid to be so hung up on a high school reunion, but this feels like a pivotal moment in my life. The most painful, degrading, dehumanising things happened to me inside this squat brick building. And if I go in there and nothing has changed — if I’m ridiculed and mocked and thrown out all over again — how the Hell am I going to cope with that?
And now I can’t breathe, and my vision is going funny, and the hot-but-professional high heels I picked out last night are stuck to the pavement. I can’t move.
“Honey,” Zack says, dipping to kiss the back of my head. “No. Let’s not go in, if it’s scaring you this much.”
“Let’s go home,” Josh offers gently. “Pick out a movie. Order some food.”
“I’m fine.”
He squeezes my shoulder. “You’re shaking, sweetheart.”
“Am not.”
Luke’s hand slides up my bare arm. “You don’t need to prove anything to anyone,” he reminds me. “These people treated you terribly, Layla. You don’t need their approval. We can just turn around and leave.”
I nod slowly, curling my trembling fingers into fists. I know that. But it’s not approval I’m after.
I’m doing this for myself. Emery High School has featured in my nightmares for way, way too long. And I need to finally face it.
I take a deep breath. “No. I’m doing it.”
Without waiting for them to respond, I walk forward, pushing through the open doors and stepping inside the school.
* * *
The reunion is being held in the school gymnasium. The four of us follow a set of laminated signs tacked to the corridor walls until we reach the big sports hall. As soon as we walk inside, the familiar scent of sweat and disinfectant fills my nostrils, and I wrinkle my nose.
It’s like nothing has changed in the last ten years. There’s still the same pile of sweaty blue gym mats in one corner. The worn, stained vault horse. The walls of green lockers send my heart flying to my throat.
Someone has obviously tried to spruce up the hall for the event; a homemade banner reading WELCOME BACK ALUMNIS!!! is hanging wonkily from the ceiling. Pop music is playing from a set of speakers in one corner, and there’s a couple of cafeteria tables lined up on the linoleum, full of dire-looking snacks and stacks of paper cups.
I glance around, taking in the faces. It looks like most of my year is here. There are The Football Guys in badly fitting business suits. The Arty Girls in big earrings and long skirts. From the way everyone is laughing and chatting, it looks like a lot of people kept in touch with each other these last few years.
And once again, I’m on the outskirts, alone.
Nerves crunch me. Why am I doing this? I don’t want to be here. I feel hot and cold at the same time. At the back of my head, a voice tells me over and over again to run.
“Want a drink?” Luke asks in my ear, and I relax minutely. “If I remember correctly, they serve alcohol at these things.”
I let out a shaky breath. “For a twenty-pound entrance fee, they’d better,” I mutter, letting him take me by the hand and lead me over to the refreshment tables. As we walk through the hall, I feel people turning and staring. I try my best to ignore it as whispers go up around me.
“Is that Layla Thompson?”
“Is she with Mr Martins?”
“So she really was sleeping with him? I thought that was a rumour!”
I grit my teeth and ignore the comments as we walk past a cluster of girls staring and gossiping in hushed voices. They all look so different now. One of them is heavily pregnant. One is holding hands with a huge guy in a suit. One has pink hair and tattoos all up her arms. As we reach the refreshments table, there’s some more whispering and elbowing, and then one of the girls peels away from the group, making her way towards us. I recognise her immediately.
Emma Swann. The girl who threw all of my clothes out of the window on my last day at school.
She was the ringleader of all the girls who made fun of me. And now she’s standing here beaming, as if she didn’t once send around a class-wide text about me having crabs.
“Layla!” She exclaims loudly, all smiles. “I’m so glad to see you!”
“Emma!” I smile back at her blandly. “Look at you.”
She looks crap. I remember pining over her designer clothes back in school, but now, I can just see that she’s wearing a mishmash of labels that absolutely don’t match. I guess you can’t buy a sense of fashion.
