by Jordan Ford
I’ve met wimpy kids before but this guy takes the cake. The door slams shut behind me and I rush into my room before anyone sees me in the hallway. Dumping the candy and chips on my bed, I quickly cover up the hole in our wall, moving Kade’s desk back as quietly as I can.
Letting out a breath, I spin back and look at Riley and Kade before crossing my arms over my chest and sighing. “Guys, we’ve got a problem.”
#5:
Spit Balls
Christiana
There was a guy in my room.
A damn sexy one, but that’s not the point.
I snap my eyes shut against the image of his arms and his triangular torso wrapped in that white skintight tank. His face wasn’t the only strong thing about him. Shoulders, biceps, pecs—hard and masculine. Strength like that could destroy…or protect.
“Shut up, you idiot.” I slump onto my bed and cover my ears, wanting to drown out everything around me.
He just walked in and started looking around. What if I was in the middle of getting changed?
I can’t risk that! I’m gonna have to let Rybeck and McNeal know.
But then what?
They can’t change the entire culture of the school just for me.
I told them I could handle it. They’re trusting me to pull this off.
For Robbie.
No one knows my real identity and no one will. I’ll just have to be more careful.
Jumping off my bed, I push the standard trunk all students are given for storage over to my door. It’s not exactly foolproof, but if I fill it with some books and stuff, it’ll be a deterrent and should give me enough time to hide anything before someone gets in.
I check the time and spend the next couple of minutes stacking the heaviest things I can find beside it, so that when I return I can fill the trunk and bar the door.
A bell sounds down the hallway, followed by a quick dinner call.
Smoothing a hand over my non-existent hair, I grimace and force my shoulders back.
I hate my hair. I hate my eyebrows, now so black and ugly.
I used to take my time getting ready—makeup, jewelry, trendy clothes…the works. Now I’m wearing baggy shirts to hide my shape. My beautiful hair’s been chopped and dyed raven-black, which now makes my usually tanned, healthy skin look sick and ghostly. Freckles that I used to mask with foundation are now on full display. I’ve never felt so ugly…so masculine.
But that’s the whole point, right?
Closing my eyes with a sniff, I move the chest aside and close the door behind me. Guys are flooding the hallway and I catch my intruder’s eye. He’s stepping out of the room next to mine. Followed by two guys.
He turns away without smiling and I fire a heated glare at his back.
The shorter guy next to him checks me out. Not in the flirty way I’m used to but with a cautious curiosity. I’ll have to watch him. If anyone’s going to see right through me it’ll be that keen set of eyes. He brushes the blond hair off his forehead, then snickers at something the towering guy beside him said. He’s messing with his pale brown locks, murmuring something and not even bothering to notice me.
They walk down the hall together, like a trio who have known each other for life. There’s something about their swaggers that tells me they’re cool, respected. You don’t mess with them. Guys are watching them pass and the three are almost oblivious, caught up in their own little tight-knit world. If they were girls, their arms would be linked and they’d strut through the crowd, giggling over personal jokes that no one else understood.
It makes me miss Charlize and Rhianna. Although, if I’m being honest, these guys look even closer than I was to my girlfriends.
I bet these guys talked about me in their room. If they room together, that is. I have to assume it.
Trey. Was that his name?
He was probably spouting off about my uptight ass while shoving Pringles into his mouth.
Someone nudges me, nearly throwing me off my feet as they rush past.
Laughter, chortling, a football flying over my head. More jostling up front, good-natured insults shouted from one end to the other.
I’m an alien on a foreign planet.
How am I supposed to survive in this place?
I follow the bustle down the stairs and outside. We head down a long, covered corridor that reminds me of Hogwarts with concrete pillars and pretty archways. An icy breeze blasts my face, making my teeth chatter. I hunch my shoulders and scuttle inside the double doors. The sounds change as clomping shoes move from concrete to polished wooden floors.
The first thing to hit me is the smell. My nose wrinkles, my gag reflex kicking in once more as I’m hit by a pungent odor. It’s food on a large scale. Turkey, maybe, and…potatoes? I’m used to Nannie’s Italian cooking—rich meat sauces, pasta made in heaven, crisp green salads vibrant with color and flavor.
I doubt I’m going to get that here.
Joining the line that weaves around the tables, I scan the ocean of testosterone. It’s intimidating to say the least. Plates piled high with fluffy mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables, tables loud with grunts and deep voices, forks heavy with massive mouthfuls. I grimace and look away when one guy starts laughing and gives me a shot of his over-stuffed mouth.
I don’t belong here. Mealtime at my house was elegant, refined—orchestral music playing from the sound system, Mom and I eating small mouthfuls, Dad asking me about my school day. Me telling little lies so he wouldn’t know who I was dating or how I skipped out of school for an afternoon at the beach, and him telling big ones so I wouldn’t find out just how crooked my family really was.
These Eton cavemen eat five times as much as I do. I’ve always been a pigeon eater. How am I supposed to compete with them? But I have to try, right? Or I’ll give myself away.
Shuffling forward, I finally reach the trays and grab one, gripping the brown plastic and swallowing the burning sensation in my throat. My stomach is pitching like a tsunami is threatening to take me out. I don’t know how I’m going to eat.
A large white plate is slapped down on my tray, then piled high with food. Slop, tap, slop, tap…the metal spoons dump more and more food on my plate, weighing me down. Balancing the tray, I collect my cutlery and search for a place to sit.
Every table is filled with gorillas, with the odd skinny chimp perched on the end of a row. That’s going to be me. I’m cool with it as long as no one notices me. I don’t want to talk or answer questions. I just want to nibble what I can and then disappear to the safety of my room.
Clearing my throat, I edge towards a spare seat on the far table to the right. I nearly make it. But the scary-ass weasel who eyed me up in the corridor earlier today won’t let me.
His foot shoots out without warning and I trip to the floor. My tray smacks against the hard wood, followed by my body. I land in my mashed potatoes, gravy spurting onto my neck and face. Everyone around me bursts into laugher. It’s loud, grating…humiliating.
Clenching my jaw, I force myself up, refusing to look to my right and acknowledge the world’s biggest asshole. My sweater is covered with slop. It runs down my clothes, and a couple of big chunks drip off my chest and plop onto the floor beside my shoe.
Sharp footsteps approach and a teacher starts yelling at me. “What’s going on here?”
The laughter dies down to a soft snicker. I stand silent, waiting for someone to turn Evil Eyes in, but no one says a word.
Oh, I get it. The bully everyone’s afraid of.
The teacher rolls his eyes. “For God’s sake, don’t just stand there. Clean up this mess and get yourself a new tray! And try not to be so clumsy next time.”
My lips part in anger. I’m so close to pointing at the idiot who tripped me and letting rip what really happened, but I catch a movement to my right. Trey is staring at me, shaking his head ever so subtly. The look in his eyes tells me to just take it.
Grinding my teeth together, I crouch back down and co
llect my tray, refusing to look at the snickering moron who thinks he can get the better of me. He’s not getting squat. He thinks he’s a badass? I’ve seen worse, which is why I’m here. Which is why I’m going to dump my tray and forget about eating anything tonight.
Because I owe Robbie. Because I want to see a little justice in this screwed-up world.
Sliding the tray into the dirty dishes trolley, I don’t even bother looking over my shoulder as I quietly slip from the room, determination keeping me from falling apart.
I can do this. I can survive this place. I’m not going to let these assholes beat me. I’ll get some sleep in the safety of my locked-up room and start the next day anew.
Everything’s going to be okay.
*****
Normally at this time of day I’d be sitting in Economics next to Charlize. She’d be talking about her date with Matt and how they got it on in the backseat of his Mustang. Anything to avoid fiscal policy, right? Or maybe it’s that Charlize and Matt are obsessed with each other and she never knows when to shut up about it.
Normally, I’d sit there staring at the teacher like I was listening while grinning at my friend’s detailed descriptions. She’s a great storyteller.
I wonder who she’s talking to right now.
Does she miss me?
Is she worried? Will my runaway story hold up?
They all think I’ve flown the coop after a big fight with my dad.
It’s not completely out of the question. I wouldn’t say my family was disjointed. I mean, I love my parents, I just…
A spitball hits the side of my face. I flinch and press my lips together, not wanting to make a fuss. I don’t need any more eyes on me.
The teacher is still droning. Stirling’s Formula. Equations are all over the board. I can’t understand any of them.
All I can think about is Charlize and her silver nail polish, her glossy lips, and the shapes her mouth makes when she’s telling a story.
Then, inevitably, my mind swerves to the look of wonder on Robbie’s face as I wrapped my arms around his neck. I giggled. He blushed. We were only new friends. We hadn’t kissed before. I didn’t even know if I liked him that way. But it’d been a fun night. I was tipsy on happiness and I couldn’t resist turning back to sweeten the moment.
I shouldn’t have turned back.
Another spitball hits my neck. I grind my teeth together and force myself not to spin.
Don’t give in.
Stay strong.
Stoic.
Mocking sniggers wear away at my resolve.
I want to spin and unleash a verbal lashing—small dicks, puny brains. Rain down a little she-hell on their asses. But I can’t.
I have no power here.
The only control I have is what I’m going to say on that witness stand, and that’ll be worth nothing if I don’t make it there.
A gunshot in the back of my mind.
Robbie’s foot twitches.
A pair of pitiless eyes stare down at his lifeless body.
I run.
Another spitball catches me behind the ear and something snaps.
I spin with a snarl, slamming my hands on the desk behind me.
“Quit it,” I seethe.
Fear tries to warn me off as I stare down Ivan the Terrible, because he’s an asshole…because he can make my nightmare a million times worse. He proved that at dinner last night. Yeah, it was him who tripped me up. I found out his name this morning when I heard some guys laughing about what he did to me. I nearly skipped breakfast. I wasn’t sure I could handle Ivan’s smug smirk or the mocking laughter, but Dean Hancock caught me at the door and wouldn’t let me leave.
Ivan’s doing it again, goading me on while his friends snicker in surround sound. Snide murmurs from all sides weaken my resolve, daring me to make it worse.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Lorden?” The teacher stops droning long enough to notice me.
I turn back slowly, my hands quivering as I shake my head.
I’m smart enough to know newbie etiquette. Don’t squeal on the bully. Even if he deserves it. Even if these sniggering asshats should all go down.
It will only make things worse.
“Right, any questions, then?” The teacher gazes across the room and a guy in the front puts up his hand.
I thread my fingers together and focus on breathing.
Another spitball hits me on the left.
Life’s not fair. That’s what my mother would say before putting her brave smile on.
Do the right thing. That’s what my father would say, his eyebrows raised, meaning do what I want you to, whether it’s right or wrong.
What does justice really mean in my world?
Nothing.
Gunshot.
Robbie.
Spitball off the back of my head.
Justice.
That’s why I snuck out to the police station.
“You’re doing the right thing,” Rybeck promised me.
“Life’s not fair,” Mom warned. “You must accept it.”
But I can’t.
I won’t.
A spitball catches my jawline.
“Excuse me, sir!” I raise my hand.
And know I’m about to sign a special Eton Prep death sentence.
#6:
A Friendly Word of Advice
Trey
We have two choices: empty newbie’s room of contraband…or let him in on our secret stash.
After our pre-dinner intro last night, I doubt he’ll ever be one of us, which means I need to get back in there and clear out our stuff.
I use the door, not wanting to give away the secret passage. I knock twice and after two no-answers, decide it’s safe to sneak in and grab our stuff.
I expect it to open easily. We’re not allowed to lock doors in this place. Stupid rule made by paranoid caregivers. But the door smacks into something and I have to suck in a breath and squeeze through the narrow space. I frown at the trunk barring the door.
Speaking of paranoid.
With a little head shake and a bemused smile, I move to the bed. I’m about to kneel down and dig out the cooler when I’m interrupted again.
“What the…?” new guy huffs. “Out!”
I cross my arms, a slow smile tipping the side of my mouth up. “I see you’ve met Ivan.”
He scowls, dabbing the wad of tissue paper under his nose and mumbling, “Never squeal.”
I wince. “You didn’t. Even after my head shake at the dinner table last night? Was I not clear enough?”
He pulls the bloodied tissue away and throws it in the trash, gently dabbing his red nose.
“It was one spitball too many,” he mutters darkly.
“Sorry to tell you this, but Ivan has this special ability to get away with pretty much anything. Our theory is that his parents donate shitloads to the school and that’s why Headmaster Willy and Dean Cockhead go easy on him. Trying to get him in trouble is pretty much a waste of time. Unless one of them actually sees him committing the crime, they don’t do anything about it.”
“So my word is worth nothing?”
“Pretty much.” I shrug, having accepted it years ago.
The guy’s upper lip curls and he shakes his head with this black look of rage.
“What’s your name again?” I ask.
That brown gaze hits my face, unnerving me so much I take a step back, and frown.
He blinks a couple of times. “It’s Chris. Now get out.”
“Chris.” I nod, committing the name to memory. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’m about to buddy up with a tattletale who hates visitors. “Listen, think of it like a rite of passage. Ivan’s a sadistic piece of shit but he’ll get bored soon enough, especially if you don’t give him any reasons to irritate you.”
His glare tells me to F-off.
“Just trying to help, man.”
“Get out.” His voice goes low and husky. I mean, it’s still pretty
high and hardly threatening, but at least he’s trying.
“Yeah, I will. I just want to grab some stuff.”
“Out!” And there he goes, all high and squeaky again.
I can’t help laughing. He sounds like such a girl. I’m waiting for a foot stomp and an indignant scream. “Calm down.”
“The dean’s hearing about this.”
“You’re gonna tell on me too?” I look at him skeptically, then scoff and raise my hands. “Okay, that’s fine. If you complain loud enough he might move you. I’m pretty sure there’s one single room left in the senior dorms.” I lift my index finger. “Yeah, it’s the one next to Ivan’s. You know, the guy who just beat your ass to the ground. Mr. Spitball?”
His skin drains of color, his rosy lips turning a pale white.
Rosy lips?
Seriously, what is wrong with me?
I hide my unbidden thoughts behind a cocky smile and decide to lay it on as thick as I can.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure he uses that empty room as a spank bank.”
Chris’s face wrinkles with confusion.
Seriously? He doesn’t know what a spank bank is?
Who is this guy?
I layer on another level of explanation to drive my point home and avoid strike three at all costs. “You know…” I include hand gestures to help the guy out. “He sneaks in there after lights out for a midnight jerk off.”
His lips pull into a disgusted frown.
Yeah, right, like he’s never done it.
“Anyway. That’s why no one’s stupid enough to take the room. I mean, we all enjoy it, right? But most of us get the girls over at Schuster High or Williams Academy to give us a hand.” I wink. “But not Ivan. That guy is an independent soul…or just incredibly grotesque to the female population. Probably the most likely reason.” I shrug.
Chris bites his lips together like he’s fighting a grin. Glancing away from me, he wipes his puffy top lip with the back of his hand and mumbles, “Fine, I’ll keep my mouth shut. But just get out, okay?”
Something about his dejected expression keeps me from taking my stuff. I’ll get it later. Right now, I just want to leave him alone to deal with whatever demons are haunting him.