“They haven’t forgotten him, Colt. The pain his memory brings is just too fresh,” she explains, but it doesn’t help. It only makes the temperament rise, bringing resentment along with it.
“His pictures are gone, Shelly! Gone. He’s been erased like another shoddy diamond exchange.”
She shakes her head at me, disappointment licking her features as the anger only continues to rise in me. There’s no changing my mind.
I open my door and escape the car. Hiking my backpack over my shoulders, I practically rush to the doors of Ivory, the second tower, where the plebeians exist. That’s who I am now. A pleb.
We’re all rich here. That’s a non-issue, but you’re either an elite or a pleb.
At Arcadia, there are three towers. Opal, Ivory, and Crystal. Opal is the dorms for staff.
Ivory is for the normies, like me now. Crystal is for Student Government, which I no longer am a part of. Not after then. Not after spring break. Not after... Cass.
Ivory Tower isn’t welcoming, not because it’s any less opulent, but because once you’re kicked from Government, you’re like a disease. No one wants you near them. All the popularity you once had dissolves into dust, forcing you to try and fit in any way you can.
Making my way through the main floor to find the assistant’s desk, I’m stared at by every student I’ve ever met and ones I’ve never seen before.
Yeah, it’s a change for me, too, losers. Stop gawking.
“Freak,” some freshman whispers under his breath.
His friends chortle along with him until I flip them the bird. Their gazes narrow, and I hunt for the main desk that’s basically the student center to get my new key and room assignment. Emo isn't an emotion. It's a lifestyle. It's not a common one at Arcadia, though.
Life without Yang this year will be miserable. She was the one person who got me through everything and was my protector from asswipes. Not that anyone messed with me. Student Government gives you a pass from scrutiny. It’s almost a shield for the battlefield of bottom-feeders.
“Name?” the chick at the desk asks, her tone bored.
It annoys me that she hasn’t looked up at me. Why can’t people make basic eye contact while talking? This generation will be the death of human connection.
“Colton Hudson,” I vexingly respond.
As soon as her eyes land on mine, recognition blossoms, but there’s also confusion. It’s probably the change. It’s not like I’m Colton from last year. No, I’m a new brand of dead. Black and green. Beetlejuice’s long-lost cousin.
“I-I’m sorry about your brother,” she mumbles.
Don’t react. Don’t react. Don’t react.
Yeah, most people apologize whenever they realize my brother died. They send condolences, and they act as if a simple word changes the fact that he stopped aging and breathing and existing. Well, fuck you all. It changes nothing, and it just pisses me off. No one was there to save him, so their words are useless annotations soothing no one's dead heart.
“Thanks,” I mutter, not wanting to act out toward a girl with probably honest intentions. I’m not in this school year to make enemies. Only survival.
“You’re in room six-twenty-two,” she says while handing me a badge and key card.
My eyes water. Cassidy’s birthday was the twenty-second of October. Eleven months apart from mine.
“T-Thank you.”
She gives me an almost knowing look, like she knew Cass or the number’s significance. Wouldn’t be a shock. He was one of Arcadia’s rugby stars. Everyone was devastated, even if their only connection to him was his success on the field.
I try to smile, but it comes off as more of a grimace. Shuffling off, I head for the stairs. Elevators freak me out. Even though each tower has one for its ten floors, I’ll never use them.
My heart hammers as I pass by it, feeling sweat slick against my forehead with the knowledge that tens, if not hundreds, of kids use it daily. My palms clam up as I make my way up to the sixth floor.
Gripping the straps of my backpack, I use it as a tether, hoping my anxiety settles. It’s not like I’m riding the elevator. I don’t even have to really see it. It’s just the thoughts and overwhelming realization that people get trapped in those boxes all the time. Like coffins. A forever home.
Small spaces never used to bother me. Not until I watched my lifeless brother be buried in one. His everlasting home. An eight by two box, covered in dirt, malnourished by death, deprived of oxygen.
As my body shudders from the imagery, I make it to the sixth floor. Stopping at the last stair, feeling dizzy, I take in a huge breath, praying for a swift and easy year. Needing it.
Not paying attention, I turn the corner, running into a big bulky form. We collide and tumble to the ground, a gruff fuck along with other expletives leaves the stranger’s mouth.
His hands are on my sides, his fingers digging a little too harshly for a safety hold. I’m practically laying on him and start to apologize profusely, hating that I’m such a mess already. My words lodge themselves in my throat when my gaze connects with Bridger Clemonte’s. His inky sable eyes stare at me with annoyance, the pitter-patter in my chest becomes a gallop from his expression. Underlying his distaste is an emotion neither of us will recognize for what it is. Loneliness.
That’s who we are now. Nothing. All alone.
“Can you get off me?” he hisses.
His pouty lips curl into a sneer, nearly making me jump out of my skin. His voice never went this low or full of hatred. Not before anyway.
Once upon a time, his face alone would bring snakes of thrill slithering inside my body, pebbling my nipples with expectation and promise. Now, it only reminds me of what I hate most in life. Student Government.
I rise off of him, my heart pounding along with my head. We must’ve smacked into one another. He’s emotionless like sand, a dry breeze of nothingness to pass in the wind. Even before, his emotions were held close to the vest. You would never know what he was thinking, feeling, experiencing. He hid that well.
Bridger, or Ridge, as his friends call him, is your run-of-the-mill charming dillweed. He’s got rich brown hair that looks darker indoors than in the light. Catastrophic to the heart and damning to the soul, his eyes dissect everyone in his presence. An attacker of opportunity, he strikes when you trust him most.
Bridger’s jaw could cut diamonds, and his body could give Stephen Amell a run for his money, but attraction aside, he’s ugly everywhere it counts. When I was a different person, I crushed hard on him. If he even gave me five seconds of his time, a secret touch, anything, I melted like chocolate left in the sun.
But I’m no one’s fool now.
“Sorry,” I mutter, not willing to give more than that. He’s not deserving of more than proper hostility.
He straightens his uniform as if I’m a leech that ruined it. Before he harshly brushes past me, he stares at my outfit up and down, reminding me how emo I appear to others. Baring his teeth like an animal, he makes sure his distaste is known. “Freak.”
The word should upset me more, but it makes me smile, knowing he cares enough to want to be a dick to me. He’s in for a hard lesson if he thinks I care that he doesn’t like me anymore.
This isn’t the first time the student body has witnessed me in all my goth glory, but it definitely still shocks the fuck out of everyone when they pay enough attention.
Two
Being without clothes bites. Not realizing that tidbit until I got to school, I went to my favorite Dark Princess website and bought every black dress and skirt they had in an extra small. Then, knowing my moms wouldn’t approve, I went online to My Shirt is Better than Yours and got every shirt, crop top, and lace coverall they had in black.
As my Onyx Visa card screamed for me to chill, I took it a step further and bought from Penn & Co., my secret thrill store. They sold the most expensive clothing in the elite world from five-hundred-dollar bras to thongs that cost just as much, all the way
to clothing that could put a down payment on a car. I added some of their signature perfumes and hope it would get here quickly.
Tons of deliveries were made the next day, and it got me more looks than I cared to have. Since then, I’ve ordered new things from new shops across the globe. My moms won’t be happy about the twenty-thousand-dollar charge on their card, but I don’t care.
They didn’t bother to take me shopping before school, so it’s their own fault.
I’ve avoided students by going to the mess hall late every meal, sneaking in when everyone has left or before anyone arrives. It’s not easy being the only bright green-haired girl in this school, but I want everything to skate by. Why not avoid confrontation where I’ll be most vulnerable?
Practically running down there now, I’m excited to see the halls filling with people and not a single one notices me. It’s nice, to have outlandish outfits—their words, not mine—and not be looked at twice. It’s not a phase. It’s not a mood. It’s a lifestyle.
After avoiding crashing into the row of rugby players in the center of the hallway, I finally round the corner that leads where I want to go. Upon entering, I see someone I wish I hadn’t.
Tennison Dellamore.
“You’re beautiful, Col. Goddamn beautiful.”
I shiver at the memory, feeling my skin prickle with awareness and distaste.
He’s leaning against one of the classroom doors, talking to a pretty blonde. I’ve seen her before. She’s on the drill team, always smiling, but where she gets those smiles is the only issue I have with her. She’s not nice. Not to me. Not to anyone who’s unpopular. She’s only kind to Student Gov, and by Student Gov, I mean, the boys.
Last year, she didn’t spare Yang or me a second glance.
Shaking my head, I look back over at Ten. My heart nearly catapults at the sight. He’s as close to goth as any guy in this shithole. This year, he went more sporadic. Long, messy, inky locks on top hanging over his forehead in a heap and a bright red undercut that makes him look edgier than usual. His arms are crossed across his chest. They’re thick and covered in tattoos beneath his charcoal gray sweater. He’s sporting his signature black skinny jeans that show every toned muscle in his thick thighs, and I hate that my breath catches at the sight.
When his eyes drift to me, I swear my heart halts. Though he’s too far away for me to see them now, I know what those silver eyes look like really close, like melted soldered metal pools. His sharp jaw looks like it would cut me if I touched it, angular and angelic in an ethereal way. His pierced lip has me near combustion, and when he excuses Blondie like she’s a waste of air, I bolt.
“Don’t run away, princess. I’ll always catch you.”
Another shiver racks my frame at his words. It’s a promise, unless it comes to caring about me after Cass died.
Before he can get to me, I’m through the doors and running to the salad bar. It’s an easy and safe meal. Until I’m used to buying and choosing my own food again, I’ll have to avoid overindulging. That and the pills I’m forced to take.
“What can I get you, sweetie pie?” an older woman asks me, standing behind the bar.
I grab a biodegradable takeout tray and point to the spinach.
“Greens for the green girl?” she wits.
I laugh at the way she seems surprised. I’m not like other people. I don’t eat greens as a way to stay skinny. Usually, my form is a lot more filled out than it is right now. I eat them because when Cass died, I went catatonic to a point where I didn’t eat, went into a coma, and had to be tube-fed. It wasn’t purposeful. I’m not anorexic or hating myself. I just couldn’t fathom eating when my brother no longer could.
He doesn’t get to enjoy food, so why should I?
I’m a pizza fiend. Wings, soda, Monsters, candy, anything that’s unhealthy, those are my favorites. Until my body can handle any of it, though, I’ll be avoiding everything in the league of grease, which breaks my fat-covered heart.
“Yes, ma’am,” I finally respond with a fake joyous tone.
When she smiles, it makes me feel less bad about it. She must believe my front. After pointing to the cucumbers, beets, carrots, eggs, cheese, and all the other toppings I want to use to make the salad edible, she leads me to the register.
The person she gives my tray to smiles meekly at me. He’s a student. I think I recognize him from somewhere. It’s just not hitting me where. While I’m blatantly dissecting him with my eyes, he’s trying to bring my attention anywhere but at him.
“Miss Hudson,” Ike Rimbaur muses, gripping the base of my skull gruffly. “You should get on the table and dance for us.”
My body felt light. High. Floating above the kids who abandoned me when my brother was buried.
He assists me, helping me onto the table, handing me another drink. I’ve lost track of how many I’ve had, but I’m still somewhat able to think.
“That’s right, Hudson. Shake that ass,” he presses, and I do. Attention isn’t pretty when you’re below your lowest low.
My mind fogs at the memory. This fuck. He’s that dick.
“Fourteen ninety-two,” he mutters, his face reddening. Why is he flushed? It wouldn’t surprise me if he somehow got sent back to the time where he took advantage of my drunken state.
I peer down wondering if I have something on my shirt since that’s where his eyes are directed, but soon realize, he’s looking at the scar right above my cleavage, the one I’ve yet to hide with ink. It’s not every day people try ripping out their own hearts, guess it’s pretty gnarly to see.
Over the summer, I tried covering every scar with tattoos. It isn’t easy. Finding tattoo artists who are willing to work on a teenager, let alone one who has tons of scar tissue from her own doing. They like using excuses. And while I’ve inked both my arms and thighs, my chest is clear as day.
I almost wish it wasn’t. I’ve done a lot of body modifications. Piercings everywhere, even places a teen shouldn’t put it, but that’s a story for another time.
After I hand him my Onyx Visa, he stops ogling the tarnished skin and scans it. I’m surprised to see him working. His mom is the dean at this school. She’s a no-bullshit kind of woman. It’s something I admire about her. Some people have a shitty work ethic when it comes to teens, but she treats us all the same, expecting greatness. Ms. Rimbaur is as straight as it gets.
He hands me the card and receipt, and right before I turn away, I make sure to look into his eyes.
“If you want to see my tits, all you had to do is ask. Haven’t you heard? I’m the school whore.” His face flushes once more, reminding me of how confident he once was, using me to take pictures and upload them onto the school’s forum board.
He’s lucky I was out of my mind with loss because I would have strung him up by his balls for his actions. It was inexcusable, and now I’m labeled the Arcadia Whore.
Just another thing I’ve learned about myself.
Instead of giving him the chance to say anything, I turn and walk off, taking my lame salad with me. Next week, I’ll make sure to add some carbs to my stomach. It’s flatter than shit, and I’m sick of not absorbing my hatred in cheese and meats.
After lunch is over, I’m heading to History. It’s one of my favorite subjects. I’m lucky to have been assigned Richter. He’s my favorite teacher. Hell, he’s half the school’s favorite. Not only does he make learning fun, but it’s also fruitful. We learn and absorb instead of reading a textbook and hoping to get somewhere.
Walking into the classroom, my pursuit is halted by the face I see.
Well, hello, fuckface.
My eyes connect with the one that quite possibly hurts me the most by saying the least. Bridger. When we collided in the hall on orientation day, so many emotions rushed through me, and I didn’t even get a proper look at my sociopath. He’s empty yet full of something he only used to offer me. If I had to compare him to anything, it would be like never having ice cream in your life, seeing the creamy subst
ance from afar and knowing it could possibly hurt you, and then one day, tasting it for the first time... just a little drop, though, something to satiate the curiosity, to delve into the depravity and then having it disappear once more. That’s Bridger Clemonte.
Like every year since we met, his rich brown hair is messy and short on the sides. He’s the definition of a jock from his white shirt that spans across his wide chest, hugging every inch of his strong body, all the way to his skater shoes. He’s perfect in his sweet boy look, but behind the black eyes he sports is a demon that wrestles to be free daily.
Once upon a time, I let that monster free on me.
It changed everything.
“I like the way you look at me,” I mention, peering up into his colorless eyes.
A smirky twitch to his lips is the only indication that he appreciates my comment.
“Why’s that, Starless?”
I inwardly squeal at the nickname he gave me. Like his eyes, lack of light, the darkness within... it’s our truth.
“Like you’re trying to pick me apart, understand me...” I trail off, seeing the way his eyes slightly warm around the edges.
“Usually girls wouldn’t enjoy that,” he murmurs, thumbing his lip. It’s one of his tells, something he does when he’s trying to make me pay attention to anywhere but his expression. But right now, his face explains a lot.
He’s fascinated with me.
“I’m not other girls, Bridger.”
Why is it that I’m seeing him right after Ten? I close my eyes tightly, needing the memories to fade.
Bridger hasn’t turned to see me yet, so he’s unseeing and untroubled. At least, to the world that doesn’t know him like I do. He holds the windowsill like it’s the map to hope, willing to take him wherever he needs to find peace. His fingers tap along the glass to a tune only he hears, but I know it’s calming him. He’s the silent type, the kind that always says everything without saying anything. I’m one of the only ones who know his language.
Here Lives a Corpse: A Dark Bully Academy Romance (Here Lies Book 1) Page 2