Chloe grabs the dry erase marker and turns around to glare at them. “What is wrong with you people?”
Mr. Petrowski gulps and says, “Do you need to go to the restroom, Chloe?”
Chloe whips towards him with a confused look on her face.
“Change your clothes, maybe?” he suggests.
Chloe glances down at the front of her outfit in confusion then strains her neck to look at her back, but she can’t see the spot from that angle.
“Is it shark week, Chloe?” some guy asks.
“What?” She scrunches her nose at him.
“You know, are you surfing the crimson wave?”
All of a sudden, it clicks, and Chloe gasps and slaps her hand over her ass. She dashes out of the room and down the hallway, leaving all her stuff behind, and the class explodes in uncontrollable laughter.
Mr. Petrowksi doesn’t even try to settle us down, he just releases us early, and we pile out into the hallway, still cackling.
I don’t get any credit for this one, everyone just assumes she really did start her period, but it was totally worth it to see the look of humiliation on her face.
Goth girl stalks up to me while I’m coming down from my euphoria and hisses at me. “Did you have something to do with that?”
I pull back and stare at her. “What, you think I control Mother Nature, or something?” I chuckle.
She jabs a finger in my chest. “No, but I think you get off on making a fool of other people. What’s wrong with you?”
She spins around and stomps off, and I feel a twinge of guilt, but not enough to stop me from chuckling all the way to my locker.
By lunchtime, I’m riding a high just thinking about the prank that’s yet to come, the one that will go down in infamy as my greatest prank ever, at least, until I come up with something even better for next year.
I dash out of my 4th period class the second the bell rings and race for the cafeteria. I want to witness every moment of this. I grab a tray of food, skipping the ketchup, and take a seat at my usual table, which just happens to have a great view of the rest of the cafeteria.
It doesn’t take long before people start pouring in, and almost all of them squirt ketchup on either their burger or their french fries. I can’t help the grin that stretches my face when I see goth girl pump out a big pile of it.
Within seconds, I hear the first yelp as someone gets a taste of the hot sauce.
“Holy shit, that’s hot! What’s in this?” a loud voice hollers. It’s echoed by a dozen others as people start coughing and spitting and jumping up to grab milk boxes.
Soon, the entire cafeteria is in pandemonium. People are yelling and swearing, girls are crying, and even the machoest guys have red faces and tears popping from their eyes as they chug down beverages.
The kitchen staff runs out into the cafeteria when they hear the commotion, and they scramble around trying to figure out what the problem is. A few people yell “ketchup,” and one of the cooks takes a sample of it and practically detonates.
Dylan and I are two of the few who aren’t in pain, and we’re laughing our heads off.
Suddenly, a loud voice echoes out above the chaos. “Oh my God, I think she’s dying!”
Chapter Two
KC
I should be totally freaked out, right now, but instead, a small smile forces its way through the heavy layers of pale foundation, dark eye liner, and black cherry lipstick. Happiness doesn’t go with my new look at all, so I try to suppress it, but I can’t help it. For the first time in months, I actually feel hopeful.
Today is my first day in public school after eleven and 3/4 years as the most popular girl at Astor Lake Prep, an elusive private school attended mainly by the children of high-profile celebrities and politicians. So why on earth am I happy about leaving all that behind and starting over as a nobody?
Because a month ago a nude picture of me, snapped when I was drunk and acting stupid, got posted on the internet by a heartless asshole, aka my boyfriend. That one picture made it into the hands of every student at my school, humiliating me and sparking a series of rumors that accused me of everything from exotic dancing to prostitution. Turns out notoriety is not the same as popularity.
So, today I’m starting over. A new school, a new life, a new me. The old Kaitlyn Smith is gone, trampled to death by lies, rumors, and innuendo, and a new girl has risen from the ashes like an anti-phoenix — scarred, angry, and distrustful of everyone. I changed my hair, my wardrobe, even my name, trying to escape my old life, and I’m terrified, but hopeful.
I have a few minutes before it’s time to leave, so I pull out my phone and tap on the Facebook app out of habit, or maybe masochism.
My profile pic still shows the old, happy-faced me — smiling, pink lips, bright blue eyes, long, blonde hair in a high ponytail. Head to head with my bestie, Lindsey. That’s the only reason I don’t change the picture; it reminds me that at least one thing wasn’t completely ruined in the fallout. Lindsey is still on my side, but one person couldn’t hold back the tidal wave that crashed through my world, destroying everything.
There’s not much in my newsfeed since I unfriended more than half of the hundreds of people I used to call friends. Quite a few of those got blocked completely. No one has posted any good luck messages on my profile page, either, because I had to disable that when my timeline got filled with crude taunts and vile comments. Not that there’s anyone left who would wish me luck, anyway, besides Lindsey.
I spent days deleting all the vicious comments, untagging myself from the cruel memes, and changing my privacy settings so no one else could use my social accounts to harass me. That didn’t stop them from talking about me, but at least it doesn’t show up on my profile any longer. I thought about deleting all my accounts, but there were too many good memories archived there. Maybe someday I’ll be able to scroll through them without the painful ones distracting me.
The picture that started the whole nightmare is still floating around out there, immortal. Once something is on the internet it’s there forever. Every once in a while I see it, and it tears a new gouge in the scar tissue. I shouldn’t risk being online today, it’s likely to ruin the first good mood I’ve had in weeks. Nothing new is happening, anyway. Turns out, the world keeps turning even if you get thrown off of it.
I click my phone off and head downstairs. Dad frowns at me when he sees me, and he adjusts his tie like my disheveled appearance is affecting his. “Kaitlyn, just because you want a fresh start doesn’t mean you need to reinvent yourself. The old Kaitlyn was perfect just the way she was.”
“The old Kaitlyn was a self-absorbed, ignorant socialite who thought the world revolved around her and nothing bad could ever happen.” I drop my book bag on the counter and reach for the orange juice.
“Do goths drink orange juice? I thought they only drank the blood of their victims.” My little brother grabs my glass of juice and downs it. I pinch him hard on the shoulder.
“Seriously, honey. Why the goth look? No one knows you at this school. Why do you have to dress so differently? It will be hard to make new friends that way.”
“I don’t want to make new friends, Dad. I just want people to stay away from me.”
“Honey, you can’t spend the rest of your life isolating yourself from society. You have to get back out there.”
“I am, Dad. I’m going to school, aren’t I?”
I wanted to drop out completely and be homeschooled, but my parents refused, saying it wasn’t healthy for me to run from my problems. Only after some nasty slurs about me ended up on the answering machine at my dad’s office did my parents agree to let me transfer. I guess they finally realized how bad it had gotten. Either that, or Dad was just trying to protect his own reputation. He’s a senator, so for him, reputation is everything. You’d think he’d understand my feelings better.
He lets it drop, thankfully, since I have to spend the next 20 minutes in the car with him. I refused to dr
ive my car after the incident. The cherry red Audi convertible my parents gave me for my 16th birthday was too identifiable, especially after someone spray painted the word slut across the drivers’ side. Instead, I wanted to trade it in on something that matched my new personality. Something hard, tough, and impenetrable. Dad agreed on a Jeep Renegade, but they didn’t have one in stock that was exactly what I wanted, so I have to wait a few days for it to be delivered. Yeah, I’m a spoiled, rich kid. Too bad it couldn’t spare me from total reputation destruction.
I’m a little nervous about having no escape vehicle today, but I keep telling myself I don’t have anything to worry about. Nobody here knows anything about Kaitlyn Smith or the picture that rocketed her into infamy. Even if they do, the new KC Smith is completely unrecognizable.
The first thing I notice about my new school is what’s missing. The entrance to Astor Lake is proudly announced with wrought iron lettering on a stone archway surrounded by manicured landscaping. Here, a faded, plastic-faced sign sits in the middle of a patch of crab grass. The parking lot is full of Fords and Kias instead of BMWs and Mercedes. I don’t care about that, I remind myself. Wealth is no indication of integrity, not that poverty is, either.
Dad drops me off at the front entrance, a gray, concrete facade about as welcoming as a prison. Kids loiter outside, talking and laughing. They look… forgettable. I’ve been going to school with the same small group of students my entire life, so it feels strange not to recognize a single person. It’s unnerving not knowing anything about them. Who’s popular? Who’s friendly? Who should I watch out for? Not that it matters; I don’t plan to get to know any of them. I just want to finish high school in peace and quiet. The less people who know me, the better.
My goth getup will probably keep most people at arms’ length, and the scowl on my face should deter the rest of them.
I find my locker and stash my bag then make my way to first period. I’m a few minutes early, so I tell the teacher who I am and ask if there’s assigned seating. She tells me to sit wherever, so I choose a seat in the back where I’m less likely to be stared at.
When a boy walks in and tells me I’m sitting in his seat, his good looks and easygoing smile put me on edge, and I can’t stop myself from throwing up my defenses. I should just move to avoid a confrontation, but instead I find myself defending my right to sit where I want to. Good job, Kaitlyn, er, KC. Way to fly under the radar.
The teacher introduces me and starts to call me by my given name, but I quickly correct her, telling her I prefer to use my initials. I don’t want anything to do with the old Kaitlyn, especially on the off chance that someone might recognize me.
The lecture is admittedly boring, but that doesn’t excuse what the boy next to me is doing to amuse himself — tying the shoelaces of the guy behind him to his desk legs. I know it’s not that big of a deal, but it ticks me off that he’s picking on him. My compulsion to intervene fights with my desire to stay out of it, but I manage to keep my mouth shut after giving the prankster a couple dirty looks to let him know what I think of him.
But when the kid falls on his face, and the jokester and the rest of the class start laughing and making fun of him, all the negative emotions of my own ordeal swell up inside me, and I can’t stay quiet any longer.
“What’s your name?” I demand, glaring at the jerk who gets his rocks off by picking on people.
“Jake Matthews.” He smiles like he’s proud of himself, and I want to punch his teeth out.
“Way to be an asshole, Jake,” I say, in case he’s too stupid to realize that’s exactly what he is. But then I immediately regret it. The last thing I need is to tick off the school bully.
I help the kid untangle himself from Jake’s desk, and he smiles at me and opens his mouth, but I take off before he can start a conversation. I already broke my first rule by getting involved. I don’t want to start forming relationships.
I groan and hide my face an hour later when I see Jake Matthews stroll in to my third period. How many classes am I going to have with this guy? Thankfully, he doesn’t acknowledge me or sit anywhere near me.
When a girl goes up to the board with a red stain on the back of her skirt, Jake laughs at her like public humiliation is the funniest form of entertainment to him. I don’t know how or why, but I’m positive he’s behind it.
I can’t help myself. I’m not used to being an invisible wallflower. Indignation rises up in me like an army, and my heart beats in time with their boots, marching into battle.
I stomp over to Jake and scowl at him. “Did you have something to do with that?”
“What, you think I control Mother Nature, or something?” He chuckles.
I jab a finger in his chest. “No, but I think you get off on making a fool of other people. What’s wrong with you?”
Oh my God, what am I doing? I’m supposed to by lying low, staying invisible. Why on earth am I confronting this guy? I feel bad for his victims, but my disapproval is obviously not going to change anything. All it’s going to do is put me in his spotlight and probably make me his next victim.
I force myself to turn around and walk away as fast as I can, praying I don’t already have a target on my back.
Thankfully, my next class is uneventful — no Jake and no drama. No one even talks to me, which is a little lonely but still better than being tormented.
At lunch, my hands start sweating and my fingers tap erratically against my leg as I head to the cafeteria. It’s one thing to pick a random seat in a classroom, but the lunchroom is a social minefield. I wish there was a way to scope it out without looking like a loser who doesn’t know where to sit.
I’m not Kaitlyn anymore, I remind myself. I’m not the popular girl who just lost all her friends and ruined her reputation. I’m KC, the sullen, emo girl dressed in black who doesn’t want any friends. It’s okay for me to sit at an empty table. It tells the world I want to be left alone to wallow in my depression.
I grab some food and find a mostly-empty table, sitting as far away from anyone as possible, and try to ignore the crowd around me. If I pretend I don’t care long enough, it’s bound to come true eventually, right?
The cafeteria here seems a lot noisier and more chaotic than at Astor Lake, and maybe if I was paying attention to what was going on instead of focusing all my energy on disappearing I might have realized this wasn’t normal.
But instead, I tune it all out like I’m on a date with my hamburger. I load up a french fry with a glob of ketchup and shove the whole thing in my mouth, setting off a fire alarm in my nervous system.
My mouth instantly catches fire, a blazing inferno of pain that explodes and, seconds later, ignites my whole body.
I spit out the french fry and grab my bottle of water, guzzling it, hoping to put out the flames that are roaring through me. I know what I need is milk or bread, but I don’t have anything except my hamburger bun which is slathered with ketchup, and all I can think about is getting liquid inside me.
The water isn’t helping at all, though, and I start to cough as my throat closes up. I’m gasping and choking, and my airway is swelling, making it even harder to breathe. I hear myself wheezing as a tiny stream of air rattles in and out of me, and I grasp desperately at my throat.
Sweat drips from my head, and my nose is running uncontrollably. Suddenly, I feel hives popping out all over my body like wildfires — red, itching, and stinging. I jump up and dance like a marionette as my hands tear at them.
The movement is too much for my stomach, though, and nausea rolls through me. I’m incapable of doing anything but opening my mouth and letting it all flow out of me. The blood rushes to my head as I retch, and I lose my balance, dropping to the ground. The last thing I remember is the crowd gathering around me, yelling.
Chapter Three
Jake
My head jerks up, and I scan the cafeteria, trying to figure out what’s happening. A crowd has gathered on the other side of the room, so I stand up
and crane my neck, trying to see better. When that doesn’t help, I jog over there and shove my way through the wall of bodies.
Goth girl is lying on the ground, flailing around in her own vomit. Her exposed skin is red and covered in welts, and there are scratches down her throat like she’s been trying to rip a hole to her windpipe. Holy shit, she really is dying!
Is it because of the hot sauce? Guilt and fear crash into me. I just wanted to pull a prank, not a homicide! I thought the worst that might happen is a couple days of suspension if I got caught, not a murder charge.
Blood pounds in my head, and I’m sure my veins are pulsing. Sweat beads on my forehead. Do I look guilty? I wanted the credit for the prank, but now the last thing I want is for them to suspect I’m behind this. Maybe I should get out of here. But I feel like I should try to help her. I have no idea how, though.
One of the teachers on cafeteria duty pushes through the crowd and drops down beside her, feeling her pulse. “Did anyone call 911?”
Everyone shakes their head and murmurs. The teacher grabs her cell phone from her back pocket and jabs at the screen then sets it down beside her. She points at one of the kids nearby. “You, go get the nurse, right now! Tell her we need an EpiPen.”
I wish she’d asked me so I could do something useful instead of just standing here, watching.
The kid scurries away as the 911 operator answers. “911. What’s your emergency?”
“My name is Margaret Atwood, and I think one of my students is having an allergic reaction.”
“Is the student breathing?”
“Just barely,” Mrs. Atwood says. The girl sounds like she’s trying to suck air through one of those plastic, coffee stir sticks.
April Fools' Joke (Holiday High Series Book 3) Page 2