by Jenni Sloane
By noon, it was harder to hold onto that feeling. I was exhausted. Running the industrial dishwasher was repetitive and noisy. Checking the bathrooms every hour was horrifying. Archer hadn’t been kidding—the clientele here was mostly teenagers. Teenagers who left needles in the stalls. Shit on the toilet handles. Lipstick prints on the mirrors. My back was aching, my jaw hurt from clenching it, and to top it all off, I was absolutely starving.
Lane, the manager, had stopped by briefly to see how I was doing and to let me know I could eat any unsellable slices of pizza in the back, as long as we weren’t slammed and as long as I never ate in front of the customers.
I left the dishwasher and wandered through the kitchen, spying a couple of slices of pepperoni pizza on a tray. Nothing had ever looked more inviting to me. Food.
Food that wasn’t Strathmore food.
That wasn’t gray or sour or unidentifiable.
Food that Cole couldn’t keep me from eating.
I picked up one of the pieces and brought it toward my mouth.
A hand reached over my shoulder and plucked the piece out of my grasp. Cheese and pepperoni slid off the slice and hit my shoe. I jumped, startled, and whirled to find Archer gazing at me stoically. My heart thumped.
“Sorry,” he said. “Ian told me you’re not allowed to eat.”
“What?” I was stunned.
“He said there’s a rule at Strathmore. You don’t eat in front of people.”
“That’s not a rule!” I burst out. “That’s Cole Heller being a disgusting human being. How does Ian even know about that?” Stupid question. Every student at Strathmore probably knew how I’d rolled over and showed my belly to Cole. Agreeing not to eat unless I was alone. Trembling, with my face and hair covered in what had once been my dinner.
Archer shrugged. “I don’t have a dog in this fight. Just think of me as an extension of Ian.”
“And what is Ian?” I demanded. “Cole’s puppet? Like Bennett?”
Archer’s lips twitched. “Don’t let him hear you say that.” He took a bite of my pizza slice. Chewed slowly. “No. I think he’s more interested in beating Cole at his own game.”
“And what is Cole’s game?”
“Breaking you,” Archer said simply. As though that wasn’t one of the creepiest responses he could have given.
I tried to imagine Kayle saving this man’s life. Why? What had happened?
And was it worth it?
“Can’t you think for yourself?” I asked in a low voice. “You’re an extension of your brother. Bennett’s an extension of Cole. And all of you are pathetic.”
He didn’t look angry. He just gave that infuriatingly slight nod again. “Maybe so.” Then he went to work on my pizza. “If you’re really hungry,” he said between bites, “I suppose you could go into the bathroom and eat. Though…some junkie chick just took a shit on the toilet seat.”
Then he turned and walked away.
The rest of my shift was completely mind-numbing. I did manage to snag half a sandwich when Archer wasn’t watching. But the sense of lightness I’d felt that morning had vanished completely.
What the hell had Archer meant? Were Ian and Cole now competing to see who could torture me the most? And if so, couldn’t Ian come up with his own material, so I could eat a meal without having to hide while I was doing it?
On my way out, I boxed up several slices of pizza. I had a half hour grace period after my shift ended to get back to campus and sign in. The ride from town was only twenty minutes. I’d pull off somewhere and stuff my face, then pedal like hell to get back to Strathmore.
But when I got to the bike rack, my bike was gone. I stood there staring, trying to come up with any reasonable explanation at all: I’d forgotten where I’d parked it. Bike thieves had taken it—hell, even that was preferable to the likely truth: that Archer Kemp was behind this.
I debated whether to just start jogging toward campus. I’d incur a steep fee for losing a rental bike, but at least I’d avoid detention.
Then I took a deep breath and walked back inside Peppino’s.
Archer was just finishing with a customer. I strode up to him, hoping I projected confidence. “Where’s my bike?” I asked—not loudly, but very firmly.
He glanced up at me, then went back to breaking a roll of nickels into the register. “What are you talking about?”
Rage boiled inside of me. “My bike,” I practically shouted. “It was locked up in front, and now it’s gone. Where is it?”
“No idea,” he said. And with that immovable face and unchanging voice, I almost believed him.
“I know you know.” I got up close to the counter. People were starting to look over at us, but I didn’t care.
“There are customers behind you,” Archer said calmly. “Get out of the way.”
“Not until you tell me where the bike is.”
“You wouldn’t want to lose your job the first day, would you, love?” That deep, smooth voice and lovely accent were at odds with the steel in his gaze. “Better get back to campus.”
“You asshole,” I ground out. “You’ll pay for this.”’
I sounded like a villain in a cheesy action movie. I had no way of making good on my threat, not unless I sought out Kayle and her dick wart-potion. But it felt good to say it.
“What’s going on here?” Lane had come out of the back and was staring at me.
“He stole my bike,” I told her.
Archer shrugged. “Not sure what she’s going on about.”
Lane sighed. “You probably didn’t lock it up properly. The kids around here, they can get through just about any lock. This really isn’t the place to make a scene about it.”
I felt a moment of panic. Was Lane in on this too? Or could it be true? Some teenagers had cut through my lock and taken the bike? No involvement by Archer at all?
I was starting to feel insane. Every day was a new round of bullying, gaslighting, and watching the rich kids win because they were rich. And telling myself that the greatest revenge, the only victory I could hope for, was to keep living my life in spite of it all.
I was tired of telling myself those lies. I was tired of hating this cycle, vowing I would do something to break it, and then doing nothing.
And so, right there in front of Lane and about fifteen customers, I punched Archer Kemp in the jaw.
Chapter Ten
When I finally arrived on campus, sweaty and bedraggled, my knuckles still throbbing, my only comfort was that at least I didn’t have to go back to scrubbing toilets. Bennett would probably find something even worse for me to do, but at least it wouldn’t be working with Archer.
Callahan was waiting for me when I came into the office to sign-in. She looked up from her paperwork, gaze cold but glinting with a cruel pleasure.
“Miss Reiter. Where on earth were you?”
“My bike got stolen,” I muttered, too exhausted to adopt a properly subservient tone. “I had to walk.”
She did not look at all sympathetic. In fact, I’d swear I saw something predatorial in her eyes. “You’re telling me you lost a school bike?”
“I’m telling you it was stolen.” I met her gaze.
Her mouth thinned. “I would suggest losing that attitude at once.”
I didn’t say anything. Just waited to see if she’d also heard about me punching Archer.
She picked up her demerits sheet. “You’ll have detention every evening this week. You will also be responsible for the cost of the bike.”
I nodded wearily. “That’s gonna be tough, since I got fired from my job. And I don’t exactly have a savings account.”
Callahan’s brows disappeared almost into her hairline. “You what?”
“Got fired,” I repeated. “For punching the person who stole my bike. I did it all for Strathmore, really,” I said sardonically. “Just couldn’t wait to get back here.”
Callahan stepped out from behind the desk. I tensed—I wouldn’t have put
it past her to slap me across the face. Or possibly throttle me. But she stood a foot or so from me and studied me. I could see the long lines etched into her forehead. The few streaks of gray in her dark hair. The grim lines around her mouth. This place must age you fast, I thought.
“I knew there was a reason,” she said softly.
“For what?” I asked, trying to maintain my bravado. But the good girl in me wanted to go back. Back to this morning, back to Halloween night, back to my childhood—and do everything right. Make everyone proud.
She tapped the sharp toe of her boot on the tile. “Your parents made such a compelling case for your being the Strathmore Challenge. The story of your actions on Halloween was practically irresistible. But since you’ve come here, you’ve been quite exemplary. Your grades have been good. Your behavior in class perfectly acceptable. With the exception of one detention, you haven’t been in trouble.” She pressed the tip of her tongue against the corner of her mouth. “I was starting to worry that we hadn’t given ourselves a real challenge at all. Make no mistake—we wanted someone who could be reformed fairly easily. But we also needed someone who would give us somewhere to go. We needed someone with an arc. You weren’t giving us anything. Not even when provoked.”
“Because I’m not a criminal.” I tried not to grit my teeth as I said it. “I don’t belong here.”
“Oh, I think you very much belong here,” she said, still in that quiet but razor-sharp voice. “You showed your true colors today, didn’t you?”
“I stood up for myself.” If that was showing my true colors, then so be it. I was glad to find my true colors were bolder than I’d ever imagined. Archer, Cole, Ian, Bennett, Ainslie, Callahan, Strathmore—they weren’t breaking me. They were hardening me.
“If that’s what you believe, then we’ll see if an extra week of detention doesn’t change your mind. You’ll be with Mr. Rominsky for your first week. Ms. Myrna for your second. You will report each evening at seven o’clock, after rec.”
Something horrible occurred to me. “The talent show. I need to rehearse.” The show was in two weeks. And I would have detention every night until then. Rominsky’s detentions had lasted an hour and a half each. The rehearsal rooms closed at nine.
“You’ll have to make use of your weekends,” she said.
Of which I only had one remaining. Without adequate rehearsal time, I’d make a fool of myself in front of the school. And I’d lose precious hours to work on my costume.
I kept my gaze on Callahan’s. My voice only shook a little, and only for a second. “I know you don’t want me to succeed. At least, not on my own terms. You only want me as your posterchild for reform or whatever. But I am going to succeed. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
Her lips slowly molded into a humorless smile. “I do want you to succeed, Reiter. More than you know.” She picked up her small black address book and began flipping through it. “You’ll go back.”
“What?”
She looked up. “You’ll go back to your job at Peppino’s. I’ll make some calls. This will make an excellent plot twist.”
“What will?” I was so confused. I was going back to the job I’d just been fired from? Also…a plot twist?
“Your violent nature resurfaced—on your very first day back in the community, no less. But we punished you severely, then gave you another chance. This time, you worked hard and succeeded. You see what I’m saying here, Reiter? This time, you need to succeed.”
“I—”
“I’ll even talk to Peppino’s about giving you a promotion in a few more weeks. That will look good—working your way up from the bathrooms.” She sighed, perching on the edge of her desk. “We need to move the story along. People’s attention spans aren’t what they once were. I’d originally thought that the Strathmore Challenge would play out over a full schoolyear. But now I see that we’ll be better off wrapping things up quickly. It’s better for the narrative.”
The narrative? That was what Bennett had called it too. I didn’t know why I was surprised. Strathmore had made it clear that I’d never been more to them than a story.
Callahan went on, “You have the grades to pull it off too. We’re going to move you up into a couple of advanced classes—in math and science. We’ll count your credits from the first quarter of your senior year in public school. You’re also going to attend tutoring three times a week with Mr. Baker to prepare you for college entrance exams at the end of this month.”
“Bennett Baker?” I felt suddenly faint.
She adjusted her glasses. “The Strathmore Challenge is not one that Strathmore intends to lose. Play your cards right, and you’ll be out of here by the end of May—on your way to an excellent college, your own reputation and the school’s vastly improved.”
May. That was only three months away. I remembered protesting to my mother that I was already two months into my senior year at Monroe. Why send me to Strathmore, where I’d have to start my whole school year over? Why, when I could just graduate Monroe that summer and be out of her hair forever? But the idea of putting me through Strathmore’s full eleven-month school year had seemed to delight my mother even more.
The idea that I could be out of here in five months…graduate on schedule this spring...Tamar and I could go to each other’s graduation parties, just like we’d planned. I’d have one last luxurious summer of freedom before going off to college… I almost certainly couldn’t spend it at home with my parents, but maybe Tamar would let me stay with her. I rode my newfound hope like a wave, letting it carry me out of this drab office and into the summer sun.
But then I remembered the price I’d have to pay.
Tutoring with Bennett. No. Absolutely not. “Mr. Baker and I don’t…get along,” I said.
“He’s the brightest we’ve got.” Callahan glared down her bony nose at me. “Consider it a challenge. For the both of you.”
My brain scrambled for a more compelling protest. “But that doesn’t even make sense. Colleges have already made their decisions. I can’t…”
“Strathmore has an understanding with a number of fine schools. If you sit exams next month and do well, you will have options, rest assured.”
“What if I fail?” The words tumbled out. “What if I don’t fit the narrative?”
She gave me a baleful look. “I suggest making yourself fit. We don’t have the resources to keep you around longer than strictly necessary.”
“I’m a person, you know,” I said, foolishly stunned once again by the transactional nature of this place. Do what we say, stand where we place you, make us look good…and we’ll make a few calls and set you up with a future. Just as long as it benefits us. “I have my own story.”
She laughed, as though I’d just told a genuinely funny joke.
“The one we’ve written for you is more compelling, Reiter. Trust me. Now, go get yourself cleaned up before I add another week of detention for your appearance.”
What choice did I have?
I left.
Mercifully, my detentions were to start tomorrow, and I had one of the rehearsal rooms booked tonight at eight-thirty tonight. Kayle wasn’t able to make it, but I took my borrowed tank top and leggings to the room, changed, and began to warm up.
I was hungry, but not ravenous. I’d worked out a system in the cafeteria. Since Cole tended to come to meals late, I could stand in line, request the most portable foods available, then stick them in my pockets, in my bra—wherever I could manage. I’d stay the requisite amount of time, to make sure Cole saw me obediently starving myself. Then I’d hurry back to my dorm to stuff my face.
It was a humiliating ritual, but what could I do? I wished I’d doused his hands in gasoline instead of healing them. I wished I’d told Kayle yes, whip up some potion that would hurt him, humiliate him. I wished I was the kind of person who could do that myself.
But wishing never did a damn thing for me.
I was actually in kind of a good mood
, despite my earlier confrontation with Callahan. The knowledge that I could be out of here in May had me flying high. For the talent show, I’d decided on the song “Need My Body” by Silvye, an up-and-coming artist whose songs were sensual, but not overtly sexual. Kayle had rehearsed with me every evening last week, and built up my ego to where I actually felt like I had a chance at walking onto that stage and not dying. My costume was turning out beautifully—I got an hour to work on it each day after class, and could usually steal an hour or so at night before Ainslie switched off the lamp and started snoring.
I’d gone for a sort of Mists of Avalon-inspired look. A modern take on the Lady of the Lake—gauzy, ethereal, and with a neckline that showed off more than I was used to showing.
It felt good to sing. I lost myself in the notes, in the joy of exploring my own voice. There were so many vocal qualities I never got the chance to use in church songs—a rough, rock-n-roll rasp that reminded me of Ian. A low, sensual croon that worked well for the bridge of the song. A sassy, bubblegum-pop whine that I hadn’t even known I was capable of. Combined with the moves Kayle had taught me, I felt sexy, powerful—even singing to an empty room.
I let myself imagine that it wasn’t empty. That I was on a stage underneath hot, bright lights, surrounded by an arena of cheering fans.
In my fantasy, I wasn’t afraid at all. Of being watched, adored. Of wearing skimpy clothes. Of my own body, of the way people desired it, desired me.
I hit play on my accompaniment track and ran through the song once more. It might have been just a stupid pop song, but I felt every minute of it. By the time I crooned the final line, I’d never felt more beautiful or powerful in my life. I closed my eyes as the track ended, letting myself revel in the feeling.
“Wow,” said a voice behind me.
I gasped, and turned to see Ian staring at me. He was dressed in a tank top and low-slung jeans, strategically ripped. The shirt showed off his tattoos, and the jeans showed off his, uh, skinny rat-weasel arse, and for a moment, I forgot the things he’d said and done to me. I forgot to be scared. I was still the sexy, powerful goddess who’d sung to my imaginary arena. I wasn’t afraid of anyone.