When Mrs. Anderson dismisses me, I’m the last girl to enter the changing rooms. Steam rises from the showers as Cleo and Daphne step out. I strip off and drop my uniform and towel onto the bench, then shove my way into a cubicle as the warning bell rings. Outside, I can hear Cleo and her minions giggling. “Bye, Mackenzie,” Brandy yells as the gym door slams shut. Peels of laughter echo through the walls.
Since I’m already late and my last class is mathematics, which I don’t understand anyway, I take my time under the water, shampooing my hair with the fancy organic products the school supplies. When I reek of lavender and lemongrass, I step out of the water and reach for my towel and clothes.
They’re not there.
I left them in a pile on the bench in front of my locker. I know I did. Now they’re gone.
From outside, a fresh wave of laughter rises.
Those skank-ass bitches stole my clothes.
My head spins. Water droplets roll off the ends of my hair and cascade across my back. I debate my options – I could change back into my gym clothes… except I put them in my backpack, inside my gym locker, and the locker key was on top of the pile of clothes they stole. I slam my fist into the metal.
Fuck. Fuck.
My feet slap against the non-slip mats and I pace along the stalls, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes until I see squiggles.
You’ve dealt with worse than this.
You’ve lived through a hell those princesses can’t even contemplate.
Get your shit together.
I scan every corner of the locker room for a possible solution – some discarded clothing or even a towel I can wrap around myself. My foot skims something. I bend down and pick it up – someone’s discarded Sharpie. I pull off the cap and test it against my palm. It still works.
Hmmm.
Maybe it’s time someone shows Cleo what happens when you mess with someone who has nothing to lose.
20
Mackenzie
The snickers hit the moment I step outside.
Cleo and her crew are waiting for me, and they’ve roped several guys into hanging around, forming a gauntlet of shame along the corridor.
The laughter lasts for three steps. Three agonizing steps where I relive a world of agony. Where I remember another sound – my scream echoing back on me inside the coffin – and the horror it seared into my soul. Even though I hold my chin high, my insides burn with all the rage and terror of that night.
Three steps, and the laughter dies.
Three steps, and they read the words scrawled across my skin.
WHORE.
BITCH.
ICE QUEEN.
GHOST SLUT.
YOU DON’T OWN ME.
I AM NOT MY BODY.
And down my arms and across my chest, in huge, loopy letters that circle my nipples between a lopsided doodle of a crown, the words:
I AM MACKENZIE MALLOY.
It is a total bitch to write legibly on yourself upside down, especially across my breasts, but I got the hang of it. Now my whole body is covered in graffiti – words of affirmation, words of rage. The words I’ve had to tell myself in the dark over and over and over again, until I believed them.
My words of war.
Cleo’s perfect lips freeze in this O-shape, like one of those bobbing clowns at a fairground. Behind her, Daphne’s hand flies to her mouth. At the end of the row, I can feel Alec LeMarque’s eyes sweep over my body, and it’s like something slimy sliding across my skin.
Noah stands beside Alec, his hands in his pockets. His eyes never leave mine, and although they still burn with that same seething hatred, there’s a respect there, too.
Eli elbows Alec in the side as he shoves his way to the front of the crowd. He starts to shrug off his blazer. “Mackenzie, here. Take this. I’ll—”
“What’s going on here?” A voice cuts through the chaos. A hard lump forms in my throat as Ms. Drysdale pushes her way through the crowd. She takes one look at me and throws up her arms in front of me. “All of you, get to class.”
No one moves. Eli stands there with both arms still trapped in his blazer.
“Go. You too, Mr. Hart. Or I’m hauling all your parents in here to explain why you’re being suspended for sexual misconduct.”
One by one they peel away. Cleo shoots me a triumphant smile as she loops her arm in Noah’s. The two of them climb the stairs, their heads bend together in whispers. Eli looks like he wants to argue, and he’s got his blazer off now and is holding it out.
“I said, go to class, Mr. Hart. I’ve got this under control.”
Eli’s eyes flick to mine, as if asking my permission. I nod. He backs away, his gaze not leaving mine until he’s around the corner and out of sight.
Ms. Drysdale shrugs off her jacket and loops it over my shoulders. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Is this a joke?”
“No joke,” I say, my face serious. “It’s my political science project. How did I do?”
Her eyes bug out. “What?”
“You told us to explore propaganda and social justice movements. I’ve done that by using my body – a woman’s body, which has long been exploited for political propaganda – as a tool to reclaim my own narrative.” I skim my hands over my breasts, smudging the M of Mackenzie. “You have to admit, if the idea is to get people to pay attention, it has been remarkably effective.”
Ms. Drysdale’s mouth quirks up. “You’ve got some ovaries on you, Malloy. Tell you what, I’ll give you a perfect grade if you go back into the changing rooms and put your uniform back on.”
“I can’t. My clothes were stolen.”
She sighs as she yanks her coat closed across my chest. It’s a dark maroon trench reaching to my knees, and I belt it at the waist to cover all my lady bits. It’s an awesome coat – the kind of thing I might have worn in another life. Now that I’m covered up, she snaps her fingers. “Come with me.”
I follow my history teacher into a cramped office at the back of the Humanities block. She gestures for me to sit as she roots around in a suitcase behind her desk. I stare at my feet, which I kick out in slow circles. My toe brushes the corner of a quilt tucked under her desk.
“This is cool.” I hold up a corner of the quilt. It’s covered with different-shaped helmets from history – the Corinthian helmet of the Greek hoplite, a Roman centurion’s galea, a medieval great helm. It looks hand-stitched.
“Oh, that.” Red flares in Ms. Drysdale’s cheeks. “It gets cold in here. This patriarchal establishment wasn’t built with a heating system because they believed frostbite would turn boys into men, and I’m not allowed a space heater because it’s a fire hazard. Even with two layers of thermal stockings, I freeze my ass off in winter.”
I nod, but I can’t help but notice the pile of clothes in the suitcase in the corner, the takeout containers scattered across the desk, and the corner of a pillow behind the bookshelves. Ms. Drysdale is sleeping in her office.
I shouldn’t give a shit, but it seems so ridiculous that I have this whole big house with twelve bedrooms and its own indoor bowling alley, while the only person in this entire shitty school who has actually been nice to me is sleeping in her office. I open my mouth to say something, but Ms. Drysdale dumps a load of clothes on my lap.
“Put those on and get out of here. You won’t be allowed back into class without your uniform.” She holds up a crumpled Mötley Crüe band tee. “I’ll be expecting these back.”
I finger the edge of the t-shirt, loving the distressed fabric. “I would, too. You have great clothes.”
“Please,” she scoffs. “You could trade my entire wardrobe for one of your designer handbags and still have money to spare. Don’t try to butter me up to get yourself out of trouble for this ridiculous stunt. I’m concerned about you, Mackenzie. From the minute you walked into Stonehurst, you’ve been determined to paint a target on your back. And you never got a tutor as I suggested—”
“I tried. N
oah refused to tutor me.”
She sighs. “That’s unlike him. I’ll find you a tutor.”
“That’s okay, I’ll—”
She didn’t let me finish. “You clearly enjoy history, which is rare in a school like this. I stand at the front of class and look out at future leaders and influencers, and not one of them understands how important it is to look to the past. The triumphs and the mistakes. Especially the mistakes. You could do well here if you gained a better grasp of academic writing, and that’s a skill you can learn with the right tutor. I’ll help you, but you’d better not let me down.”
She says it with a little tug of her mouth, to show she’s half-joking. But I suddenly don’t want to disappoint her. Ms. Drysdale points to the door. Her elbow hits a takeout container, batting it off the edge of her desk and into the trash. “Go home, Mackenzie.”
I leave her office, wrapping her coat around me to ward off the chill as a light breeze blows off the ocean just down the road. I debate ducking into a bathroom to change into Ms. Drysdale’s clothes, but her coat covers me fine and I really just want to go home. I hurry down the front steps of the school and check no one’s looking before I hurry toward the bus stop. I check the schedule – twelve minutes before the next bus leaves for Harrington Hills. I pull up the collar of the coat and shrink against the shelter, hoping no one will—
“Well, well, well. Mackenzie Malloy waiting for the bus, looking like Holly GoLightly’s sexy cousin.”
I whirl around, my heart pounding. Gabriel Fallen steps out from behind a tree, a joint dangling from his fingers.
“I’m going home,” I snarl.
“That’s unlikely. Mackenzie Malloy doesn’t ride the bus like a pleb.” Gabriel pauses. “You should see the inside of my tour bus. Now that’s a bus. I’ve got a king-size bed in back, silk sheets, a fully-equipped bar. This swing that you hook to the ceiling—”
I turn away so he can’t see the blush creeping across my cheeks. I’ve read wild stories in the tabloids about Gabriel and that swing. And the idea he might want me to be on it… “Maybe Mackenzie Malloy is trying to save the environment.”
Gabriel chuckles. He reaches out and takes my hand, leading me back into the trees that line the parklike-grounds of Stonehurst. He holds out the joint for me. “I heard what happened in gym. Cleo’s an evil wench, but you are something else. Want to hang out?”
“You’re just asking me that because you know I’m naked under this coat.”
Gabriel’s eyebrow shoots up. “I didn’t, actually. But now I’m very interested.”
I glance down the street, at the bus rounding the corner toward my stop. There’s not another bus for an hour.
Gabriel smiles. The barbell in his lip jiggles.
I take the joint. I’m only human. “What do you have in mind?”
21
Mackenzie
As we cut across the park toward the beach, Gabriel throws his arms around my shoulders, like it’s a totally normal thing to do. My chest tightens, and I find myself struggling for breath.
Gabriel Fallen has his arm around my shoulder.
Chill, bitch.
I don’t remember a moment of the walk. Gabriel chats with ease about things that are completely foreign to me – psycho fans, stadiums packed with people screaming his name, sharing a shower with four other guys on a cramped tour bus. He asks me questions about myself, and I struggle to remember my name, let alone keep my story straight. I’m relieved when he turns off the pavement.
“We’re here.”
Here is a block of ultra-modern apartments overlooking a private beach. The facades are painted a stark white with all kinds of weird angles and invisible gutterings – the kind of design architects go nuts for but would be a complete disaster to maintain.
From his blazer pocket, Gabriel pulls out an electronic fob on the end of a chain. He holds it up to a security box, and the metal gate swings open. We walk down winding sandstone steps to a grand front entrance. One entire wall is rough-hewn granite with a waterfall cascading over the top.
Gabriel nods to the waterfall. “I had that installed over the summer. It’s too quiet here, even with the surf roaring. I’m so used to being on tour sometimes it’s hard to sleep without noise.”
Riiiight. He needed some noise, so instead of blasting some music he makes a waterfall down the side of his house. That’s totally normal.
“This is yours?” I step into the open-plan kitchen, living, and dining space, taking in the vaulted ceiling with exposed beams and the industrial features. One entire wall is filled with a big-screen TV and state-of-the-art speakers – on the opposite wall, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves are crammed with books and vinyl records.
“Yup. I purchased it when our last album hit it big. I wanted somewhere I could come between tours so I don’t ever have to go back to Fallen Castle.”
“Your parents have a castle?” I knew Gabriel’s family was wealthy, but that’s a whole other level.
“Yup. Battlements, swords hanging everywhere, bitter and twisted Lord and Lady torturing the serfs in their dungeon – the works.”
I know from his lyrics just how much Gabriel loathes his parents, but it’s strange to experience it in person – the twist in his lip and spark of hate in his eyes when he speaks of them. “You’re too fucking cool for words.”
Gabriel gazes at me, an odd smile tugging at his lips. “Don’t look so impressed, Mac. Everyone and their uncle has a castle in Britain. They practically give them away at the airport. I like it here much better.” He leans in to lovingly kiss the central heating controls. “Trust me, endure one British winter in a drafty stone hall with no central heating and the romance of a castle wears off.”
Intrigued, I pad across to the shelves, pulling out album sleeves at random, taking in the records. Progressive rock, indie, jazz, Scandinavian black metal… Gabriel’s tastes were diverse and intriguing. Many of the records are signed or limited editions, still in their sleeves.
It’s so odd being here, inside Gabriel’s private space. It’s not what I imagined. In rock magazines he’s always photographed in the midst of chaos – smoking a joint in a recording studio surrounded by trails of guitar leads snaking across the floor, or slumped over some bar in Budapest, or on stage, his hair whirling in all directions as his fingers fly over guitar strings.
“The bathroom’s through here if you want to wash that stuff off.” Gabriel holds a door open for me, and heat burns in my cheeks as I remember I’m still naked underneath Ms. Drysdale’s coat, my skin covered in scrawled words of power. I go into an enormous rain shower, scrubbing at the marker with fancy-smelling soap until the words fade a little. My mind conjures an image of Gabriel naked under this same shower, water cascading over his beautiful inked body, his long, dark hair plastered to his back. I blast the shower on cold, trying to drive out the need that heated my veins from the inside.
When I emerge wearing Ms. Drysdale’s clothes, Gabriel takes my hand and gives me a tour, showing off the hot tub on the deck overlooking the ocean, the walk-in pantry stocked with weird British candy, and the guest bedroom he’s converted into a studio space, stacked with guitars and recording equipment, the walls covered in tour posters and photographs I long to pore over. His bedroom is a mezzanine floor over the kitchen, open to the space below and the double-height windows overlooking the beach. Up here I can hear the trickle of the waterfall on the outside wall, and over it, the roar of the ocean outside.
I try not to look at Gabriel’s bed or think about Gabriel in his bed. I fail. My feet root themselves to the spot at the top of the stairs, and I’m in desperate danger of melting into a puddle on his shiny wood floor.
I try to cover my discomfort with snark. “With all that water running outside, how do you not wet the bed every night?”
Gabriel’s grin rends me. “Maybe I have better things to dream about than not reaching the bathroom on time.”
I swallow, taking in the diffused light, th
e rumpled comforter in soft grey, the band tees strewn around the laundry chute. “I’m surprised you don’t have an enormous round bed for your harem of groupies.”
“A shagrificial altar?” Gabriel smiles. “Why, Malloy, how little you must think of me. You’re the first girl I’ve ever brought here.”
I snort, assuming he’s lying. But Gabriel’s face is easy, free of tension. I wonder, if he’s being truthful, why he chose me to bring here, to step inside this private piece of him.
Gabriel flings open the balcony door. The roar of the surf rushes in, enveloping me. Gabriel sits on a recliner, crossing his boots on a small table. He lights up a joint. “I’m a rockstar. I’ve never had to look far for pussy and all the drama that goes along with it – I don’t need that shit cluttering up my home.”
Then why am I here? I ask inside my head as I lean back in a recliner and accept the joint from Gabriel. Smoke curls between us as we pass it back and forth in silence. He scrolls through his phone and selects a playlist. And a song comes over the built-in speakers – slow and sultry, mournful piano and two string instruments dueling for supremacy.
“This is my friend Dorien’s band, Broken Muse.” Gabriel flicks his tongue against the barbell in his labret. “He’s this hyper-intense goth dude, but he knows how to party. You’d hate him.”
“I hate most people.” I let the music fill me. It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard before. I never knew classical instruments could create a sound like that.
“But not me?” He cocks an eyebrow.
“You’re tolerable.”
“So Mac, do you ever feel like you’re an imposter in your own life?”
I glare at him. “What happened to small talk?”
Gabriel shrugs. “People always talk bollocks around me. I got into music because I wanted to do something real, but instead I’m surrounded by fake people all the time. Go on, then. Do you ever feel like an imposter?”
My Stolen Life: a high school bully romance (Stonehurst Prep Book 1) Page 11