by L V Chase
"Fuck you!" I yell into the phone. I glance down the hall. Everyone's pretending to ignore me.
Dad's quiet, finally.
"I'm not a pussy, and you know that," I say in a lower voice. "Someone at school saw us and went off to Ally McCulloch. It's her fault."
"It's your fault."
"I told you, I didn't—"
"Your school. Your fault. If someone's willing to snitch on you, it means they don't respect or fear you. You're not in control. Therefore, it's your fault. Deal with it."
I stare at the phone. He's right, in a way. There's one person who's out of my control at this school. One person who doesn't respect me enough. And it is my fault. I've been too soft on her.
"I'm working on it," I reply.
"Don't work on it. Do it." Dad hangs up.
This is different from before. Talking back to me is one thing. Hurting my family is personal. Dad expects payback, and not the light kind. To be honest, he's right. This deserves something hard and dark in return, like breaking her and throwing her at the mercy of a creep. Like giving her to Brady.
I can't do that, though, can I? Even after what she's done? Because, despite what Ally says, it had to have been Cin. She was the only one there.
Fuck this. I turn and kick a locker hard enough to leave a large dent before heading outside. I don't know what to do and figure I'll go for a quick drive. Clear my mind. I’ll deal with this mess once I get back.
It's lunch time. I'm sitting at the table with my usual crew, a half-eaten hamburger in my hand. Eric's here, along with Donnie, Aaron, the others. Everyone's dead quiet, avoiding eye contact with me. Even Eric's only cracked a single joke so far.
I throw the hamburger onto my blue tray, where it lands with a thud.
"Something wrong?" I ask loudly.
Nervous eyes glance around. There are a few murmurs but nothing more.
"No, if you're good, we're good," Eric says.
I frown at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing." Eric shrugs. "I mean, nothing that some tight pussy can't fix, right?"
The others chuckle. Eric grins and pats my shoulder. I wince slightly before I can stop myself, and the smattering of laughter immediately dies. I hold back a sigh instead.
"I was fighting." I roll up my right sleeve and show a series of ugly purple bruises running all the way up to my shoulder. "Like a fight club."
Donnie jumps in. "Like the one Wallace runs?" He weaves his head left and right against an imaginary opponent before jabbing at the air twice. "One of those underground things?"
"Yeah," I say. "Remember the one we saw last year, Eric?"
Last summer, Eric and I snuck into a fight club they were running out by an abandoned construction site. It had been a bloody, dirty business, nothing like the bright fancy productions they'd throw up on pay-per-view.
Eric nods, his eyes lighting up. "That was some nasty shit. Wait. You went into the ring? Like you really did that?"
I nod. "Went through two guys. Knocked out one. Draw with the second, but the fucking ref gave it to the other." I pat my bruised arm. "Someone must have seen these and jumped to conclusions."
I can see the others swallowing the lie like faithful lemmings. They're not faking it. They actually believe this shit. Their shoulders relax. They lean back in their chairs, go back to their food. Everything's good in their eyes. Everything makes sense. It's almost disappointing how easily they'll believe whatever I say. Pathetic, even.
I pick up my hamburger to take another bite, but my eye catches a boxy shape moving in the hallway. It's Cin, carrying her canvas and paints. I watch her as she goes by, and her head swivels. Somehow, she finds me in that brief second before she walks past the door frame and out of view.
In her deep green eyes isn't fire, anger, or even pity. She looks worried, not about herself, I think, but about me.
22
Cin
The week is a river of bullshit. Grayson watches from the sidelines while the rest of my classmates treat me like a treasonous whore. On the first day after everything happened, I left my bag near the back corner of my chair during AP Psychology. When I picked it up at the end of class, warm milk dripped through its bottom. The next day, a short porn clip spread throughout the school. The sender claimed it was me and that the proof was the tiny star tattoo on the pornstar’s pussy lips. They said I’d never expose myself to prove it wasn’t me. Later that same day, somebody painted stars all over my locker and also filled my locker with confetti stars. The day after that, somebody aired the audio from the video during the morning announcements.
Jay spent the first couple of days, trying to get me to talk to him, but the whole school’s retaliation turned the idea of reconciliation into a joke. For the second half of the week, he didn’t appear at lunch or art class. It would have bothered me if I didn’t have to also deal with the harassment rising to new creative heights. When I walked into the dining hall on Thursday, I was pelted with condoms filled with condiments, juice, and other unidentifiable liquids. During gym, someone cut out a heart shape in the center of my pants. On Thursday, somebody used screws to drill a dildo to my locker door at waist-height. When I returned to my dorm room for the night, I found a rat chewing on my pillowcase.
Friday night, I bought all the meals I would need for the weekend—things I could store in the kitchenette like burritos, pizza, pasta—and locked myself away. Normally, I’d think I could handle something like this, but I couldn’t trust what the DDDD girls would do to my room while I was gone. Diana had basically moved out and was living with the others, from what I could tell.
And just like that, it’s Monday again. I quickly grab my lunch and hurry to get to the art room, praying for an uneventful day. Jay’s there for the first time since early last week. I walk around him, trying to hide my relief over his presence.
“How are you always here first?” I ask. “We get released for lunch at the same time!”
“I have study hall before this.” He shrugs. “The teacher lets me out early to beat the lines. She likes me.”
I sit down as far away from him as possible. “That makes one of us.”
“Cin,” he says.
“Shut up,” I say. “You know what you did to me.”
“I got you a present.”
“You can shove that present up your ass.”
“That would be impressive, but I’m not interested,” he says. “I actually bought it for you a few days ago. I figured you needed a little pick me up.”
He pulls his backpack up from beside his chair. A long, rectangular box stretches out from inside it. He pulls it out and slides it over to me.
“Keep it,” I say. “I don’t want it.”
“I can’t use it,” he says. “Just open it. If you want to set it on fire in front of me, be my guest.”
I’m tired. I’m tired of fighting, I’m tired of just trying to survive all this bullshit at school. I grab the box. A silver bow creates an X around its center. I take some scissors and cut the bow off. I pop the top off of the box, tossing it over my shoulder.
It’s the dress.
The fucking Colette Ani Lewis dress with the various color splashes painted on. The one that costs nearly twenty grand. I’m close enough now to see all the small designs in the paint. In the red paint, an extra layer of paint forms a semicircle with tiny orange lines, creating the image of a sun. In the blue paint, layers of slightly different shades combine to form a cascade of waves.
It’s more than perfect. It’s art.
“How…did you even get this?” I ask, turning toward him.
He shrugs. “You should have asked what my parents do,” he says. “It’s what everyone else does around here.”
“What do your parents do?” I ask.
“My father’s the CEO of TMRemix. My mother’s the editor of Zen Icon.” He takes in my blank face. “It’s a fashion magazine. It might be a little big on you because I had to estimate your measure
ments.”
“So, your mother had the dress?”
“Uh, no. But she’s on friendly terms with Colette Ani Lewis’ agent,” he says. “She gave us a discount, and I drove over to get it.”
“How much was the discount?”
“Cin, it doesn’t matter.”
“Even if you had half off, it’s still a huge chunk of money.”
“Well, I owe you more than that for my fuck-up,” he says. “Besides, you need something stunning for Homecoming.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Homecoming? You kidding? I’m not going. Why would I do that? So everyone can hate me while the DJ is playing music? Hard pass.”
“You haven’t been to a Roman Academy Homecoming. If you think that dress is expensive, that’s a drop compared to what they spend on that party. There’s always at least one Grammy winner performing. Last year, there were two.”
“Jay, everybody hates me. My day’s been a wreck.”
“And this is going to be your only Homecoming here. Everyone will be too wrapped up in school spirit and all that shit to care about hating you,” he says. “I know you, Cin. You’ll hate yourself if you look back and remember hiding in your room while everyone else was enjoying a once-in-a-lifetime memory.”
I touch the silk of the dress. “You’re a bit manipulative, Jay.”
“I’ll go with you as friends,” he says. “If someone tries to come after you, I’ll deal with it.”
“You’re willing to go to Homecoming with the school pariah?”
“More than willing,” he says.
I sigh. I’d truly hate to look back and see myself cowering in my room while my classmates were celebrating. My mother didn’t raise a coward. She raised an emotional wreck, but I’m an emotional wreck that would run straight into the lion’s den.
“Fine,” I say. “But then we’re even. And I keep the dress?”
“You keep the dress.”
I look down at it. The yellow paint is flecked with orange, creating an illusion of fire. I’ve always felt safe around Jay, and I know he’ll be willing to step in to protect me. I glance over at him. He smiles.
I can’t stop my next thought. I wonder what Grayson will think when he sees me in this dress.
23
Grayson
Fighter jets roar over the converted football stadium, blue and yellow smoke streaming behind them. In the center of the field is a large stage where a hundred backup dancers perform while two girls and one guy sing in front. I know them, but it's a weird mix. The older blonde from Tennessee. The younger emo kid. The bad boy rapper with pale skin. They all look like they hate each other and hate being here, but the money's good. The money's always good at Roman Academy.
Fireworks shoot into the air, and plumes of purple fog, accented by flashing red and green lasers, fill the front of the sound stage. It's a goddamn production, glitzy enough to match anything the Super Bowl's put on at halftime.
It's our Homecoming.
I'm seated at a round table with crisp white tablecloth. Eric and my usual boys are here, along with their dates. Eric's trading tongues with a bronze-skinned Amazon with dark brown curls. He says something and runs off into the banquet area, probably to chase another girl back there. I couldn't be bothered to pick anyone to bring here, so I've got two, one on each side of me.
Sophie, the blonde, keeps pressing her tits into my left shoulder, whispering about what we'll do afterwards in my car. Lana, the dark brunette, is massaging the inside of my right thigh. Her fingers crawl up towards my crotch. I pick up her hand and place it in her lap, patting it.
She pouts, but I don't say anything to her. I'm busy, looking for Cin.
I still haven't seen her. She's supposed to be here with that fucker, Jay. At least that's what the others told me.
Sophie takes my left hand. She sucks on my index finger, twirling her finger around it. I pull my hand away, irritated.
Her and Jay? Fuck that. I hardly ever visited Ally's site, Peer Review, but after what she posted about me, I've been checking in once in a while to make sure there's nothing else I need to know.
It's not all fuck-you material or deadly daggers. There's harmless fluff, like who's going with who to Homecoming. Yeah, and I spent more than a few minutes each day checking that section, but there's nothing about Cin. Nothing about her and Jay, so who the fuck knows if that's true.
The musical show's winding down, and they're rearranging the stage for the Homecoming queen contest. The girls trot up to the stage wearing long gowns with slits cut along their skirts to show their naked thighs. I recognize most of them, vaguely. I'm pretty sure I've fucked more than a few of them at some point.
The emcee's a loudmouth from Hollywood. The girls are arranged in three rows, and they come down one by one to answer a question. It's a fucking beauty pageant. There's even a bikini session later. No lingerie. Eric pushed for that, along with a pole-dancing routine, but the admins refused to budge. We're supposed to vote on the Homecoming Queen afterwards, not that I care about that shit.
It's a meat show, of the worst kind. Homecoming Queen's different at our school. She's more likely to end up gangbanged afterwards by the guests and chaperones, from what I hear. Most of the girls from decent families aren't up there. Of course, the scholarship girls are, other than Cin.
I'm supposed to be watching these lower-end girls, seeing who looks good with and without their clothes, all dolled up like a good hooker. Part of Dad's project. He keeps pushing me to go faster, but the whole thing sucks, so I’ve been dragging my feet. A few days ago, I ended up hiring a call girl online and sending her over to one of Dad’s partners. Took all of fucking ten minutes and a thousand dollars, but it bought me some peace.
I give the girls on stage a few moments of attention. I can't see a difference between any of them. Their faces are painted, their hair perfectly styled, their dresses shimmering under the bright lights. I squint. No, some of them are different. The blonde over there has a lower neckline. The other blonde next to her has a dress that’s split practically up the whole length of her side
It's the scholarship girls, as desperate as ever. I can see it now in their eyes, even from this distance. They're predators looking for prey, looking for trouble. They're exactly what Dad warned about. Eager to please, eager to flaunt, eager to fuck.
They aren't like Cin. Where the fuck is she, anyways?
24
Cin
Jay undersold Homecoming.
I’m living in a fantasy, where a prince will appear and sweep me off my feet. It might not be as good as becoming a renowned artist, but it wouldn’t be horrible after this week.
There’s loud music and fireworks going off in the stadium outside, but they’ve set up a separate giant banquet hall in one section of the stadium grounds. I’m lingering here, afraid of exposing myself to everyone else if I step into the open.
The decorations here are reminiscent of Van Gogh’s The Starry Night. The dark blues mix with the gold, but in a way that’s different from the school colors. There’s a softness to the dark blue blossoms hooked inside the dangling gold chains, and a mystical feeling from the candles that seem to float from their holders branching out of the ceiling
I pull my arm tighter around Jay.
“This is insane,” I whisper.
“I told you,” Jay says. “This is the only event other than graduation that the parents pay attention to, so the school turns it into some plagiarized version of a dreamscape.”
I glance over at him. He’s dressed in a simple black suit with a white button-up shirt underneath it. He keeps shifting his shoulders. He’s not comfortable in this type of environment, but at least we have that in common.
“Hey, Blitzed,” Eric says, passing by in his white suit. He turns around, shooting finger guns at me. “Try to keep it sober tonight. We love sloppy, drunk girls, but only when they’re naked and—"
“Eric,” Jay interrupts. “After all the rumors I’ve heard about you
, I wouldn’t finish that sentence. Isn’t your mother running for office?”
Eric’s eyes narrow, but he turns back around, heading toward the entrance.
“Wow,” I say, tucking my hair behind my ears. “I hope those rumors involve him assisting drunk girls to their dormitories, because it’d be a little disturbing if you knew something worse and didn’t tell me.”
He shrugs. “Peer Review’s never published any of it. It’s just gossip right now.”
My phone vibrates. “Just because it couldn’t happen to me doesn’t make it right.”
I check my phone. It’s an unknown number, but it’s a South Bronx area code. I tap on the screen.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Cinnamon, it’s Mom,” my mother slurs. “I need help. I got pulled over.”
“I can’t imagine why.” I rub my temple. “There’s nothing I can do, Mom.”
“Listen, listen, listen,” she whispers. I press the phone harder against my ear, trying to catch what she’s saying over the sound of the bass. “It’s my third DUI in the last ten years. It’s so stupid. Ten years is a long time. But, mmm, baby, I’m looking at serious prison time. I need you to talk to some of your friends. That school must have a shit ton of lawyer’s kids. Get one of them to help. Get them for me.”
A sense of foreboding curls inside me. I can see myself, fourteen years old, trekking through the snow. I can hear the ringing of the phone. The Anderson family’s cheer evaporating. The news ringing in my ears until I reach the hospital.
I’m poison to my mother. The one who ruined her life the moment I was conceived and continue to ruin it with my disappearing act.
“Mom, I don’t know anyone who has a lawyer for a parent,” I say. “I don’t know that many people here yet.”
And they all want me dead.
“You have to know at least one,” she says.
“I don’t.”