Chapter Thirteen 

 

 

Monday rolls around much too quickly.  I wake with a pit the size of Texas sitting in my gut and nothing I do banishes it.  My new plan of action—or inaction—is to keep my head down, my mouth shut, and hope that people forget about my existence.  When I make it through the first two hours relatively unscathed, the thick knot of tension gradually loosens. 

The bell rings, signaling the end of second hour and the beginning of a five-minute passing period.  Mr. Demsky dismisses the class with a reminder that there will be a calculus quiz on Wednesday.  A wave of groans ripple through the room as I gather up my books before hustling through the crowded hallway to third hour. 

An unexpected shove from behind sends me careening forward.  My arms pinwheel to break my fall as I slam into the marble tile with a grunt of pain.  Students stare but keep walking.  No one offers to help me or pick up my books, which are scattered throughout the hall.  I’ve seen enough movies to realize this is usually when the attacker gets in a few vicious kicks to the ribs. 

Even though sharp shafts of pain shoot through the palms of my hands and knees, I quickly flip over onto my backside, hoping I didn’t flash everyone my panties. 

The humiliation around here is never ending. 

A pair of navy-colored lace up heels come into view.  My gaze moves up the matching knee-high socks, over a blue, green, and gold plaid skirt, white button-down shirt, only to find Sloane scowling at me. 

Her upper lip is curled in a snarl like I’m the one who shoved her.  “Stay the fuck out of my way or you’ll end up on your ass every time.” 

“I wasn’t in your way,” I mutter. 

When she shifts from one hip to the other, I tense and wait for her to kick me with her pointy toed shoe.  For reasons I don’t understand, this girl has been nothing but hateful since the first time she laid eyes on me at Rothchild’s. 

When a pair of beat up brown loafers step beside her, I stifle a groan.  A one-on-one fight I can handle.  Unfortunately, my odds of coming out of this intact dwindle significantly if more people join in the fray.  My gaze shifts, locking on Kingsley. 

Of course he’s here to partake in any kind of embarrassment or hazing that involves the Hawthornes.  Humiliation burns my cheeks as he glares down at me. 

Why can’t they leave me alone? 

Sloane’s pink slicked lips lift into a smug smile as she loops her arm through Kingsley’s before pressing her breasts against him. 

Not only do I hate this girl for being a major bitch, but it’s become painfully obvious that she and Kingsley are an item.  I’ve seen them walking together in the halls and talking in the cafeteria at least half a dozen times.  Even though his recent behavior should have killed everything that was kindled on the boat, it hasn’t. 

That knowledge only makes me more of a pathetic loser than Sloane thinks I am. 

“Can I give you a piece of advice?” she sneers. 

“I’d prefer if you didn’t.” 

Ignoring me, she continues.  “Go back to wherever you came from.  No one wants you here.” 

She’s not wrong, that does seem to be the general consensus. 

“You know,” I retort, “I was kind of wondering about the lukewarm reception I’ve received.  Thanks for explaining it to me.” 

That response wipes the smile off her face.   “Hawthornes aren’t welcome here,” she growls. 

My voice grows stronger.  “I guess that’s what you’d call an ironic situation considering that the town, company, and school are named after us.” 

A few tinkers of laughter erupt in the swelling crowd.  Sloane glares, and the sound dies a quick death.  When she steps toward me, I scooch back as Kingsley grabs her around the arms and drags her away. 

“Let’s go.”  His cool gaze falls on my person, freezing me on the spot.  “She’s not worth your time.”   

His indifference sends a bolt of pain shooting through me. 

As if realizing that Kingsley has his arms wrapped around her, Sloane melts against his body, giving him her full attention.  “You’re so right.”  She flicks her narrowed gaze at me before smiling at him.  “Hopefully, the trash will take itself out.” 

Ouch. 

In this scenario, it’s obvious that I’m the trash she’s referring to. 

After they vanish through the sea of gawkers, everyone disbands.  I draw in a breath and rise to my feet before picking up my books.  My shoulders collapse when the bell rings, signaling the start of third hour. 

No matter what I do, I can’t seem to win.  Relief rushes through me when I spot a bathroom down the hall.  I need a few moments to collect myself in private.  I’m not sure how much more of this I can take. 

Once safely inside the small room, I fight back the tears that sting my eyelids before splashing cold water on my face and patting it dry with a paper towel.  After my emotions have been locked down tight, I glance at the mirror above the sink. 

I’m disturbed by the reflection that greets me. 

There’s a hollowed out look in my dark eyes and my face is thinner than it was a couple of weeks ago.  Most days, my stomach is tied up in knots, making it impossible to eat breakfast or lunch.  At dinner, I pick at my food, pushing it around my plate to cover up how little I’m fueling my body.  And I’m running more.  Other than stargazing, it’s the only thing that allows me to forget about how shitty my life has become.  It’s a bit of a shock to realize that I’m slowly becoming a shell of my former self. 

I grip the sink basin with my fingers as my head rolls forward. 

Keep it together.

Thoughts of skipping out for the rest of the day flood through my mind.  More like the rest of the year.  But I refuse to allow these assholes to jack with my future.  So, as much as I don’t want to go to third hour, there’s no other choice in the matter.  With a huff of breath, I push out of the bathroom door before skidding to a halt.