Idiots.
I rip my hand away from Adeline, my skin feeling strange at the warmth of hers. Like I’ve touched something I had no right to hold.
I don’t bother asking any more questions.
She won’t tell the truth anyway. And it doesn’t matter.
I’ll find out anyway.
Because if I’ve learned anything in this world, it’s that justice doesn’t come on its own. Karma doesn’t knock on doors. Fate doesn’t balance the scales. No unseen hand will reach down and make them pay.
If you want something done, you have to do it yourself. That is the only way it becomes satisfactory.
I drag a hand through my hair, slowly, more now out of muscle memory than vanity. I lean back against the lockers, one shoulder pressed to the cold metal, spine loose.
From the corner of my eye, I spot three girls from my year, fluttering down the hall like anxious birds. They try not to look at me, which of course means they do. Repeatedly.
I don’t turn my head. Just shift my gaze toward them, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
One of them—the brunette with the chipped nail polish and perpetually wide eyes—makes a sound. I can’t tell if it’s a laughor a whimper. Then all three of them giggle, blush, and nearly trip over each other as they speed-walk away.
I lift one brow.
And then, just before they vanish around the corner, I wink.
Their squeals echo down the corridor.
I almost roll my eyes.Almost.
I learned years ago the effect I have on people. Women, men—it doesn’t discriminate. Back then, it made me uncomfortable. I didn’t want it. Would’ve given anything to make it stop: the attention, the stares, the way grown adults would speak to me.
I felt like a painting. Something to be gawked at.
But time is education, and nowadays I’ve found it to be excellent leverage. People reveal a great deal when they’re flustered.
It still bores me, the predictability of it all. But it’s useful. And I’ve always had a certain fondness for utility.
A of movement at the edge of my vision catches my attention, and I see Paris making her way over to me hesitantly.
She’s always been like this. For as long as I can remember.
I’ve known her and Berlin since childhood. Could always stomach Berlin—tolerate her at most. But I’ve always been naturally more drawn to Paris.
I don’t know why that is, but something about her keeps me around. Even if I’d rather be somewhere else.
She’s frustrating as hell. Vague. Defensive. Quiet. And yet somehow, she might be one of the only people I can stand to keep as company lately. A presence I don’t immediately want to walk away from the moment I get too frustrated.
Funnily enough, the companyshekeeps is tragic, and I’d rather slam my head in a car door than hold a five-minute conversation with any of her other friends. And I’ve come dangerously close to doing it.
They’re awfully bold for people who are so very disposable.
I haven’t known peace since I met those blundering fools.
Paris pretends not to notice. Or maybe she thinks they’re harmless. But not long ago, they somehow made her shoplift. A dress. A dress souglythat I almost didn’t want to help her.
The thing was yellow. Not mustard or gold—yellow. Had ruffles down the front and some kind of asymmetrical sleeve situation that I still don’t understand.
The one thing I hate more than blundering fools, are blundering idiotswithhorrid taste.
