I slide my hand in slowly.
I don’t need much. Just one message—the one he sent last week.
He goes pale.
But it’s too late.He’stoo late. I’ve been saving all of the messages, of course.
Not because I plan to use them.
Not yet.
But becausehethinks I wouldn’t.
You hold someone’s ruin in your palm like a pressed flower, and then you just… never drop it. You keep it, and they behave accordingly.
Like a dog who’s seen the leash. That’s all.
I find it funny, watching him try to look unbothered. The way his throat moves when he swallows. The tiny ticks in his fingers as he checks a watch he isn’t wearing.
It’s pathetic. It’shilarious.
I suppose this all makes me a liar. I suppose I should even feel guilty by howmuchI do it.
But why should I? Everyone lies. Some worse than others, of course.
Somemorethan others.
But honestly, I’ve always welcomed the perspective that the world never seems to want the truth—it wants the lie. It wants the performance; in fact, it applauds the mask while the soul behind it withers away. But does anyone care? Does anyone look close enough to figurethatpart out? No.
It leaves me to think, in this world of masks, I wonder if anyone even remembers their real face?
I set the phone on the table and brush past him, moving back to the bed. I sit, crossing one leg over the other, and rest the lily against my bare knee.
“I’m not going to tell anyone,” I say, turning to him with a small, flawless smile. “That would be vulgar. And messy. You wouldn’t want that.”
He can’t answer. He’s staring at me like he doesn’t know what I am. Probably trying to decide if I’m bluffing.
I give a small, polite laugh. “Oh, forgive me. I’m being horrid, aren’t I? You mustn’t take me too seriously. I’m only fifteen.
“But do try to remember how young I am before you text me again,” I say softer, with a hint of teeth.
The door opens. My mother comes back in, Elliot drowsy on her shoulder. She doesn’t look at Victor. Or the seemingly oblivious photographer in the corner. She only looks at me. Then smiles and says, “Shall we finish?”
TWENTY-TWO
As I watch Kym’s terrified expression and her hurried exit from the classroom, my heart pounds in my chest. I want to run after her, to tell her she’s not alone. That I’ll help in any way I can. But just as I’m about to pull myself up, our teacher returns to her desk. For a moment, her gaze lingers on the empty seat next to mine. “Is she okay?” she asks.
I don’t say anything. Because how can I?
Kym clearly wasn’t okay. But I would never tell a teacher that.
Especially when it involves someone else. I made the mistake of trusting a teacher before—I won’t be making it again.
Mrs. Lacey sighs, placing a test paper in front of me. Her disappointment is written all over her face, and it makes me want to shrink into nothing.
“From your previous school reports, I expected better from you, Adeline,” she says, her tone as sharp as the sting in her words.
My gradeshadbeen good. Great, even. At one time. But I knew my grades would surely slip again. It was inevitable. In school, I had gone from getting almost all A’s to barely managing a pass. With the bullying, and constant harassment, I had convinced my parents to let me stay home. My mother would always scold me for it, but my father understood.
