That leads my thoughts straight back to his announcements from the previous week. Now he’s declared his intentions, will the money stop? It’s never occurred to me before. I did my job, and he paid me.
I hate to think how long I’ve been going along to his place, misunderstanding his intentions.
A relationship. Marriage. Kids.
I’m eighteen years old. That isn’t my future, that’s a nightmare scenario. The exact opposite of what any teenage girl huddling over a pee stick would hope for.
I try to remember what it was like back when I first met up with him. Not the first meeting when my mother worked for him for close on a year, but afterwards. At the café. The meeting we arranged after I ran across him on social media quite by chance.
The top of my neck feels like it’s locking in position as I take a harder look at that assumption.
By chance.
Since when has anything Wilbur does beenby chance?
Had he seen me as a girl, trying to help her mother at work, and planned the entire charade out then? It’s possible. The thought is too hard to dwell on but when I attempt to push it from my mind, it sticks, lurking in the corner, drawing glances even when I try not to look its way.
I assumed he liked me being young. Liked me being underage. I’m years past that now, but I still expected him to lose interest the older I got.
It’s hard to twist that around. To think he was impatiently waiting all that time for me to grow older. Old enough to trap me for real.
When the class ends, it’s a relief to get to my feet, to be physically active and able to concentrate on that instead of the doomsday scenarios unrolling in my head. I open my locker, one eye alert for spiders or similar, throw my textbooks inside, and grab my makeup bag to go touch up in the bathroom.
The bag is too heavy. It moves like liquid.
There’s a stain on the notebook where it was resting. Like it’s dripping oil.
I take it into the bathroom, dumping it on the side of the sink and dragging open the zip, scared of what I’ll see.
Baby oil? Lube? Something drips out of it. My precious palettes are floating in the stuff, the clear liquid discoloured by a thousand riotous shades of eyeshadow. Of lipstick. Of blush.
I try to rinse some of the least compromised containers under the tap but it’s useless. Whoever did this didn’t just pour in the offending liquid and call it done. They opened each item to ensure it was completely ruined. There aren’t any survivors.
I wash my hands clean, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, struggling to keep control.
It’s fine. The makeup will be hard to replace—some items aren’t even made any longer—but not impossible. Everything will have substitutions available. I have money in my account.
Things could be so much worse.
I can’t think how right now but I’m sure they could be. Every time I think my life has sunk to a new low, it descends again, beyond my expectations.
I stare at my face in the mirror as girls move back and forth behind me. My lipstick needs a fresh coat. There’s a smudge on the side of my right eyebrow where I must have rubbed it without thinking. The thick foundation I used to cover the bump on my forehead has worn thin enough to see the bruising easily, even if you don’t have Caylon’s penetrating eyes.
Breathe in-two-three. Out-two-three.
I pick up the bag and toss it in the rubbish bin. It hits the base of the metal container with a hollow thump. A sad noise. One that makes me grip either side of the basin to keep myself standing.
I splash water over my face, scrubbing at my face with my fingertips. When I look in the mirror, my mascara is running, but dark stains remain around my eyes, the liner harder to budge. I try again, the water turning dirty in the sink, but traces still cling stubbornly to my face.
Finally, I grab a couple of paper hand towels from the dispenser, rubbing off the makeup that didn’t have the sense to let itself be washed away.
When my face is clean, I continue to stare. My thickest armour is gone. I feel naked.
A girl behind me expels air through her nose. Not a snort but something close to it.
“Nice look, Em. Think it’ll catch on?”
The malice in her laugh makes my cheeks blush before I can reign in my reactions. She laughs harder, elbowing her friend to bring her on board as I push into the corridor outside, face blazing with shame.
