Next year, they’ll move on to university, so will Wilder.
I don’t have a clue what I’ll do.
My phone buzzes, Ant’s number on the display. “You have an update?”
“Yeah. The girl in the school secretary’s office called me. Avon’s booked an emergency counselling session and they’re about to confirm it with her for noon today.”
Well, fuck. I close my eyes. “Can you ask them to push it?”
“By a day or two, sure, but they can’t decline her forever. You’ll be able to listen in from the clone app. I’ll send instructions.”
Avon’s phone didn’t even have the protection of a passcode. Ant installed software to give us full access in real time, minus a small lag, enabling us to upload the videos via her social media accounts. He also diverted the emergency contact buttons from her friend’s phone number to mine, just in case.
His voice softens. “Whatever happens, we’ll deal with it.”
“Okay.”
“Remember, I co-star in your little porno, so we’re both in the shit if this comes out.”
He’s right, and the thought is oddly reassuring. Given she lied to her friend, Avon probably won’t spill the entire truth to a stranger. Maddox said she hadn’t told anyone by Sunday afternoon and her mother was right there.
I hang up in a slightly better mood and make a promise. If Avon keeps our secret, then I’ll put her in a box marked off-limits and never go near her again because Ant’s right. It’s not just my neck on the line.
After today, it’ll be over.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AVON
Clare arrivesat school just before the bell for homeroom, then we split to head for our separate classes. I explain away my distress as illness and it’s not a complete lie. My body is a hot mess. There’s a slow achy cramp that keeps building from the contraceptive coil fitted yesterday, matching the thump in my temples from another night with little sleep.
It's a struggle to keep my chin high and I clasp my textbooks tightly against my chest like armour. During homeroom, I requested an emergency session with the school counsellor—the therapy one not the guidance one—but haven’t yet had it confirmed.
Flashbacks keep intruding, now spun into another layer of confusion thanks to the heaped serving of sexual aggression Zane just laid at my door. The more I push him from my mind, the faster he boomerangs back into focus. With my nerves already stretched to breaking, the knowing looks and muttered insults find an easy passage through my thinning armour.
If the students were just chatting about my overstaffed hookup, that would be bad enough, but envy makes their jibes sharper. Girls give me the side-eye, making no effort to hide they’re trying to work out my appeal.
It’s not like I can fake being pretty. My nose is humongous, my ears took inspiration from Dumbo, and my mouth is comically wide. My eyes are pretty, my best feature, but not enough to make up for the detractions.
If I were on their side, I’d be puzzled, too.
At morning break, I hide in the toilets as emotions stampede through me, biting on my arm to stop the sobs being audible. When a foot kicks against my cubicle door, my teeth sink into the skin so hard I nearly draw blood.
“Avon? Are you in there?”
I relax at Clare’s voice. “Just a second,” I reply, flushing though we both know I’m not skulking in here because of need.
When I pull the cubicle door open, her friendly face frowns and the moment I emerge, she pulls me into a full body, squeezing the air from my lungs hug. “Thank goodness. I’ve been hanging around the quad like Nigel-no-mates.”
I have a rush of appreciation for her non-judgemental friendship and return the pressure, trying to lift her off the ground, both of us laughing at my failure. It makes me desperate to think Zane could endanger this companionship with the push of a button. “Sorry. I’m just having a day.”
“Yeah, you are.” We fall into step leaving the room and she gives me a friendly shoulder nudge. “Dark horse. If I’d known you were into kinky shit, I could’ve wrangled you an invitation to Wilder’s party room.”
“I’m quite glad you didn’t. No need to make another segment of the populace jealous.”
As we walk through the double doors, a boy leaning against the wall outside mutters, “Whore,” and I’m thrust into my past,marked for ridicule and abuse. Clare’s fingers tighten on my arm, and I shoot her a glance of concern.
“Incel,” I retort, earning a few laughs and a round of clicked-finger-applause. It’s gratifying to hear the support. Especially when I would never have replied in my own defence.
