He passes across a pamphlet and takes me through the download instructions for the school portal. Ophelia packs her bag, leaving without a glance in my direction.
I expect her to walk past the street-facing window, heading for the bus stop or waiting for a car pickup. Instead, she veers towards the administration building, and my gaze follows her with increasing concern.
Is she actually reporting me?
“Thanks,” I blurt, and sprint from the class, just metres behind Ophelia when she stops at the school secretary’s counter, currently unstaffed. She briefly pulls out her phone, then shoves it back in her kilt pocket.
Lunging forward, I catch her wrist a second before she taps the bell.
Her gasp vibrates into my bones. She yanks her arm—a laughable effort—and punches me with her free hand.
I drag her around the corner, snug against the wall, and bend level, lips buzzing her ear. “Do what I think you’re about to, and I’ll hurt you for real.”
Her foot stamps onto mine. Brat. But she has so little leverage, I don’t even wince. Her wrist twists inside my clamping fingers, lower body wriggling against mine like a desperate rabbit.
“Careful or you’ll get me hard.”
She instantly falls still, face tilting upwards, and those dark lenses frustrate me. I want to read the fear in her eyes.
“What d’you think I’m about to do?” she asks, voice breathless.
“You tell me, sweetheart.”
Her chin juts. “My name is Ophelia.”
“Aw, that’ll look lovely on your gravestone because it looked like someone was about to squeal.”
There’s a long pause, then her body vibrates against my ribcage. Not trembling, laughing, and the first doubt seeds my mind.
“Do these corny threats work where you come from? Because…”
She pulls out her phone, swiping her finger across the screen, and a tinny echo spills into the air, muffled but legible.
‘I’ll hurt you for real.’
A scar itches across the back of my hip, the mark left by a belt buckle.Dunce.This is my fault for underestimating her. These impoverished scholarship kids fight for everything they get in life, nothing like the soft marshmallows whose parents pay tuition.
“Too late,” she says when I snatch the device from her hand. “Auto-backup. Your death threats to thedisabledgirl are already saved in the cloud.”
I shake my head, tempted to smash the device anyway, then reluctantly return it to her grasping hand. That’s just asking for more trouble.
“What’d you want?”
She stares incredulously through her cracked lens.Duh.
“Fine. Get me a quote and I’ll pay for the repair.” I tug at the fraying collar of her uniform blouse. “I’ll throw in a new uniform for free.”
“You’ll throw in a thousand bucks, and I’ll spend it on whatever the fuck I like,” she counters, lifting her chin again. “And these are specialist lenses, so I’ll need the cost of the low-vision optometrist appointment. You good for that?”
She’s openly taunting me, and instead of outrage, I chuckle with appreciation. Who the fuck is this girl?
Not the fragile wallflower I took her to be, that’s for sure.
“Don’t push your luck.”
“If you don’t agree, let go of my arm. I need to go fill out paperwork.”
She yanks back her elbow, wrist still caught in my grip, baring her teeth when she can’t get free. Despite the bravado, her pulse skitters under my thumb like a trapped bird.
