Rather than find another room, we both take our chairs, eavesdropping through the wall as the next student makes their recording.
“Careful,” Damien says, tapping the top of my head. “Keep smiling like that, and anyone might think you’re falling for me.”
“Then anyone should rethink because those assumptions come straight from their massive ego.”
“Damien!”
Chelsea’s sharp voice slices through the air, snapping me out of the fragile bubble we’ve been sitting in.
His head tilts and for a second, I think he’ll wave her off, then the mask clicks into place. He strides across, leaving a cold space beside me, even more chilling because it follows so quickly on the heels of our shared warmth.
“Hey, doll.” He’s no longer the boy who had been sitting next to me, close enough for our shoulders to brush. This is a projection, smooth and untouchable. “You ready for lunch?”
“Yeah.” Chelsea sounds just the tiniest bit unsure, and the part of me not reeling from his abrupt rejection gloats. Then there’s a rustle of clothing as Damien puts his arm around her, the soft smack of a kiss, and it’s like an ulcer is bubbling in my stomach.
“What’re you doing with the resident freak?”
She doesn’t modulate her voice. Doesn’t care who among the other students in the room hears her.
An infinitesimal pause, then, “Studying.” Not correcting her, not defending me, no trace of remorse in his voice at all.
They leave and I sit, stunned… then ashamed for imagining anything different. I might be a good secret fuck, but Damien’s using me for his own ends. And although he’s using Chelsea too, the difference between us is stark.
“Ophelia?”
I turn towards Van der Valk’s voice, numb, belatedly standing since the lunch bell’s already gone.
In a compassionate tone, he asks, “Would you like to record anything else? I can keep the equipment here though lunch.”
His kindness sharpens the sting in my throat, and I can’t even speak, just shaking my head before I flee the room.
I skulkin the back room of the library during lunch break, hiding beside shelves of unborrowed Pacific history just as unloved as me. My phone’s in my hand and I keep playing back a recording, but not of music class like I should.
It’s from yesterday, the one I spent last night editing before Damien’s call interrupted.
Last Thursday, this idea felt dangerous, collecting the recording as ammunition against him, ready to unleash on Chelsea any time I wanted, invoking his father’s wrath.
Now I’m not even sure it would get that far.
Watching myself onscreen is almost unbearable. What was hot last night, now seems desperate. A ploy from an outcast, fishing for attention the only way she knows how.
An internal comment board lights up in my head.
Slut, whore, slag.
My earphones are in, facing the doorway so no one can sneak up behind me. Yet I keep glancing up, startling at shadows from the high windows, almost convinced someone else is watching.
Finally, the clamour of internal condemnation grows too loud and I exit the file, shoving the phone away as I rip the earphones from my head.
An incoming message vibrates the phone in my hand, startling me back to the present.
DAMIEN
Meet me after school. I’ll drop you home on Sunday.
No apology. Not even a trace of embarrassment at how eagerly he ditched me for Chelsea, but why would there be?
I’m the idiot who let her feelings get involved, mistaking his sexual hunger for affection, believing words he probably didn’t know he was saying.
