Speaking of the devil, my eyes perk up when I see Adaline sprinting toward the locker room. I stifle a giggle because I know she's running to change her clothes. I made Stacey—the vice-captain of my cheer squad, drown her clothes with raspberry slushie.
Watching glee again gave me the idea and I couldn't help but execute it. She should be happy; I chose her favourite flavour.
Everything inside my mind is screaming at me to stay put, maybe waste some time conversing with people before going to class.
My body however, doesn't agree and that's what leads me to walk after Adaline, following her into the locker room. It was easier to avoid Adaline when I was purposely avoiding seeing her face. I just can't help myself when I see her.
I'm officially saying goodbye to my longest record of avoiding Adaline Emery. I walk in and she's too preoccupied packing her dirty clothes to hear my footsteps.
I notice how quickly she changed her clothes. Her usual blue plaid skirt replaced with grey trousers and her usual white shirt replaced with a navy-blue jumper. I despise that even after she was hit with a slushy, she still looks pretty. Even more so when her jet-black hair is tied up.
My palms sweat when I take note of the exposed baby hairs on the back of her neck.She should tie her hair up more often.
I clear my throat and she looks startled, almost yelping, but when her green eyes meet mine, she relaxes. She really shouldn't.
“What happened to your skirt? Did you have a little accident?” I question in a faux, concerned voice.
She doesn't answer right away, so I take the opportunity to slowly stride toward her. My feet take me right in front of her, not too far, but not too close either. Far enough that we're not touching, but close enough that the scent of raspberry is filling my senses.
“Something like that,” she says, accompanied by a deep sigh, her eyes shimmering with what I can only assume to be exhaustion.
I won't focus on how tired she looks, nor will I focus on how the circles under her eyes are tugging at my chest for some reason.
“At least, it's given you an excuse to change and cover up those hideous legs,” I spit out with a fake smile. My fists clench tightly because I know I'm lying—her legs aren't even close to hideous.
“I'll keep that in mind,” she says, her eyes downcast, a soft smile on her face.
Stop. Stop it. Do something; tear at my hair, wrap your hands around my neck, shout at me for saying something so horrible, call me all the truly terrible names you can muster. Just… do something, Adaline.
“Look at me.” I order coldly and she does instantly. I revel at the way she follows my orders for once, it feels so good. Why does it feel so good when she listens to me?
“Have you told anyone?” I question so softly that I'm surprised she even hears me.
Her eyes soften slightly in understanding. I'm not surprised that I don't have to elaborate, she knows exactly what I'm talking about. I need to know if she's told anyone about my father, whether it’s her friends or her brother.
I need to know what to expect. It didn't occur to me to question her before, because I was avoiding her. My mother herself hasn’t been around much, but I can tell she’s suspicious about anyone finding out.
It would ruin her reputation—her being left for a man. Not only that, but if word got out to my father, maybe he would come back and hurt us.
“No.” She shakes her head, shocked. “Why would I do that?”
To destroy me. To ruin mine and my mother's life. To get back at us for the horrible way we've treated you. I could name a million reasons as to why she would divulge my secret, but here she stands, acting as if it's the most absurd thought.
“Why wouldn't you?” I shoot back, walking closer to her. Her feet move backwards, so now she's backed up against the wall.
I like her like that; her body pressed up against the wall so that she's incapable of running from this—running from me.
“Maybe because I'm not a vile person.”
“Oh, please. We both know you're very capable of being vile. Or did you forget what happened at my house?” I spit out harshly, ignoring that I can feel her breath on me and my own breathing is starting to become heavier.
She sighs. “Juliette, I'm sorry. I am. I didn't know.”
She sounds so genuine, her eyebrows furrowed and her eyes downturned, like she's so desperate for me to understand how apologetic she is—how much she regrets it. Too bad I don't care.
“I don't need your apologies.”
“Then what do you need? It's been weeks and you are relentless. What's going to make you stop?”
