Serena swerves a narrowed glare Asta’s way.
“No.” That’s my response, firm, and it comes with an unkind glance their way.
I don’t offer any further explanation.
Serena’s face darkens into a storm incoming, but Asta’s smile is small—and relieved.
I say nothing else and just flop onto my bed.
I’m not really forgotten, because Serena makes sure to let her annoyance be known, with frequent sharp looks my way and the occasional huff that chimes like silky bells, but neither of them talk to me again as they get dressed and gussied up for the party.
It’s a long affair, two hours of it, and by the time they’re done, the dorm stinks of burnt hair from the straighteners and curlers.
Finally, the door shuts after them, and a silence settles in the dorm like thick dust.
I turn on my side and look at Courtney.
Still cross-legged at the foot of her bed, she goes through the pages of her textbook, highlighting text here and there.
Her mouth moves at tilted angles, chewing the insides of her cheeks, deep in concentration, so deep in it that I wonder if she even realises that Asta and Serena left.
I drag my pillow under my head and watch her for a while. Highlighter streaks mark her spotted jaw, stuck in the grooves of old acne scars.
The grandfather clock chimes softly with the passing of another hour. Dinner time in the mess hall—but the last thing I want to do right now is eat… or leave the safety of the dorm.
I shift closer to the edge of my bed, then loosen a weighted breath. “I feel like you’ve been avoiding me.”
The words settle between us for a moment, then her face furrows.
She turns that furrowed look on me, the words processing in her already overloaded mind. “It’s different now.”
Her hair is loose, limp around her face, like no matter how often she washes it, it never quite releases all the grime absorbed in the strands.
I just look at her—taking her in, from the polyester jumper that’s too frumpy on her narrow figure, the fraying threads, the ink stain on her cuff, to the dark grime under her fingernails and the ugly pink socks that sit unevenly on her feet.
She turns her cheek to me, but her words come in a murmur, “We don’t need to keep pretending.”
“Pretending?” I echo, my brow knitting.
“To be friends.” She turns a plain look on me, no shame on her cheeks, no regret in her eyes. “I could use the spare time on study.”
Oh.
I should feel something. Betrayal, hurt, regret, sorrow—or even anger. But seconds pass, and nothing stirs in me.
I watch her, stroking the highlighter over text, and my mind drifts to the grand parlour, to Dray rising out of his chair, taking those careful steps closer, lifting his hand—to protect his property.
I look at Courtney, and I see a chance.
An opportunity to escape.
It’s messy, it’s crazy, it’s diabolical, and for sure a way to end my own life as I know it.
But it’s a way out.
“Do you still want that interview?” I ask.
The squeak of the highlighter halts.
