“Tara,” she says quietly, confirming it.
Lola swings her head toward her.“You know her?”
“She’s in my art elective,” Aubrey says.“Barely talks.She sketches weird shit and watches people.She creeps me out a little, honestly.”
Liz perks up.“Maybe she’s the villain in this whole thing.You know, keeping her info close, waiting to make some power move.”
“Or maybe she’s just not a gossip,” Aubrey mutters.
“God, I hate waiting,” Lola says, throwing her hands up.“I need answers now.I need the scandal.And I definitely need to know who was getting their brains fucked out with Mrs.Clarke nearby.”
I swallow over the lump in my throat; no one notices.If Shayleen corners Tara and gets her to talk—
“Whoever it is,” Liz says, oblivious to my meltdown, “I hope they’re smart enough to deny everything.Honestly.Take it to the grave.”
“I don’t think Tara’s the type to gossip,” says Aubrey.
“She’s not,” Lola shrugs.“But Shayleen’s relentless.You all know how she gets when she smells a story.Tara won’t stand a chance if she puts pressure on her.”
“She might hold,” I say, but it’s half hope, half prayer.
“Yeah, well, I hope it wasn’t you in there, Aubrey, with Noah,” Lola teases, nudging her with her foot.“Or Shayleen’s gonna have your sex life printed in the school newsletter before Monday morning.”
They all laugh.I don’t; I simply smile.
The edges of my vision blur a little.
“God, but imagine if it was someone we know,” Liz says, eyes wide, practically glowing.“I’d die.Like, can you imagine if it was someone totally unexpected?”
Lola smirks.“Oh, you mean like you?”
Liz throws popcorn at her.“Shut up.”
Lola yawns and stretches.“Whoever it was, I hope they had fun.Bathrooms are gross.But like, we should all be living more.If it is someone we know, I want full details.You can’t just fuck in the library and not tell your girls.”
Liz lifts her glass.“To whoever the mystery bathroom slut is.May her grades stay high and her legs spread higher.”
They clink glasses.
I pretend to sip mine, pulse thudding hard behind my ribs.
Aubrey’s the first to pass out, her mouth slightly open, one leg kicked free of the blanket, toes twitching now and then like she’s fighting demons in her sleep or reliving blindfolded karaoke.It’s hard to say.
Liz goes next.She’s curled up in a nest of throw pillows, phone resting on her chest, still wearing that ridiculous rhinestone lip gloss.
Lola falls next.She knocks out quickly but dramatically, sprawling on her back with one arm over her face, hair everywhere, breathing deep and steady as if the chaos switch finally flipped to off.
And me?
I’m still wide awake.
I stare at the ceiling, eyes following the slow flicker of the string lights.They cast strange shadows on the walls—shapes that stretch, crawl, and whisper the same thing over and over: “You fucked up.”
Every time I close my eyes, my thoughts spiral.Not soft or gentle.Full tilt.
I roll onto my side, then my back, then my stomach.I feel too hot, too wired, too full of every unspoken thought.My body is exhausted, but my mind keeps pounding away.
Because what do I even say?
