Lost.
The word echoes and sings in my head. A gentle lullaby.
Lost.
Listening to the hollow sound on repeat rocks me into a sleep-like state. Mom used to rock me just like this. Except, with her arms curled around my waist, the world wasn’t so grey ... so cloudy ... so real yet not.
Lost.
Maybe I don’t care what’s real anymore. Maybe right now, while I fade away in the bed of a pickup truck, shaking and invisible, it’s okay to pretend none of this is really happening. It’s okay to be weak.
Just for a minute. Just while I rest.
Soon, when my eyes open, I’ll lock away this side of me before anyone can see it again. Before anyone can steal more pieces of me.
Or maybe, if I’m lucky, my eyes won’t open again at all.
Eva
(Present day—Seventeen years old)
Eyes pin on me. The stares prick my skin like fire ants. But all I see is the poem on the whiteboard.
Slow and steady, I push my chair back and stand.
“Please, take your seat.”
Ignoring Mr. McKenna, I tilt my head and silently reread the poem.
“Miss Rutherford, please.” Mr. McKenna’s voice rings with a sliver of alarm. “If you’ll just take your seat, I’m sure we’ll have this sorted out by the end of—”
I stroll to the whiteboard. Red letters stare back at me, neat and taunting, smack in the middle of nine other anonymous poems written by students.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
Eva’s a slut
with daddy issues.
Hide your’s quick
or she’ll fuck him too.
Dragging my pointer finger along the marker tray ledge, I don’t stop until I touch the eraser.
Whispers erupt, but I’m focused on one tiny thing that’s bugging the shit out of me. Finding the apostrophe inyour’s, I take my time making it disappear, careful not to damage any other letters in the process. You’d think AP English students wouldn’t make such stupid mistakes, but, apparently, my expectations are too high.
After setting the eraser down, I lazily make my way back to my seat, pausing to straighten a crooked stack of books balancing at the edge of Whitney’s desk.
“Ah, well.” Mr. McKenna clears his throat. “Let me take care of the rest of that for you.”
While I take my seat and he erases the poem, I feel Whitney’s gaze on the left side of my face. I’d like to imagine she’s feeling guilty for her handiwork, but, sadly, I don’t think a feeling as genuine as guilt would survive in her basic, superficial heart.
Carter Watson, the jerk eyeing me from the seat beside her, snickers, and I blink slowly as our gazes connect. Carter likes to look at me as though we share a secret, but the thing about secrets is they need to consist of something worth remembering; the night we spent together was anything but. Besides, I’m pretty sure he’d have to stop making a fucking show of that night for it to be considered anything near a secret.
My focus slides back to the title of the poem.Daddy Fucker. How original. Of all the kinks to be into, daddies are not my jam. My stomach rolls at just the thought, but I keep my expression blank. I may be the reject at Caspian Prep, but most of the girls just pretend I don’t exist, which is fine by me. Whitney, though, has had it in for me since the day I enrolled.
