I yank my arm out of his grip, trying to hold it together as I near my stop. My tears threaten to slip, and all I can think of is getting away from them.
I can’t let them see me cry.
They would eat me alive.
“Aw,” Roman pouts mockingly. “She’s scurrying away like a little rat.”
“That classroom can’t save you,” Kairo sings as I open the door and slam it in their faces.
I don’t even get a chance to breathe as twenty sets of eyes land on me, searing into my skin with looks of disgust and mean-spirited mirth.
Mrs. Adele turns to me, her marker half-raised near the board as she scowls. The wrinkles between her thick brows deepen, accentuating the sag of her face. She’s riddled with signs of aging, from her crows' feet to the streaks of grey in her dark hair that’s nestled tightly into a bun at her nape. “Rosalie. You’re late.”
“Sorry,” I mutter before ducking my head and speed walking to the back of the classroom. I’m almost to my lone desk in the corner, my mind entirely focused on getting to a safe space that I don’t notice when someone shoves their foot out into the aisle, and I stumble right over it.
My books slap onto the floor again, and my song notebook flips open. My heart revs in my chest as laughter drowns out my panic. I quickly snatch my things up, wiping at the tears I can’t stop. They roll down my cheeks, hot and heavy as I ungracefully slide into my seat.
“That’s enough!” Mrs. Adele rallies everyone, drawing all eyes to the lesson plan as she continues like it’s another day.
I fold my arms, burying my face in them as I sob quietly in the back. I spend my first period trying to piece myself back together. The mask I assemble is nothing more than an illusion, but it’s what I need to get through the rest of the day.
Chapter Two
Rosalie
By lunch time, I have an emblem of peace. It isn’t much, but it’s what I need to take a breath. The mess hall is filled with boisterous, noisy teens, pushing and shoving to reach their designated tables. I pinpoint the lone one in the farthest corner, thankful it’s still open.
As I walk through the rows, I hear tittering laughter aimed at me. Eyes burn into the side of my skull, and I make quick work of securing my table. I scarf down my sandwich with my back turned towards the room so no one can see just how hungry I am. It leaves me as a target, but it’s better than the stares of pity from teachers or the harsh looks of judgment from my peers.
Halfway through the day.
Four more hours.
I chug my water, only taking a break to gather my things before I push up from my chair and return my tray to the kitchen. I keep my head down as I walk out to the study hall to wait for my next class. I’m passing the gym when one of the heavy doors swings open, and I freeze.
Kairo and Roman are talking quietly to one another, and Maddox hangs back as he listens. They’re still dressed in their gym outfits and glistening with sweat.
They don’t notice me either.
I try to keep it that way, mumbling an ‘excuse me’ as I skirt around them. But it seems fate has other plans.
“Dirt!” Kairo smiles devilishly. “What’s the chance of bumping into you? We were just talking about you.”
I don’t bother stopping to ask, but that doesn’t deterthem from following.
“Have you checked your locker recently?” Roman smirks cruelly. “I think the teachers may be looking for something…”
Maddox snickers, a joke I’m not in on passing right over my head. I keep walking, but don’t let on to the trepidation and fear coursing through my veins. My anxiety kicks up as I speed down the hall that houses my locker.
Truthfully, I haven’t opened it in months. After the last time, I chose to stay far away from this side of the school. Opening my locker to find multiple cans of busted soda spilling out of it was the worst. It was made even more horrific as Mr. Burt, the janitor, stood beside me with a trash can propped next to him and his hands on his hips as he watched me clean it up. As students began to change classes, giggles and whispers could be heard about mystickysituation.
It was humiliating.
But apparently not as humiliating as this.
I’m smacked in the face with a sour, acidic smell. It clings to the hall, making my stomach curdle as teachers rip open locker after locker in search of the source. The principal, Mrs. Hurst, stands at the head of the entourage, her manicured hands holding her skirted hips as she taps a heel.
Students linger, gathering their books with green faces before leaving for their next class. I get a few side-eyes as people pass me, and I feel like I could sink into the ground.
