As my locker is ripped open by my biology teacher, Mrs. Dunn, her head rears. “Found it!”
I stare aghast as the curdled milk oozes like sludge before sloping onto the floor. There’s a snort from a girl gathering her textbooks across the hall, and all eyes trail to me.
My face heats with embarrassment as Mrs. Hurst crosses her arms. “Rosalie Beckett. I should have known. The soda incident didn’t seem like a one-off.”
“Oooo,” comes Kairo’s taunting voice. “That sounds like detention for Dirt.”
I clear my throat, hating how meek and timid I sound asthe principal nears me. “I-I didn’t do it—”
Mrs. Hurst doesn’t buy it as she glowers down at me. “You’re the only person who knows your locker combination, Ms. Beckett. Per Mystic High’s rules, students are prohibited from sharing lockers, cubbies, or textbooks. Are you admitting to sharing your information with another student?”
My mouth moves, but no sound comes out. I haven’t said anything to anyone. I don’t even know how they did this.
“That’s what I thought.” Mrs. Hurst shakes her head in disappointment. “Such a great mind, but behavioral mishaps are what tarnish your record. Two days of detention, and you’re cleaning this mess up.”
I roll my lips in, sniffling and blinking rapidly to clear my tears as I nod in resignation.
The principal narrows her eyes at the boys behind me. “Would you happen to have anything to do with this, Mr. Ridley?”
Kairo holds his hands up, faking innocence. “Me?Never.”
The principal hums. “I will be checking the surveillance feed. Mr. Briggs, Mr. Campbell, I suggest that if any of you had anything to do with this, now is the time to speak up.”
No one answers her.
“Very well,” she dismisses us, and I’m left staring at my vandalized locker. Kairo, Roman, and Maddox chuckle as they pass me.
“Have fun cleaning up,” Kairo calls.
“You may need this,” Roman sneers as he kicks a trash can towards me.
Maddox looks down with a curled lip at the yellow, stained floor where the milk is oozing into the cracks. “Hands and knees with a toothbrush, Dirt.”
I close my eyes, giving myself the reprieve I need before shuffling forward and pushing the trash along with me. Mr. Burt pokes his head out of a classroom, handing me a mop and paper towels without a word before he returns to spring cleaning.
I drop to my knees, wincing at the dull ache that creeps into my bones. The covered bruises I bear are never on display unless they’re on my face—the one spot I can’t cover. To an outsider looking in, it’s easy to write off my black eyes or swollen cheeks as accidents. A few teachers have called CPS, but the system is fickle. With no one or nowhere to go, I’m left to my own devices.
I appreciate the few who do try. It shows me that there’s still some good in the world, and that smidge of innocence is what I cling to oftentimes.
As the days progress, it becomes harder and harder to hold out for hope after graduation. Sometimes I get stuck in that dark loop of wondering what it would be like to just…give up.
Let go of it all.
I try not to dwell on it, but it’s hard when it feels like there’s a disease constantly eating away at you—infecting the parts of yourself that once seemed whole and bright.
My hands still, hovering over the mess in front of me as a profound, heavy sensation pangs through my limbs. It makes my chest ache, and I grit my teeth before shaking myself out of it.
Not here.
Not now.
I collect what I can in the paper towels, gagging as I toss my long-abandoned notebooks and pencils into the trash can. They’re ruined.
Everything is ruined.
I snatch the mop, my fingers biting into the handle as I run it messily over the stain at the base. I try to get in the cracks, because if I don’t, Mr. Burt will come looking for me and make me start over again.
I’m mopping like I have a personal fucking vendetta against the dirty tiles when a coarse voice shatters my concentration.
