You Give Love A Bad Name by Bon Jovi
“That is the stupidest fucking idea I’ve ever heard,” Stacey quips at Lacey as they discuss prom ideas. Not that it really matters, prom is where idiots go to get fucked up and make stupid decisions. Most end up either getting their stomach pumped or knocked up.
In my mom’s case it was both—so drunk she ended up in the hospital, then I was born nine months later.Great life choices, Mom.
Why wouldn’t I want to pay a ridiculous amount of money to wear a hideous dress and follow in my mom’s footsteps?Yeah, I’m good.
“Where’s Courtney?” Stacey asks, looking around in annoyance. She’s wearing a tight, mini white shirt today that clings tightly to her chest, and I can tell she’s wearing a neon pink bra underneath with howsheer her shirt is. “She’ll agree with me that we all need to coordinate.”
“I haven’t seen her today,” I mumble as I stare down at the brownish mush on my tray which they’re claiming is some type of stew.
Stacey’s bright green eyes land on me. She looks annoyed, which seems to be her most frequent mood. It must be exhausting to be such a bitch all the time.
“You guys didn’t hear?” Paul says between bites of bologna. He’s your typical dumb jock—big, square head, laughs at his own asinine jokes. “Courtney’s dead.”
“Dude.” Sam smacks him with the back of his hand. His black hair falls in his face as he glares at the idiot sitting next to him. He has the exact same eyes as Stacey. But where hers are filled with malice, his seem to glimmer with mischief, but in a fun way. “Not fucking funny.”
“I’m not kidding!” Paul scoffs. His tanned skin looks almost pasty under the buzzing fluorescents of the cafeteria. “My dad is drinking buddies with the Sheriff. Told him it was a bloodbath at the house. They found Courtney’s body, but there’s no sign of Brad. They’re trying to track him down.”
“No way Brad killed Courtney!” Lacey nearly shrieks as Sam wraps his arm around her. “He loves—loved her.” She begins sobbing softly and buries her head into Sam’s shoulder. He pats her reassuringly on the back but something about the movement feels static.
“Maybe she shouldn’t have been such a whore,” Stacey scoffs as she sips at the straw of her Diet Coke, which is apparently her entire meal. “Slept with the wrong guy and look where it landed her.”
“Stacey!” Lacey scolds as she unfurls herself from her boyfriend's strong shoulder.
“What?” Stacey shrugs her shoulders, her black hair shimmering with the movement. “Everyone knows she was a total slut.”
My eyes flit across the cafeteria as they continue to argue. It feels like a conversation I really shouldn’t be a part of. I didn’t know Courtney or Brad. I don’t know any of these people truly. My eyes clash with a set of dark irises glowering at me. Trish leans with her back against the far wall. She’s clad in black skinny jeans, a black Metallica crop top, and a leather jacket. Her bright blue hair is just the right amount of messy. She smirks when our eyes meet and licks her lips. It causes my core to clench. We haven’t talked since our drug induced hook-up. I shift my eyes away. Towards the front door of the cafeteria I spot Tommy. He’s with a group of other freshmen all crowded around the principal, Mr. Matthews. He seems to be showing them a card trick of some kind. They all freak out and jump up and down at the reveal. I can’t help but smile when I see my little brother so happy.
“Earth to Jessica,” Stacey’s shrill voice cuts through my thoughts. “Are you even listening?”
“Nope,” I tell her honestly before grabbing my tray and standing. I don’t even bother to wait to hear what she was trying to tell me.
I need some air.
Dumping my remaining brown mush in the trash and stacking my blue plastic tray, I head for the double doors that lead out back.The bite of the cold winter air hits me instantly as I push open the door. It's empty outside, too cold for even the stoners to want to hang out back. But I needed some space. Too much peopling in a short period of time gives me anxiety. Plus, the talk of murder is making nausea roll through me.
Or maybe that’s just the shitty cafeteria food.
I lean my head back against the brick wall and breathe out a long sigh. It’s dark and gloomy out today with a layer of frost glistening on every surface. I didn’t bring my coat and my flannel is barely enough to keep me from turning into a fucking popsicle out here, but it’s better than listening to arguments about what color prom dresses everyone is planning to wear. What kind of people argue about prom outfits after learning that their friend was murdered? How is the principal just acting like everything is fine if a teenager really was murdered last night? Maybe the Paul guy was lying. But who lies about something like that?
What kind of fucked up place is Sunnyvale?
“Hey.” A deep growling voice shakes me from my thoughts.
I turn to see Sam approaching. He’s wearing acid wash jeans and his letterman jacket. Typical jock. There’s something that doesn’t seem quite right, though—like he’s just pretending to be what others want him to be. There’s something about him that seems just as fucked up as I am, like his shiny jock outer shell is simply a pretty disguise. He leans against the wall next to me and slips a hand into his pocket. Pulling out a slender cylindrical paper and a lighter, he waggles hiseyebrows at me.
“Needed a little break from that bullshit too,” he states as he brings the joint to his lips and lights the tip. The orange flash of the glowing embers flares for a moment as he takes a hit. “Murder at school lunch is a bit morbid, even for me.”
His chuckles turn into a cough as he spits out the herbal smelling smoke. I inhale the scent—it’s rich and fruity. Apparently he has the good stuff.
“Want a hit?” he asks as he offers me the joint.
I reach out for his offering, but right as my fingers are about to tighten around the joint, he pulls back.
“Uh, uh, uh,” he tsks. “Good girls take what is offered to them willingly.”
He smirks. Like a predator playing with its next meal, he pushes off the wall and crowds into my space. His emerald eyes glimmer with mischief as he looms above me. He brings the joint up to his mouth, sucking it into his mouth but not exhaling. Without warning, his other hand lands on my cheeks. He pushes in on my soft flesh until I whimper. My lips are forced open by his bruising grip. He leans in, exhaling the smoke into my awaiting mouth, before removing his fingers. My mouth hinges shut as I breathe in the drugs, and he removes the joint from his hand.
