He shakes his head.
I doubt Duke is disappointed about last night’s events, but we are both well and truly hating ourselves right about now as we take turns showering, and then shrugging on our itchy, used uniforms. Neither of us speak during the drive or when we park and go our separate ways—me with my head down and sunglasses on, and Duke mirroring me down to the way we both clutch our stomachs.
I’m better than my parents—Iam. Drugs don’t control me. I still attend school, show up to all my classes, get sent to detention, and pass over 70 percent of my papers.
Hell, no one is—or will be—getting hurt by me consuming my vice of choice. I’ve got no kids or a partner I need to stay loyal to. I can stop drinking and taking drugs whenever I want. It’s just a bit of fun—of course, until every step taken feels like a fight not to run to the closest trash and throw up.
A few people give me the side-eye, and a lot more whisper when they see me walk inside the class. I must look like one of Satan’s experiments. I’d scream at them, but I'm worried I might pass out if I exert any more energy than necessary.
Chatter fills the air as I enter the classroom. I keep the shades firmly on my nose and sink into my seat, dropping my head toward the back and rhythmically tensing and untensing my jaw. To say I feel like dying would be an understatement. I need to sleep for a solid forty-eight hours, and if my hibernation starts in first period, that’s fine by me.
The shrill sound of the bell indicating the start of the class makes me wince, and I slump lower in my seat, trying to hide behind my chem book.
“Miss Whitlock.” A woman’s voice breaks through the haze.Fuck. “May I speak to you outside?”
No, not particularly.
I take a deep breath and force myself onto my feet, leaving behind my sunglasses on the table to follow my teacher Mrs. Yang into the hallway. My stomach swims as I step forward, fighting the urge to use the desks as support. The last thing I need is for the school to complain to Grandpa so he has another reason to delay sending me food or money. But fuck it. Let’s just get this over with.
As I scooch between tables, a hand lands on my arm, and I whip my head around. “What?” I snap.
Cindy Masterton—an overly friendly girl whom I have yet to figure out completely, unable to tell if she’s fake or not—snatches her hand away and plasters a pitiful smile on her face that, frankly, grinds my goddamn gears. She doesn’t know shit about me.
“I’m sorry about what happened. If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.” Her voice is candy-sweet, but not in the condescending way everyone else says it around here.
“Right,” I mumble, pulling a face. “Thanks.” I don’t know what on earth she’s offering to do for me, but I might as well keep it civil until she makes it out of my good book.
Mrs. Yang’s downturned lips greet me the second I step outside. Why is everyone looking at me like I’m a charity case? Seeing her so softened up is weird when she usually doesn’t hesitate to slap a ruler on someone’s desk when she doesn’t get her way.
Don’t tell me she’s about to stage an intervention about how I’ve been showing up to school lately. I’ve only gone to school hungover twice this week, and once last week. It’s hardly a problem.
“Look,” I start, feeling my temper rise up my throat. “I just have a cold and—”
She cuts me off. “We didn’t think you wouldcome to school today.”
First of all, who iswe?Second of all, why wouldn’t I come to school today? If I’m absent, they’ll call my grandfather, then there go my groceries right out the broken window.
“Uh, okay?” What else am I meant to say to that?
“It’s okay to feel upset about what happened. None of us can begin to imagine what you are going through.” I glance around, trying to see if there are cameras on us, or a bunch of cops ready to snatch me up for possession of drugs. “It’s never easy when something so traumatic happens.” Wait.What? “Think of it this way”—my eyes fall to the hand she places on my arm—“at least no one got hurt.”
Is this some sick joke? I knew the socialites of St. Augustine were proficient at mind games, but no one’s laughing now.
I rip myself out of her bony hold. I can barely handle her weaponizing a ruler and attempting to embarrass me in class with questions she thinks I wouldn’t know the answer to. This is a whole other level of bullshit I refuse to put up with. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Her face hardens at my choice of words before her brow line drops in confusion. “Your house?”
“What about it?” My temper laces those three words. If this is a trap, I’m going to be giving Grandpa another reason to starve me and cut me off from affording Tony’s goods.
She gapes at me likeI’mthe one who’s fucking with her. “Your house… last night? Don’t… don’t you know?”
I cross my arms, even though the added pressure on my stomach is less than ideal, and wait for her to continue.
“Blaze… It burnt down.”
I blink. “What did you just say?”
She shifts her weight. “It was on the news,” she explains. “Your house caught fire around dinnertime last night, and the firefighters… they couldn’t salvage it.”
