It burned all the way down.
Good.
I drank again.
Tris appeared at my side. “Slow down.”
“No.”
“Des.”
“I’m celebrating.”
“What?”
I looked out at the fire, the cars, the beautiful cruel faces, the desert waiting beyond the headlights.
“My reputation.”
For the next hour, I became exactly what they had accused me of being.
Loud.
Wild.
Mean when I needed to be.
I danced too close to the fire with Tris. I drank from bottles passed through hands I didn’t trust. I laughed when Brielle stared. I let the boys look and gave them nothing. I smiled like a dare. I told Addison her extensions looked tired. I told Carter he had the emotional depth of a puddle in July. I told Mia she could stop laughing at jokes she didn’t think were funny and maybe grow a spine before college.
People started filming.
Of course they did.
At first, I loved it.
Let them film.
Let them capture Destiny Rourke rising from the ashes of every ugly thing they’d said when they thought I was too ashamed to answer.
Then someone passed me a blunt.
I should have said no.
That’s the part that matters.
I knew better. I was reckless, not stupid. I knew better than to take something from a hand I didn’t recognize, knew better than to trust party weed from a crowd that wanted me humiliated on camera by Monday morning. But the bottle had made the stars too bright, the music too soft around the edges, the fire too beautiful, and my anger too big to fit inside my skin.
“What’s in it?” Jake asked sharply from somewhere behind me.
A boy laughed. “Relax, man. It’s just strong.”
Tris reached for it. “Destiny, don’t.”
I took one hit.
Bitter.
Wrong.
