I didn’t move.
I didn’t blink.
I watched her reflection until the door swung shut behind them.
Sister Margaret sighed softly.
“Destiny.”
I hated when adults said my name like it was already an apology.
“I’m fine.”
“I did not ask if you were fine.”
“Then we’re saving time.”
Her expression softened, which was worse. Pity always was.
“You know you may speak with me.”
I turned back to the mirror and fixed the collar of my blouse. White. Stiff. Buttoned all the way up like modesty could cover bloodlines.
“I know.”
“Or with Mrs. Rourke.”
Regan.
Not my mother. Never that. But something sharper and safer in some ways. A woman who hadn’t birthed me, hadn’t owed me anything, and still stood between me and the world with one hand on a knife.
My throat tightened.
“I’m fine,” I repeated.
Sister Margaret studied me for a long moment. “Pride can be armor, child. But it can also be a locked room.”
I looked at her in the mirror. “Good thing I like privacy.”
She didn’t smile.
Neither did I.
By lunch, the story had changed again.
That was how it worked at Desert Saints. Cruelty here didn’t stay still. It evolved. It put on lip gloss, collected receipts, and came back with better lighting.
I was sitting alone beneath the covered walkway outside the cafeteria, picking at a turkey sandwich I didn’t want, when a folded piece of paper landed on my tray.
I didn’t touch it.
Across the courtyard, three junior boys watched me from near the fountain. One of them lifted his phone like he was recording.
Of course.
Everything was content now.
Humiliation didn’t count unless it could be replayed.
