Liv beams, infused with a confidence I rarely see in her. “The new 3D printed corsetwaspretty sweet.”
I grin at my friend. Cosplaying is my hobby, not hers, but there’s no denying that she blossoms, shedding her overly timid shell the moment she’s in a costume. I can relate. While not nearly as reserved as the petite brunette seated by my side, I long ago discovered how powerful I could feel, stepping into a character’s persona.
I love cosplaying. I don’t know what it says about me, but I simply I adore the looks I get, the admiration. I get away with doing and saying whatever I want because I’m not truly me when I’m in a superhero’s costume. I think most people would feel the same. Everyone likes to be complimented once in a while; in full cosplay, we receive praise nonstop for hours on end.
I won yet another trophy yesterday—not to mention the prize that went with it. Enough money to fund the set of wings I want to hand-glue to my next costume: Hawkgirl.
“All right, it totally was worth it,” I admit, despite my fatigue. “But kick me if I fall asleep, and I’ll do the same? I need to pay enough attention to see if he says anything important.”
Considering the events of my first semester at Rothford, I know better than to get complacent, though my new club might help if I fuck up again.
“Deal,” Liv agrees.
Frankly, between all the soulless classes I have to take in order to continue to qualify for our scholarships, and the shit we handle from the assholes who constantly bug us, the trauma of finding Charlotte almost dead in the pool, then all the worry about Claire, I just had to do something fun to chill.
Cross doesn’t quite figure amongst the long list of things that contribute to my constant state of anxiety, but his nonsense certainly doesn’t help. I keep thinking about what he did to me whenever I close my eyes.
Cosplay day was definitely a must, despite my pathetic state right now. I can’t be myself in Thorn Falls. I remember the one time I came back from a convention without getting changed out of my brilliant Catwoman costume first. The cat calls, the laughter, the derision from the legacies.Yes, I like to cosplay, ahaha, funny. Get over it.Some people peaked in high school and try their hardest to bring the rest of us down to their level.
I can’t help myself. Thinking aboutthem, I glance over my shoulder, my eyes seeking his, just like they always do when he comes to mind.
I’m tense even before finding him, energized by the mere thought of Hector Cross. And all the preliminary vexation is immediately justified, because he’s staring at me, smirking smugly. My mind flashes back to last weekend and I blush.
It should be illegal for anyone to look this self-satisfied.
It’s not just that Hector Cross is six foot one of lean, defined muscles, with the face of aGQmodel on top, and hair worthy of a cologne advertisement. The dick also is an artist playing women like fiddles with the tip of his tongue. Truly, he’s the proof that the world is a cold, unfair, and unfeeling place, because this much beauty, wealth, and intelligence shouldn’t be combined in one individual. The only flip side? He’s a complete prick. Proof: holding multiple blowjobs over my head just to infuriate me, andleaving me hanging.
Cross lifts an eyebrow when my gaze meets his, challenging as ever. I roll my eyes, straightening up, and focus my willpower on paying attention to the most boring professor in the entirety of Rothford University. I know that for a fact. I set up a survey forRothford Weeklylast week, and about forty percent of the students who voted anonymously on the site chose this teacher. Mr. Powell even bypassed the Latin professor.
Perhaps I’ll make the next survey about the most annoying student. I only dismiss the idea in case Cross doesn’t make the cut; I’d probably lose faith in humanity at the result.
“Ten minutes,” Olivia says under her breath. “We can make it without falling asleep.”
Debatable. I’m pretty certain my body’s tilting forward right now. To distract myself, I take a sip of the sugary-sweet energy drink with a grimace. It’s truly revolting. Ten minutes, then I can head to the cafeteria for the largest vanilla latte they sell with three extra shots of coffee. With a bit of luck, Dez’ll be working. Maybe she’ll take pity on me again and give me pie. I certainly look pathetic enough.
I’m mentally weighing the likelihood of getting caught if I end up taking a teeny tiny little nap on my desk when something hits the top of my head, before sliding to my lap.
What the fuck?
I turn, my eyes immediately finding the smug ass comfortably lounging on his chair, arm extended over the backrest, like a lord holding court. His friends chortle like the mindless apes they are, following their leader.
Part of me realizes that the best way to annoy him would be to ignore him. Toss the wrinkled paper ball without checking it out first. I could even just put it in my pocket and look later, when he can’t study my response.
But on the other hand, I’m no longer tired, my annoyance at his general existence taking prevalence over any otherconsideration. Besides, I can’t afford to ignore him. I owe him. What if he’s demanding his due? I feel my insides contract at the thought.
The thing with Hector Cross is that the entire class of legacies takes their cue from his actions, bending over backward to please him. Each year has its leader, and he’s the undisputed sophomore king.
The guy who led the seniors last year, Claire’s Keller, made his generation of legacies behave. At least, they never said a single rude word to any of us scholarship kids. And the guy in charge of this year’s seniors, his cousin, Markus? One single glance and everyone in his year practically pisses themselves to fall in line. Cross just watches the chaos. He could have absolutely chosen to be a decent human being. Instead, he lets his sycophants act like nasty teen elites, bullying anyone who isn’t considered cool.
As far as I know, Cross doesn’t target anyone himself. He likes to be a dick tome, but if I’m entirely honest, I can admit it’s not malicious. He teases me, infuriates me, gets under my skin, but he doesn’t make me cry like his friends do to Olivia. Besides, I can admit I sort of started it.
Not all of us are trust fund brats.
I heavily implied he was a dumb joke the first time we had a conversation, and didn’t even believe he deserved his grades when he informed me he was first in our year.
It wasn’t until we were paired up in class that I had to admit the truth. I’d been sorely mistaken. In that sense, I certainly earned our rivalry. But the way his friends consistently bug Olivia gets on my nerves. Unlike me, she’s shy, and a bit of a crybaby, too. She usually manages to make it to her dorm before sobbing into her pillow all night when someone says something mean to her. Me? I snap back. Their treatment of my friend makes me want to punch the lot of them in their perfect teeth,and Cross, twice, for not preventing it. He could. I’ve seen him stop the worst of the bullies, Nate, with a single look. He just doesn’t think Olivia’s worth the bother.
I unwrap the wrinkled ball, gritting my teeth.
