Page 9 of If You Dare

When we reach their dorm, Chloe stands with her hand on the knob while I hover in the doorway. “Okay, we made it to our room in one piece. You can go now.”

“Wait.” I plant a hand on the door to stop her from closing it in my face. “These are the rules. One, you’re too young for parties.” Chloe rolls her eyes dramatically. “And two, you’re too young to drink.”

She sighs. “Oh my g—”

“But if you do,” I continue, “and you end up in a bad situation, you call me. Both of you.”

Violet smiles. The thought of any guy touching her while she’s drunk—touching her at all—makes my blood boil, even if it shouldn’t. Even if I should care less about a girl I just met. But there’s something about her. Something that’s already dug its claws in and won’t let go.

She has no idea what I’m capable of making her feel. What I’m capable of doing to her.

Chapter6

After

Violet

Even though Idon’t meet anyone’s gazes, I can feel the eyes of each of my classmates on me as I shuffle into my Advanced Fiction Writing class. I was so excited when I registered for this class last semester, determined that I would finally figure out how to write my first book.

Now, all I want to do is bolt.

I can’t remember the last time I put pen to paper or typed a single letter in a word processor.

The chair beside me screeches. “Hey, Violet.”

A familiar thin voice and red hair. Maxwell. Relief rushes through me. He gives me a small smile, the one person in this room who doesn’t hate me.

Last year, Chloe dared me to flirt with Maxwell at a party. At first, it was completely humiliating, but we ended up having a nice conversation. Other than Aneesa, he’s my only remaining ally.

“Hey, how was your summer?” I manage.

“Good.”

He doesn’t bother asking about my summer. He knows exactly how it went.

Professor Tate breezes into the room, either completely oblivious to the attention on me or actively choosing to ignore it. Either way, I’m grateful. She was my favorite professor last year, and I’m relieved to have another class with her. She taught my Intro to Fiction Writing course, and I’ve liked her since the first day. She’s casual, always has an easy smile, and lets us write whatever genre we prefer.

Thank god she doesn’t force us to introduce ourselves to the rest of the class like other professors do on the first day. She spends most of our class time explaining the syllabus and what we’ll be learning this semester.

When we have ten minutes remaining, she instructs us to find something to write with. “You’re going to do a freewrite. I want you to freewrite every day at the start of class to get your creative juices flowing. Consider it like stretching and warming up before a run. For this freewrite, I want you to reflect on your strongest memory and write about it. No stopping. You must continue writing for the full five minutes. I don’t care if it’sI don’t know what to writeuntil the next thought pops in your head. But your pen—or fingers—cannot stop moving. Now write!”

I hurry to grab my pen and start scribbling about the strongest memory that flashes through my mind.

The night Chloe died

My hand freezes next to the letters scrawled in ink, already bleeding through the page.

“No stopping, Violet,” Professor Tate calls.

But my stomach churns, beads of sweat prickling up along my neck as the room grows hotter. A buzzing fills my ears, drowning out the sounds of my classmates scribbling across their notebook pages or typing on their laptops.

Professor Tate’s voice breaks through the buzzing, muffled. “Violet?”

Now everyone’s eyes are on me again.

I can’t let my mind go back to that night. I won’t.

Bile rises in my throat.

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