Page 55 of Swallow Your Sorries

Steam rises from my drenched shirt and my skin beneath it prickles and burns in protest. Sauces and sparkling waters seep through my socks and into my loafers, but I don’t move or scream. I won’t give them more of a show, or double my humiliation by trying to duck and dodge them and make their little game that much more fun.

Tray after tray. Girl after girl. Fake apology after faker apology, I remain rooted to the spot. I remain fixated on Gant, who only has eyes for me.

That’s until I can no longer see him because my head issmothered, to the point that I fear inhaling the thick liquids and suffocating. My sticky eyelids feel permanently glued shut beneath the weight and even my ears are filled, muffling the shrieks of laughter.

But I don’t move. I don’t let on that I can barely breathe. Or that my face and neck are tingling from the lukewarm soups, or that my feet have gone numb from all the ice cubes and drinks that have fallen on them. I don’t shake or tremble to let them know that I’m about to have a panic attack from the claustrophobic sensation of being covered head to foot in moist viscous sludge like I’ve fallen into quicksand.

If nothing else, I hope my frozen position dampens whatever satisfaction Gant’s getting from it.

The fact that he can get off on seeing so much food go to waste tells me all I need to know about him and every other student here. Mum was right. I don’t belong. I don’t live in a world where lamb can be tossed out like expired milk and I don’t want to.

It wouldn’t matter if Gant hadn’t targeted me. I have no interest in being friends with anyone who thought such a waste was okay. Not just the waste of food, but the waste of the staff’s efforts to prepare it. A waste of the slaughtered animals. A waste of time to have everything cleaned up and reset for dinner. A waste of money they’d never care about because they’ve always had too much of it.

More than pain, hurt, and humiliation, I feel raw, unbridled disgust.

When the bell rings and the last tray tops my head off like garnish, or rather what must be the cherry on top, Rin’s voice, somewhere to my left, says sweetly, “Next time don’t stand so close to the trash. It’s camouflage for someone like you.”

I want to reach out and trap her in a bear hug.

I want to soil her pretty uniform and fuck up her blowout, but I know nearly nine hundred students are dining in the hall. There are less than thirty staff members, all of whom disappeared into the kitchen the moment the attack started.

If I touch Rin, the untouchable, I’m evendeader.

The pop of a top sounds and it takes me a second through all the thick layers of food to feel it.

Hot liquid.

Scaldingliquid from Rin’s bedazzled cup, she lugs around all day. It splashes onto my blazer, a big drop soaking through my thin uniform shirt. It burns like hell.

But I don’t give her a reaction. I don’t attempt to shake away what drops I can.

Whatever her reaction is, I don’t get to see it. I just hear her heels click clacking away, followed by hundreds of feet drifting past me like a stampede. But even as the last straggler exits through the massive double doors, I know there’s someone still seated.

I can’t hear him. Or see him. But I know he’s there and I know he’s watching me.

Is this what he was waiting for? Now that it’s done, could we get past the bullshit?

I spit then blow chunks of food through my nostrils unceremoniously.

“So?” I ask, still completely blind. “How was it?”

No response.

“Are you satisfied now?”

Time ticks on, the only sound being the occasional plop dripping off my blazer and skirt.

I scrape the gunk from my eyes but I still can’t open them. The concoction of food is so viscous that I’m barely making any headway. I’m just smearing it around. Blindly, and I’m sure to Gant’s utter amusement, I slip and slide in my loafers, my feet making squishy farting noises as I search for the nearest table. They all have long runners in the school colours draped down the middle. When my fingers wrap around a tassel, I pull, using the heavily starched, stiff fabric to wipe at my eyelids.

I blink through the burning haze at the high table, ready to face Gant Auclair, but it’s empty.

The entire hall is empty.

The bell rings again, causing me to jump, but then I freeze as I take in the swamp of food surrounding me. I hadn’t done it, and yet guilt bubbles within me as I eye the exit. Beaulieu had a strict policy about skipping classes without a written pardon. Would Miss Trix give me one? Or would she ignore me like all the staff, including the dining hall workers who emerge from the kitchen with cleaning supplies?

Before I can attempt to help, I’m ushered outside by an annoyed-looking petite woman carrying a shovel. “Go on,” she hisses before slamming the massive double doors shut behind me.

I flinch at the force. I don’t know what I expected from the adults.

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