Page 15 of Pick Me Up On Tuesdays

This time, I was in trouble.

This time, I'd done something wrong—something as dumb and ridiculous as arriving late to school. As late as missing the first period.

The two doors to the office of Principal Catherine loomed before me like the doors of judgment. I knocked once, and they loudly creaked open that had not been as loud last week for certain. Inside, lavender and the aroma of leather-covered books floated about, just like always.

Principal Catherine stood behind her massive mahogany desk, a commanding presence of part-human, part-horse, and full-time authority. Her hooves clicked sharply against the marble floor as she turned to face me. She crossed her arms,her tail flicking once behind her in an expression of disapproval more eloquent than any words.

“You’re late,” she said, her voice as sharp as her cheekbones.

I swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

She let out a theatrical sigh—a sigh to end wars or spark them, depending on how one felt. "Clark. Clark. Clark. My greatest student. The star of Paramount High. The one child who made me feel like academic excellence wasn't lost to the ages."

I nodded cautiously, never quite sure if I was being complimented or put in front of the firing squad.

"And yet you are here," she continued, wafting one beautiful hand in my general direction, "...a disgrace. A disappointment. A lost cause."

I blinked. "I—what?"

"Next time—detention," she warned, suddenly businesslike. And then, she finished up with a softening voice, "Now go to class before I cry."

I didn't have to be told twice.

"And by the way, that backflip was dope," she quipped as I left.

Classic centaur.

By break time, I had flopped across the cafeteria table opposite Joy and Shun, resting my head on the plastic as if it were the pillow I so desperately needed. Quarter-way throughthe day, and already I was dead tired, like I'd just run a marathon in dress shoes.

"It began with a floating bunny," I muttered, my voice muffled in my sleeve.

Joy leaned in, eyes wide, always willing for a tale which sounded borderline fictional.

Shun merely raised an eyebrow. "This should be good."

And as I painted it all—the ridiculous, unbelievable specifics—sunk in the weight of it. Not only the events, but the consequences. The things which had insidiously had come for me out of the margins were now standing front and center, inescapable.

The truth hit me like a punch in the gut.

Ethan needed help.

And whether I liked it or not—most probably not—I was part of the reason he was here. I was there. Shouted ‘BUNNY’ like an idiot. And pretending otherwise wouldn't make it go away.

Like it or not, it was my fault. Part of it.

And that meant I was going to have to do something about it.

Damn, god help me.

Chapter 6: The Price of Poor Life Choices

So, how much does it cost to fix a brand-new, no-insurance, ridiculously expensive, billionaire-son-owned convertible?

Answer: Probably more than my entire existence.

And the worst part? I didn’t even ask Ethan, you know why? Because at that very moment, he was seated in the cafeteria with his obnoxious jock clique, laughing like he hadn't just wrecked the most expensive car I'd ever laid my hands on. I mean, technically we (me, him, and the bunny in collabo) wrecked it, but still.

I couldn't approach him. For one, his clique drains the life out of me—literally. Half of them are demons or vampires, which means every time I walk past their table, I have to check if my soul is still intact. Furthermore, Ethan didn't even seem remotely concerned about the whole situation. Like, not even a smidgen.

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