Page 6 of Uppercut Princess

Behind me, the girl groans. Her footsteps slap the worn flooring as she catches up to me. “Don’t ever go out the main doors by yourself when security is around. They’re fucking child rapists, you understand?”

I turn toward her, eyebrows in my hairline, which really fucking hurts by the way. I can look up and see the goose egg on my forehead. “Good to know.”

“If you’re alone, go out the side door. I’ll walk out with you tonight though. Don’t make eye contact with them. Or bait them either. You look like trouble follows you everywhere. At least it will in the Heights.”

“So I’ve noticed,” I deadpan.

We walk through the glass doors. I don’t look around, but the hair on the back of my neck stands, so I know what this chick has just told me is correct. The security team are predators living right with the prey. And the school doesn’t give a fuck.

We part ways in the parking lot without a word. She doesn’t try to talk to me again, and as I said, I don’t need real friends. My life can start after I’ve finished what I’ve come here to do.

My aunt and uncle have no clue why the hell I’m here. They think I’m throwing my life away at a shitty school that won’t impress any colleges. They’re wrong. Well, they’re right. Rawley Heights doesn’t impress anyone, but I’m not throwing my life away. I’m making sure I actually have one. One where I can live without regret. Without terror. Without what ifs.

Once I kill Big Daddy K, head of the Heights Crew, I’ll finally be able to start my life. It’ll be like a rebirth. A christening. Sure, not any christening I’ve ever been to unless it’s blood they’re using to bless people with instead of holy water. But to me, this is everything. I’ve bided my time. I’ve made my plan.

Now, I just have to execute it.

3

As soon as I get home, I place a bag of frozen vegetables on my face.

I spend a half hour just sitting on a hand-me-down armchair I got at the Salvation Army, the footrest kicked out, eyes closed, and face tipped toward the ceiling in the middle of my living room. Eventually, condensation builds up and trickles of water drip down the side of my face. That’s my cue to stop replaying the day in my head. My replay isn’t a scene-for-scene reenactment of what actually happened though, it’s better than that. I imagine what I would’ve done if I wasn’t playing a part. It turns out much more fun for me. One, there are no frozen vegetables needed at the end of the day, and two, I kick that Nevaeh girl’s ass. The preening bitch.

The second-hand chair groans as I push the footrest down and stand. I open the freezer and toss the buttered corn back inside. Turning, I take in my new apartment. It’s not half bad. The inside looks better than the outside of the building, that much I know. I can tell they put down new carpet and painted in here right before I moved in. I mean, it’s not the Taj Mahal. It vaguely smells like mildew and a crazy amount of bleach, which makes me wonder what it was like before I got it. But listen, I’d rather it smell like straight up caustic cleaner than something else.

The faucet in the kitchen leaks. The caulk in the bathroom is an off-white, not chosen by color aesthetic, but lack of cleanliness, and the walls are super thin. Next door, a couple argues about money, and the distant sound of a baby crying carries from down the hall.

If the life I grew up in was Neverland, I’m definitely in Hell. None of that matters though. I’ll wade through the flames and pitchforks all day every day to come out the other end safer and stronger.

I go to the small, separate bedroom and pull down the secret compartment on the ornate shelf I have hanging on the wall. I ordered it brand new off the internet from a nut who has a conspiracy theory website. When it came in, I had to rough it up so it would go with the rest of the decor. Chips in the wood mar the surface, and I did a really shitty job of painting so it blends in. But what still works perfectly is the hinge that drops down a secret compartment where I keep my sacred things.

I check the phone I have stashed inside. That and the picture of my parents I have sitting on the shelf are the only things I own in here that connect me to my old life. A text awaits me from my aunt, telling me she hopes I’m okay. I send her a quick one back telling her I’m fine and that I started school today with no issue.

She hates that I’m here, but I also know she and my uncle never wanted kids. They took me in after my parents died because that’s what you do, but I never fit in with their upscale life, and I don’t need any ties to that life here. As soon as I’m done here, I’ll go back to being Kyle and Anna’s daughter again. I’ll go back to the life I should’ve been living all this time. Which means this one needs to stay completely separate from the other. They cannot mix. No one can find out who I really am.

Keeping the phone out, I make sure my aunt’s not going to text me right back. When a response doesn’t come within ten minutes, I shut the phone off and put it back, sliding it next to the sweet silver pistol I have there, which was surprisingly too easy to buy on the street. Sure, it’s not legal. The scratches over the serial number tell me that, as did the shady-as-fuck guy who sold it to me, but I’m okay with that. This gun represents Kyla Samson’s life—her goal—and as soon as I’m done with it, I’ll toss it into a sewage drain.

I push the compartment closed, making sure it looks like a regular old shelf before heading into the bathroom. My head still throbs, so I open the medicine cabinet and take out a couple of Advil. When I move the mirror back into place, I stare at my reflection. Well, honestly, the glaring blue and purple bruising over my eye catches my attention more than anything else.

I sigh. The girl didn’t even shove me that hard. It must’ve been the angle. Looks like I’ll have to use a shitton of makeup tomorrow to try to cover whatever the frozen vegetables don’t help with. Though I’m pissed I have a shiner, it probably works in my favor. What makes a girl look more defenseless than bruising from a fight? A fight I didn’t even react to?

The thing is, I get how the Heights Crew works. I’ve been studying them from afar, standing in the background like a shadow. I’ll need to get to the top to take my revenge. But in order to get to the top, I have to start at the bottom. If I came into Rawley Heights with a chip on my shoulder, no one would’ve let me in on the underground fighting biz they have going on. At least not for a while. They don’t like newcomers. They don’t trust them. To them, things are black and white. You’re either a friend or a foe, and if they don’t know you, you’re automatically placed in the foe category.

But, by playing the victim, they’ll let me in quicker. All I have to do is play soft, act like I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve already caught the eye of Oscar and Brawler. The latter arranges the fights in the underground fighting ring. He’ll throw me in as a gimme to one of the girls who wants to climb to the top. Or, I’ll seek that girl out myself, get under her skin, and make it so she wants to take me on. When she calls me out, that’s when I’ll step up. I’ll make them see me. From that point on, it’ll just be about ascending the ranks, capturing their trust, and then using it against them in the end.

My mind flicks back to Johnny, a.k.a. “Rocket”, getting head in the fucking Rawley Heights’ Main Office. He isn’t even a student there anymore. My skin pricks at the way he looked at me. At the desire in his eyes. I clench my fingers, and they bite into the skin of my palm. Johnny Rocket is vile. He’s disgusting. He’s—

Three heavy knocks sound on the apartment door. The crying baby’s lungs expand at the intrusion, making the cry worse and testing the limits of my hearing. I stomp out into the main living area and head toward the door. Another three knocks sound before I even have a chance to get to it. “Hold on,” I snap. I take a quick peek through the peephole and freeze. “Shit,” I mutter under my breath.

The view outside the door is distorted in a way only peepholes give, but Brawler is most definitely standing outside my door right now.TheBrawler.Fuck.Before I can start freaking the hell out, convincing myself that he knows who I really am, I pull the door open, my heart lodging itself in my throat.

He looks lazily over at me, but then his eyes widen a fraction before he schools his features.

“Hey,” I say. I tug at my clothes and run my hands through my hair like I’m worried about my appearance. Then, I cock my head. “You go to Rawley Heights, right?” Like I wouldn’t have recognized him. He’s exactly my type.

He peers behind me. “Everyone in this shithole our age goes to the Heights.”

I shift ever so subtly to impede his view. I’ve tried to nail the shitty home life, but I also don’t want to get found out on a technicality.

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