Page 48 of Satan's Spawn
“Almost eight!” A male voice shouts, pulling me from my thoughts. “Let’s go Alexis, back to the east wing.”
Ethan, our dorm head, must be starting his rounds for the night. Not that I give a shit because he knows better than to tell me to go anywhere.
Alexis, on the other hand, stands with a huff, no doubt coming up with fifty different scenarios as to why I’m showing interest in any other girl besides her.
And if I know her at all, which I do, it also means she has every intention of making sure it gets no further than that.
Little does she know it already has.
11
BEX
Time flies when you’re having fun.
But when you’re not? It locks you in a chokehold, squeezing tighter every time you try to escape.
Let’s just say the students at Riverside haven’t forgotten about me like I so stupidly suggested they would to Hendrix the first day.
In fact, things have gotten even worse as the week progressed. Example being when I walked into the building this morning minding my business, I had Alexis and her posse waiting front and center for my arrival, and she made it a point to talk loud about all thefunshe had with Crayton the night before.
So pathetic.
As if I’m supposed to be interested in where he puts his dick. He can stick it up his own ass for all I care.
They then proceeded to follow me all the way to homeroom, commenting on how pale I am for someone who’s been giving blowjobs professionally on the beaches in California.
As if that’s an actual fucking thing.
A “Shore Whore” is the clever name they came up with, and how they bid me farewell as I turned into my classroom.
I ignored them, of course, but I guess that’s what I get for daring to answer Mrs. Clancy, our math teachers, questions about back home yesterday.
Their behavior is so catty and brain numbingly typical for a bunch of girls who are supposed to stand out in society.
So why do I feel like the pathetic one?
Giving the padlock on my locker one final attempt at opening, I spin the combination to the best of my ability since it’s been spray painted black some time between homeroom and first period.
It doesn’t budge, and fury rips through my gut, making me slap an open palm against the locker door, because now I’m officially late to class.
The sound draws attention to the stragglers in the hall, and snickers erupt behind me as I let out a deep sigh.
Resting my head against the locker, I close my eyes, drawing and expelling breaths in slow deep intervals to calm my body.
In, out, in, out until my heartrate settles, along with my anger. I continue this exercise until my mind is clear enough to strategize a plan.
I can text Archer, even Hendrix since I know their classes aren’t far from this wing of the building, but I don’t need them missing their lessons on my behalf.
I can take this to the headmaster, but I refuse to bethatgirl. The one who’s first line of defense is to snitch on her peers instead of standing up for herself.
And I really need to stand up for myself, damn it, because I don’t see this stopping any other way. Especially if I’m supposed to survive a pool party with these people tomorrow.
Forget about candlesticks and libraries, there are so many worse ways to die in a large body of water.
Dramatic, Bex, but whatever.
I just need a break.
