Page 15 of Broken by my Bully
Hopefully, this sugary soda will see me through my next two classes.
The cashier hands me back barely any change. At the impatient sigh of the guy behind me, I don’t hang around to make sure she got it right, I just move the hell out of his way.
A low drone fills the cafeteria.
Students chatting to each other, or watching videos on their phones. Chairs and cutlery scraping.
I twist open my soda and take a few slugs as I head for an empty seat. Two sets of large glass doors lead into an immaculately landscaped garden on the west side of the main building. The open doors let in a warm summer breeze. Probably the last we’ll be getting this year.
Fall comes early in Agony Hollow, and there’s always two to three weeks of heavy rains to signal the end of summer.
I’d love to go sit outside, but then I’d have to wind my way through a bunch of tables, and I’m really not in the mood to make eye contact with anyone?—
“Great,” someone mutters.
I’d been staring out at the garden reaching to pull out a chair, but I stop at the sound of a voice a foot away from me.
It’s the redhead from Professor Rooke’s class. She has her phone in her hand, and she’d been reaching for the same chair as me.
We stare at each other a second before she says, “Share?”
I give her a quick nod, and we both pull out a chair and take a seat opposite each other.
Light glitters off the metallic thread doodled like abstract art over her black designer top. She’s not the first student I’ve seen wearing clothing I’d expect to see in a Wall Street investment firm.
I guess the kids around here dress for the CEO position they want, not the trust funds they have.
She brushes invisible lint off her fitted beige slacks, glances at the soda in my hand, and then gives me a millisecond-quick smile. “Soda’s really bad for you,” she says, holding up her can of diet cola.
My laugh turns heads and heats my face. The redhead just shakes her head and takes a sip from her can.
I twist my cap on, then off. On. Off. Trying to work up the courage to say something. Fucking anything.
“Melissa,” she says, and then points at me. “Haven, right?”
“How—”
She waves away the question. “Slow news day.”
I give her a grudging smile.
Great. Here I am, trying not to make a splash, but apparently I’m already front-page news.
“You’re from out of town, right?” Brown eyes immaculately slicked with gold eyeliner narrow at me. They’re almost exactly the same shade as her rust-red dye job, and it looks intentional.
I huff quietly to myself. Of course she doesn’t recognize me, even though I’ve lived here nearly all my life. People living in Hillside would rather pretend Riversiders don’t fucking exist. All we do is drain the economy and make them uncomfortable when they dare to venture down to the Agony River.
“I went to Ashwood High.”
Her eyes widen. “Huh.”
“Social Change Grant,” I say, because Melissa seems okay and I wouldn’t want her staying up all night wondering how the hell a lowlife like me ended up in a nice place like this.
“Yeah.”
No wonder she’s only drinking cola for lunch. Limiting your communication to single vowels must really cut down on energy consumption.
I put my books down on the table, trying to look comfortable, even if I’m not. Melissa’s eyes dart to my things. She uses a single finger to drag my pink STFU pad out from under Rooke’s spiral notebook. Then she turns it to face her.
