Page 70 of Broken by my Bully
Wow.
Explains why she has this slightly disgusted look on her face most of the time. But like she said, we’re stuck with each other.
A girl rushes past us out of the front door as we come inside, cordless headphones clapped to her ears and an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips.
When she sees Melissa, she snatches the smoke from her lips. “Tiffany’s home!” she hisses, throwing an apprehensive glance over her shoulder before speed-walking down the street.
“Tiffany?” I ask.
“House mother. Despises smoking and vaping.” Melissa’s arm props up, her laptop bag swinging from the crook of her elbow. “Come on. The sooner we’re done, the better.”
I try hard to convince myself she’s not in a hurry because she wants to be rid of me.
I fail.
We walk through tall columns connecting the lower porch with the roof of the red-bricked sorority house. White trim on the windows and front door, and large Greek letters in white give the building a polished, almost regal vibe.
“Let’s go to my room,” she says, pointing to the staircase sweeping up to the first floor. I glance around as we pass through, spotting a pair of girls seated on the floor beside a coffee table near an enormous fireplace. They’re busy giggling and sharing a bowl of popcorn as they peek at each other’s phones.
Melissa leads me down a hall and through one of the many white-painted doors on this floor. There are two beds, each dressed in pretty quilts and matching pillowcases. There’s a unicorn plushie on one bed, but Melissa heads for the other side of the room, setting her laptop bag down at the foot of a floral-quilted bed.
“Domus mea, domus tua,” she says.
“Gesundheit.”
“My house is your house. In Latin. Because we’re a Greek sorority?” When I just keep staring at her, she rolls her eyes. “Wine or beer or shots?”
I laugh, but nowshe’sjust staring at me, waiting. “Uh…soda?”
She chuckles dryly. “Right. ‘Cos it’s so bad for us.”
When she realizes I’m being serious, she murmurs, “Great. I get stuck with the prude.”
She sighs as she struts away.
Am I the only student around here who doesn’t drink like it’s an Olympic sport?
I perch on the edge of the quilted bed, scanning the room.
Gun to my head, I’d pick Basti—ProfessorRooke’s—Fortress of Solitude to this hellscape. There’s a pattern on everything. The wallpaper, the carpet, the quilted bedspreads.
Why is there a rugon top ofthe carpet?
Was the carpet not thick enough? Warm enough? Colorful enough?
I remember I have an unread message and pull my phone out to check.
@rooke.bastian
Thank you for your submission.
Mercy, how fucking professional of him.
I’m sneering as I shove the phone back in my tote bag.
Why wouldn’t he be professional, Haven? He’s your teacher, for heaven’s sake.
Because he spiked my cocoa?
