Page 6 of Brat Baby
The skin over my cheeks feels tight and warm, and there is a dull ache behind my eyes. As much as I want to throw in the towel and go back to my dorm for an all-day nap, I can’t.
I won’t. I refuse to give in to this. It’s not even the worst thing that has ever happened to me. Just the most disappointing.
The first class of the rest of my life is about to start, but I feel nothing. No butterflies. No excitement. No dreams-coming-true explosion of fireworks. Nothing. Nada. All my emotions are too preoccupied with the four men who trashed my heart this morning.
Fuck. Me.
I need to put this morning—hell, the entire damn weekend—behind me. Focus on the future, and then I can figure out all the other shit later. I need to pay attention to who is sure to be a stuffy, leather-patched-elbow-wearing professor drone on and on about algorithmic functions. Let it go, just for now.
I grab a paper towel, dab at my face, do my best to ignore the faint purple bruising around my wrists in my reflection, and then toss it into the trash before picking up my phone from the counter. Holding it up to my face, I wait for it to unlock, and when it does, it opens directly into the group message thread, where my most recent message still has no reply.
Me:This has all been a huge misunderstanding. I swear I didn’t lie to you. Please, can we just talk? We can work this out.
The persistent ache in my chest since they left me in the grass swells for one heartbeat, then two, making it feel like a ten-ton weight is sitting on my chest. Why the fuck does this hurt so much? It was a weekend of sex. They aren’t myrealdaddies. Fuck, they aren’t even my boyfriends. They are just a bunch of kinky old dudes who wanted to have a naughty weekend.
But they wanted more. They wanted to extend what we had from one weekend to six months. That’s longer than any foster care placement I ever had, outside of the last group home.
The time at the top of the screen grabs my attention. I’ve got less than eight minutes to find the room for my first ever college class—Calculus 101. Inhaling through my nose, I let the air out through my mouth as I plan the rest of my day. Once that class is done, there is a short break, and then I have Introduction to Macroeconomics. After that, I can go back to the dorm and give in to my need to cry.
Actually, no. I need to swing by the library to borrow textbooks, which I should have done on the weekend, before I can cry again. Maybe if I make my lunch quick, I can hit the library before macro.
Closing my eyes, I take another breath, inhaling enough air to make my ribs groan before letting it all out, sling my backpack onto my shoulder, and leave the bathroom to search for the lecture room. As soon as I step out into the hall, I’m hit with a wave of noise and movement as people rush around.
The interior of this building doesn’t match the exterior. The outside reminds me of the buildings from that English TV series, where the girl couldn’t inherit her father’s title. I only watched a few episodes before the whole thing irritated me. Bitching and moaning while eating with gold-plated cutlery. Give me a fucking break.
At least this interior doesn’t have anything gold plated. Instead, it’s all glass and chrome. Not only that, but there are students everywhere, huddled in groups as they stare at each other’s laptops and phones. Laughter, the squeak of sneakers against the tiles, and the general hum of activity fills the building. So different from high school, where most students kept their eyes aimed at the ground, trying to blend into the lockers, very few of us wanting to be there or be seen.
But here? Everyone is here by choice, not because they are legally obligated to. They are chasing dreams of their own, not merely surviving through a day of education, surroundedby gangs and rent-a-cops. All the noise and excitement settles something inside of me, and I try, once again, to let the last three days go and enjoy this once-in-a-lifetime moment.
Swiveling, I look around the main foyer and spot a bunch of black arrows stuck to a wall. I wait for a group of people to pass by before I’m able to get close to the signs. The building is a giant hollow square, with a big courtyard in the center. And, of-fucking-course, the room I’m looking for is on the opposite side of the building.
I jostle my backpack, so it’s a little more comfortable, then double-time it to the lecture room. As I pass the classrooms, I glance into them, unable to stop myself. Most doors are closed, with teaching already in progress, but every now and then, I come across a room that has a group of students who are clearly studying together.
Fuck. I’m really fucking here. I’m at college. I’m a fucking college student.
I made it. I got out.
No more social services checking in. No more routine governed by the group home. No more sharing a room with three other girls. No more dodging gangs. No more Tray.
It’s just me and my future.
After what feels like a bajillion steps and several evasive maneuvers to get around people who are milling about, I finally spot the door to the lecture hall. My nerves spike.
One thing I’m incredibly fucking grateful to my daddies for is the new wardrobe. Seeing what everyone is wearing today, I’d needed the clothing upgrade. Not that I’m embarrassed by my original wardrobe. It just would have made me stick out from everyone else, and I prefer to blend in.
Blending in means you are less likely to get singled out.
And I really, really need to blend in today. I don’t want anyone questioning my right to be here or how I got here. I want to feel normal. Like I belong.
A group of students comes hurrying from behind and pushes past, making it through the door before me. I pause on this side of the door and allow one last bout of nerves to rattle through my bones before I straighten, shove that shit down, and enter the room.
It’s exactly as I imagined it would be. At least ten rounded tiers of tables and chairs, nearly every one of which is occupied. The only tables with no one at them are in the front few rows, right in the center.
Well, I guess it serves me right for letting boy troubles make me late.
I keep my gaze trained on the table to the right of center, in the second row, and dart up the center staircase. Quickly, I take a seat, and just in time, too, because the room goes dramatically silent as the door opens again and a guy in his early twenties enters the room. But I barely notice him as the second man enters.
Daddy.
