Page 39 of Web of Lies
Carter kicks off a locker, the last student besides the two of us to leave. He smirks in my direction, almost a smile of respect, and tilts his head. His actions scream, “there’s still more to come, maybe worse”. But that’s okay. I survived the name-calling and the dildo in my locker. What more could they throw at me now? My shoe-imprinted books still lay on the ground, half squished-half okay. If worse comes to worse, I’ll buy new ones with the emergency credit card my mother left me. Ah—the perks of being a spoiled rich girl, I guess.
My stomach gurgles as I walk into my first class of the day. Calculus. My feet stop at the sight of Chase. There’s no smile reserved for me today. There’s no “hey new girl!” Which I’ve oddly become fond of. There’s nothing. Not even a look in my direction. I guess I truly am a weird pariah roaming the halls of East Point now. I’m not allowed into the dining hall, whatever. I’ll still try to make my way in every mealtime. They can’t seriously keep me out, can they?
I make my way into the classroom, clutching my tattered things to my chest. The teacher looks up as I enter, averting his eyes the second we lock. Odd. Usually, he greets me with a smile and a wave, but not today. Everything about today is odd. So, fucking odd. On autopilot, I walk to the area where my desk sits and halt. I stop dead in my tracks, looking around every other desk is occupied and mine? Mine disappeared.
“Ah-Mr. Stephans?” I ask, looking back at the big guy wiping sweat off his forehead with that disturbing penis handkerchief again.
“Please have a seat, Miss. Cole,” he says without a second glance, turning his back on me.
“But, Mr. Stephans, my desk has gone—missing.” His fists clench and unclench.
“Then sit,” he hisses through a breath.
“On the floor?” I ask, feeling pretty fucking suspicious.
“On the floor, Miss Cole, now please, I need to start class.” He never looks back at me and begins his lesson on whatever. I can’t listen. I’m still flabbergasted about the whole “sit on the floor” fiasco. Seriously? A teacher? This just keeps getting weirder and weirder.
A wadded and wet, tiny paper ball hits the side of my face. Casting my eyes at the dickhead in the back of the room. Carter grins, taking the empty pen away from his mouth and motions with his finger for me to sit. I huff. I puff. I’m the fucking big, bad wolf, but I don’t want to stand all period. So, I sit on the cold tiled floor, with no view. I cross my arms across my chest in silent protest like a child.
Throughout the lesson, a debilitating pain develops in the depths of my stomach, curdling and cramping in violent waves. Sweat pours from my forehead as I clutch my stomach for dear life. Holy fuck. It feels like I ate volcano-slathered nachos and they’re about to explode out of my ass. I grimace, rubbing my stomach, and applying pressure.Please go away, please go away.
Several students look back at me, including Chase. Our eyes lock for the second time today, sadness pouring from him like a hurricane surging over the land. His eyebrows furrow in worry, his hands balling into fists. But then he shakes his head, breaking our eye contact, and resumes his previous position.
“Kace?” I swallow hard, looking up at Zoe. She said my name, but she’s staring straight ahead at the teacher. “Girl, you look like you’re dying. You, okay?” she asks, concern lacing her tone. Her face remains cool and collective like she can’t speak to me. So, I don’t. I shake my head.
My stomach gurgles again, a little louder this time, and then I feel it. Hot liquid. Oh no, it’s coming. I frantically claw at my books, throw them into my arms, and hightail it out of there. The teacher acts as if I don’t exist, and at this moment that’s fine.
I run to the girl’s bathroom, clenching my butt cheeks like I’m smuggling a dime between them. The second I land on the toilet; I explode in a violent outburst. My stomach cramps, breaking my entire body into a cold sweat. As I spew my breakfast out of my ass for the next thirty minutes, I can’t move. Everything hurts. And it won’t stop pouring out of me. I think I’m dying.
I take a few deep breaths, pressing the call button on my phone. Staying on the toilet, I’m too afraid to move. If I try to make it back to my apartment, I know a new nickname would emerge.
“Baby?” my mom’s voice filters through the phone with concern. I always imagine her as this badass businesswoman, which she is. She’s taken her publishing empire from mediocre to massive in a matter of twenty years. She’s fierce and very protective, especially of me, her baby.
“Mom,” I groan, leaning my head against the toilet’s cubicle. “Mom, can you call me into school, I think I’m sick.” My voice rasps. My tongue is heavy with non-existent sand, making every cell in my body desperate for water.
“Oh, baby! Do you need anything? I can be there in a few hours!” I picture her movements. Her body getting up from her office chair, prancing towards the door with her assistant hot on her heels, begging her to get back to the important meeting she’s walking out on.
“No, no. I’m just going back to bed,” I groan again, lightly slamming my forehead against the cool metal of the bathroom stall.
“If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call! I’ll commandeer a private jet if I have to!” I know in the back of my mind she’d do it.
“Thanks, Mom. I love you,” I murmur into the phone.
We hang up in time for the bathroom door to swing open with a loud groan from the hinges. The bell must have rang while I spewed my soul from my ass, once again, filling with rage-fueled students. Hurray! My escape will have to wait.
I flushed the toilet long before I called my mom, but I’m sure it doesn’t smell pretty in here. More like ass and death. So as girls come and go, I wait them out, hiding in my tomb of pooey death. Once the coast is clear—or once I won’t shit my pants making it back to my apartment, I’ll walk out of here, and hopefully not into any danger.
The stalls on either side of me close and lock, coiling dread in the pit of my empty stomach. “Ohhhhh, boyfriend stealer!” Hadley coos from above me.
I groan, looking above me to two phones trained on my very vulnerable body. One held by Hadley and the other by one of her minions. “Say cheese for the camera!” She snickers, snapping a few pictures of me on the toilet. Because that’s what normal, sadistic teenagers do. They snap pictures of you shitting like they planned—Holy shit—shit fuckers in a basket!
“You bitch,” I rasp, looking up at her, venom spewing. “You planned this. You put something—”
“Me? Put something like laxative sprinkles on your pretty little pancakes? Maybe ask that nonsense talking bitch?” Her smile grows wider, the flash of her camera coming to life. It’s still pointed at me as she talks into the camera. Great. A video. A video of me shitting my guts out because she poisoned me. Fan-fucking-tastic.
“Well, see ya later, New Girl. Enjoy your time here! Because it won’t be for much longer.” Her idle threat sits like lead in the pit of my stomach.
I still have questions to ask, but I close my eyes. The only thing calming my frantically beating heart is the fact I can take care of this. It’s like I’ve been training to do this with my siblings for years. If my disgusting video is on the internet, I can remove it myself. So—yay for small victories. I just have to tell my stomach to calm down for ten minutes so I can make it home. Then I can die in peace.
