Page 53 of Let Us Prey
The beginning of my second month at Apex was dreadfully mundane. We’re getting close to midterms, and all the professors are buckling down to prepare for what I assume will be a grueling exam in every subject. My only saving grace is that Bash bought enough lingerie to keep me wearing new things for the entirety of October, and insists on playing ‘hot or cold’ guessing games about my daily choices. His texts are bright spots in the drudgery of my long, exam prep-filled days.
I’m not worried about passing most of my classes. In fact, I’m even excelling in dance now that I have the right equipment. The only question mark in my GPA is the class I’m headed to right now—Shifter History. The grubby little jackhole who teaches it has been grading every assignment, no matter how thorough, as low as he can without being outright dishonest. I have to double- and triple-check each paper I hand in to make certain there aren’t any typos, extra spaces, or grammatical errors, as if I’m submitting a piece to the fucking Claw York Times. Otherwise, Professor Abel dings me like he’s some godsdamned Oxford scholar instead of a random teacher assigning college essays.
I’d love to know how people get the absolutechutzpahto rip apart the work of others when they’re not qualified to do so. He gets off on being rude and condescending, and except for the heirs he sucks up to, everyone hates him, even other professors. It’s not surprising he’s the only professor on campus to be voted off the island and exiled from staff housing.
Even Cassius seemed surprised by how closely I have to weigh every word and phrase to ensure I don’t fall into a syntax pitfall that will earn me another point subtracted from my grade. If my guys didn’t already dislike Professor Abel, I’m pretty sure they hate him now. My laptop crashed while I was at the townhouse and I lost a section of my paper. Crying like a baby in front of them wasn’t exactly on my to-do list, but I was so overwhelmed by everything, I couldn’t hold back.
It took all three of us to stop Bash from stomping out of the house to hunt the Tasmanian devil shifter down so he could kill him.
The compromise we settled on is arriving later in the week, and I’m torn between being excited and frustrated. I’m trying to be as independent as possible, and while I can’t control Lucille sending me shit I’m ordered to accept, Bash is determined to solve all my problems with Romulus’ blood money. The nefarious provenance of his cash isn’t the issue, truthfully, because I’m pretty sure my parents are no cleaner than his family is. It’sdependingon someone that’s bothering me. I’ve learned you can’t trust people to be who they say they are—when you do, you inevitably get disappointed. If I don’t learn to take care of myself, I’ll be as useless as those idiotic fish faces I used to call friends.
My declaration of independence would have a lot more credence if I hadn’t bargained Bash out of murder by allowing him to buy me some egregiously expensive replacement Smackbook. Even Nico was cajoling me into letting them help by the end, and I couldn’t hold out any longer. After all, it will be a hell of a lot more useful to not have to worry about my old crappy laptop crashing again rather than accepting thousands of dollars of lace scraps, right?
Ugh. Not good, Dolly. Stop letting the hot wolf spoil you 24/7. Remember—people leave.
I want to argue with myself further, but I’m at the doorway of the lecture hall. If I don’t get inside, I’ll miss my chance to claim the best location for rapid escape. Shaking my head, I scramble into the room and drop into the seat I chose on the first day. The hall is usually empty when I arrive, but I notice the scrawny fisher cat in the back corner. He meets my gaze briefly, then goes back to drawing in his notebook, as if he’s worried someone will walk in and see him looking at me.
How have the Heathers terrified the student body so thoroughly that they either attack me or avoid me like I’m contagious? I know they ruled the roost at Shifter Secondary, but Apex has five times as many students, most of them older than us. My phone dings and I sigh, deciding whether I should unlock it to see what fresh hell is being posted on the app message boards. They can’t get to me via social media anymore—I deleted my old accounts and had my skunk hacker friend Clotilda set up untraceable ones to keep the harpies off my case. Once Heather E. figured out I gained access to the Apex app, my former besties started using the student message boards to spread lies and venom instead.
Too bad no one in this fucking place monitors student internet activity, right?
Except thereissomeone whose job it is to watch over digital student domains, but she’s a 6-foot tall ostrich shifter who barely gets home without some testosterone-laden asshole trying to make her dinner. Betsy sure as hell can’t confront the heirs about their nasty cyberbullying—if she did, she’d be lucky if all she lost was her job. That’s how the elites win here; they control who is in charge of what, and their pawns won’t fight back.
Finally giving in, swiping my DiePhone open and typing in my encryption key quickly. I discover the sound wasn’t from the Apex app—instead it’s an alert from the web crawlers I have on search terms that might relate to me. My eyes close as I open the video montage on Snoot Tube—it includes clips from the run for my life, my walk of shame at the Vom Prom, my trudge across campus in Bash’s borrowed clothes, and a laugh track over my battle in the shifter circle. Unsurprisingly, that bit has been edited to look as though Heather E. got the drop on me.
Just. Fucking. Great. They’ve threatened the A/V kids, I see.
A gasp from the back makes me turn my head and I give the fence-riding fisher cat a narrowed-eyed glare. If he thinks this video shows me being treated poorly, maybe he should grow a pair of fuzzy ones the next time the assholes in this class are torturing me. Otherwise, I don’t have time for his faux outrage.
“Oh, look! It’s the village bicycle, and she’s parked right in the front for easy access!” Heather C. crows as she walks in. She’s followed by Heather E.—who’s still wearing that ridiculous neck brace and holding onto the arms of B. and H like she needs support to walk.
I almost ask how she plays both the victimandthe bully at the same time without her head exploding, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of engaging with me. Instead, I flip my freshly-colored hair over my shoulder and pointedly close my screen. With an imperious arch of my brow, I grab my AirPreds and put them in my ears to hopefully end the conversation.
“Awfully dangerous to cut off one of your senses when you’re on the menu, pork chop,” Heather B. hisses as she guides her leader past me.
Continuing to pretend I can’t hear is more effective than reminding her I’m a goddamned bunny, not a pig, but that doesn’t mean the constant commentary about my animal isn’t frustrating. Refocusing, I open my textbook, checking over my notes for the practice exam we’re taking today. I spent hours last night pouring over the chapters full of pred propaganda, and though I’m aware my professor will deduct points on any open answers, I’m determined to get every single multiple-choice question correct.
“Good afternoon, class! I presume you are all ready for the practice exam,” Professor Abel says, bustling to the desk at the front of the hall. “I know I promised to split the exam into equal parts closed and open questions, but I hate to remain stagnant. So, I wrote an entirely new exam consisting only of essay questions, so I can really assess your depth of knowledge.”
My jaw drops. If there aren’t any strictly fact-based sections on the exam, I will certainly fail. This weasley little asshole will mark everything I say as incorrect or ding me on every possible pedantic point he can.
I have to say something.
“Professor?”
His beady eyes find me, a sneer crossing his lips as he replies. “Yes, Miss Drew? Is there a complaint from the prey gallery?”
“You had us study for an exam that no longer resembles the one we will be taking. It isn’t fair to penalize us simply because you changed your mind at the last minute,” I say, choosing each word carefully.
A bark of nasally laughter erupts from his throat for far longer than is professional. When he stops mocking me, he slams a stack of test packets on the desk. “Life is rarely fair, Miss Drew. As the professor, it is within my purview to change my test anytime I wish. However, since you feel unprepared, I’m going to insist you leave class for the day. You may return in our next session, to learn from your more studious classmates’ results.”
What? Is he fucking serious? He’s kicking me out of class?
“That's hardly a surprise, Professor. There are two reasons we’ve always called her Double D,” Heather E interjects with a smug grin.
I whip my head around, digging my nails into the desk to keep from losing control of the bunny simmering in my veins. “I wouldn’t run my cakehole if I was the one who thought the sinking of the Titanic was a made-up story in a movie. I mean, your entire theory was based on the fact ‘cameras weren’t even invented back then.’”
A low gasp followed by a chorus of laughter makes her shoot out of her seat, but Professor Abel raps his knuckle on the desk. “Despite Miss Erickson’s lack of human history knowledge, she’s at the top of the class inourhistory. Miss Drew, you need to exit so the students whowantto learn may take their exams. Run along, little bunny. Take your ‘F’ like an obedient afternoon snack.”
