Page 67 of Fractured Fates
“You ever wondered whether it’s you that’s the asshole, Blackwaters?”
I ignore him, picking up the pitchfork and sticking the throngs into the mound of manure. I could toss a nice lump of it straight over the professor’s head. I linger on that mental image next, not giving a shit whether he sees it or not.
“Try it, and you’ll find yourself buried face down in that pile,” he says darkly, dropping back into his seat and taking obvious delight in torturing me, by picking up a bottle of cold water from by his feet and gulping the stuff down.
I lick my dry lips, and grit my teeth.
Another two hours pass, other students filter into the gardens, lying out on the grass in the sunshine or kicking a ball about. Several of them stop to stare at me, whispering behind their hands or being less subtle about it and laughing out loud at me. To my surprise, the professor growls at them and sends them on their way, telling them not to distract me.
Finally, when the sun is high and scorching in the sky, the professor rises to his feet and stretches.
“Break time,” he says, tossing his paper into the seat of the deck chair.
I drop the pitchfork and collapse onto the ground, breathing heavily.
The professor peers down his nose at me. “You need to improve your fitness.”
“Seriously?” I say. “It’s like 500 degrees out here and I’m hungover as fuck.” I point towards the pile. “I’ve moved nearly half of that stuff this morning. I’d like to see you do better.”
“You would?”
“Yes, I would.”
His mouth twitches and I know I’m going to regret this.
He turns in the direction of the manure pile, waves his hands in a circular motion and I watch in horror as the muck glides through the air and sprinkles perfectly over the flowerbeds.
I screw up my eyes and cycle through every curse word in my vocabulary. How could I have been so stupid?
“It seems to come naturally to you,” Stone says, and I open my eyes just in time to see a large clump of manure falling through the air in my direction. I try to twist out of its path, but most of it lands over my head anyway.
I cough and splutter, shit in my mouth, in my nose and in my eyes. My stomach heaves again and I try to spit the dirt away.
The professor leans over me, his hands on his knees. When he speaks his voice is so quiet only I can hear him and none of the spectators, who have gathered to take photos of me.
“And you think you’d last on the run, Blackwaters? Think again.”
* * *
By the timeI’ve made it back to my dorm room, the photos of me lying on the ground and covered in shit must have circulated around the entire school, because Winnie’s waiting for me with a look of sympathy and she seems to know some version of the story.
“Professor Stone?” she asks.
“Who else?”
“Honestly,” she says, taking a step away from me because I stink to high heaven. “It could be any number of assholes in this school.”
I laugh, because she’s right.
I grab a towel from our room and stomp down to the bathroom. People cower away from me as I pass down the corridor as if I’m diseased and they may catch something. One girl from the year below shouts after me, “You better not leave the showers covered in shit!”
The water’s cold when I duck inside, but today I’m not bothered. I’m sweltering hot anyway and the cool water is a relief. When I’ve scrubbed the shit from my eyes, my nose and my mouth and cleaned my face five more times, I tip my head right back to let the water flow straight into my mouth and down my throat. It’s glorious and I stand like that pretending that the rest of the world doesn’t exist, imagining I’m back home standing in the meadow with rain battering my face and not some shitty shower.
My moment of peace is soon broken though, when someone hammers on the door and tells me not to waste up all the water.
I scrub the rest of my body, scouring my hands and fingers until they’re red raw. It’s no use though. My fingernails seem to be stained a permanent black and I can’t get all the dirt out from underneath them.
It feels like the universe is punishing me. Yesterday, I felt amazing. Once Winnie had altered one of her dresses for me, styled my hair and made up my face, I’d felt like someone else. Someone who could almost be considered presentable, if not beautiful. I felt like maybe I did belong here. With these people. In this school. And despite Tristan Kennedy’s attempts to disrupt my evening, I’d had fun. With my friends.Friends. Something I’ve never had before.
