Page 14 of Breaking Isolde
Which is how I end up at the dining hall, walking headfirst into the mouth of the monster.
It’s big and obnoxious, filled with the sounds of rich kids chattering about their latest car purchase. Everyone is packed together in dense, territorial clumps, like zoo animals who’ve learned that crowding close is the only way to avoid being picked off. Or like packs of wolves, waiting for a little rabbit to cross their path.
There’s a raised dais at the far end, a literal feeding platform for the Academy’s apex predators. I recognize the four Feral Boysinstantly: Colton, Jules, Bam, and, of course, Rhett. One chair is empty and somehow that makes the scene more ominous.
They’re dressed in blue and gold blazers and sit shoulder to shoulder, carving through roast chicken and ham like it’s sacramental. Bam’s already laughing with his mouth full, his teeth too white against the red of his tongue, and Jules is holding court with a pack of second-stringers trying to catch his eye. Rhett barely glances at his food, instead surveying the room with a lazy, wolfish scan.
He catches me in the entry, his gaze rolling over the crowd and fixing on mine with interest. He doesn’t smile, but there’s a small, knowing up-tilt to the corner of his mouth.
I push through the first row of tables, keeping my spine straight and my chin up. The rules here are the same as in any other prison: survive by all means necessary.
The buffet for the normies is a joke—boiled vegetables, slabs of meatloaf sweating under heat lamps, rice that’s already fused into a single, continent-sized mass. I fill my tray with enough calories to avoid fainting and then scan for a place to sit.
Every table is full. Not actually, but in the sense that no seat is truly empty unless you’re invited to it. I try the far left, then the right, then the cluster nearest the window. Each time, the residents lock eyes and perform the same ballet of rejection: bags moved to block a chair, a backpack thrown on the table, one girl physically turning her body to shield the space like a goalie defending the net.
At the fourth table, a pack of girls in matching maroon sweaters go silent as I approach. The leader—platinum blonde, pink lipstick, nails filed to glassy points—looks me up and down, then murmurs something to the girl on her right. The whole table snickers. I catch the phrase “suicide chic” in the middle of it.
I keep moving, even though my palms have started to sweat. I remind myself of the plan: get in, get out, learn the lay of the land. But the sound of the giggle follows me, sticky and electric. I squeeze the tray tighter, the edge digging into the bruises on my hip, and find an open spot at a table next to the serving station.
I’m halfway through arranging my utensils when a boy with perfect teeth and a rugby neck sits down across from me, swinging his leg over the bench like he’s mounting a horse. He doesn’t say anything for a while, just watches as I try to peel the top off a container of ketchup. His lips are parted, like he’s waiting for me to mess up.
After a minute, he finally leans in. “Didn’t think we’d see you in the zoo so soon.”
His voice is slick and nasal. I know the type—used to talking shit with impunity, never been punched in the face.
I raise my eyebrows. “Were you planning on missing it?”
He grins, showing off a row of fake-perfect incisors. “Nah. Just didn’t expect to see you alone.”
I spear a chunk of meatloaf with my fork. “Guess I’m not as popular as you.”
He laughs, but it’s forced. “Nah. You’re way more popular. Everyone’s been talking about you.”
I meet his eyes and don’t blink. “You have a lot to say about me?”
He shrugs, suddenly less sure. “Not me, personally. Just… you know.”
I do know. I take a bite and chew it slow. “My sister?”
The word lands like a dead animal between us. He can’t look away, but he’s not brave enough to stare me down. I watch the sweat form at his hairline.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “It’s just… people talk.”
I lean forward, elbows on the table, fork in hand like a weapon. “What do they say?”
He glances at the Boys, then back at me. “Just that, uh… it’s kinda weird you’re here after, you know. What happened.”
I wait. He doesn’t elaborate.
Finally, I put down my fork. “If you’re going to say something, say it.”
He shifts in his seat, eyes darting to the Feral Boys again. “They said your sister… like, she… never mind.”
I sit back, crossing my arms. “She what?”
He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
It does, but I don’t force it. He’s not the enemy. He’s just a mouthpiece for a system that wants me to hate myself.
