Page 13 of I Hope This Doesn't Find
Forget a sinkhole, I think grimly as I snap my laptop shut again, turning my eyes to the high ceiling.Just let the building collapse on top of me instead.
•••
Most unfortunately, the building does not collapse within the last three hours of school—but my life does.
Everywhere I go, whispers follow. From the way people are acting, you’d think I was caught murdering a man with my bare hands or something, but I guess this is a kind of murder. As of today, Sadie the Model Student, the Perfect School Captain, is effectively dead.
“It’s really notthatbad,” Abigail says as we head down the corridors together. We have math in five minutes, but for once, I’m not worried about the prospect of a pop quiz. A girl elbows her friend and nods in my direction when we pass. They both dissolve into loud, hysterical giggles.
The queasy feeling that’s taken up permanent residence in my stomach burrows even deeper.
“What’s so funny?” Abigail yells after them, becauseshe’snever been afraid of confrontation. “Your new bangs?”
“Her bangs actually looked pretty cute,” I say through my fingers.
“Yeah, no, they really suit her,” Abigail agrees in a lower voice. “And okay, look, the situation isn’tgreat, but I’ve had a chance to read through some of those emails you sent out—”
“You and everyone else in this school,” I mutter, raising my hands higher to hide my face. Another group of friends have stopped outside the bathroom just to stare at me, snippets of their conversation floating after us.
“. . . that’s her . . .”
“I heard Rosie completely flipped her shit this morning . . .”
“Yeah, figures. Did you see what she wrote?”
“Forget Rosie—I’d besopissed if I were Julius Gong. Like, damn, she reallywent there—”
Abigail continues, louder, clearly in an effort to drown them out. “Of course the tone was a tad harsh in places, and I feel like we really need to set aside some time and dissect your hatred toward Julius—”
My eyes close briefly with horror. “Please, I beg of you, don’t mention him.” I don’t want to ever hear his name again or see him or be reminded in any way of his existence. I don’t want to remember the heat of his lips near my skin, the glint in his eyes, the malice dripping from his voice.
“Fine, but what I’m saying is, you didn’t do anything illegal. You were just being honest. If I were you, darling, I would own it. Let them fear you a little. Let them know that you have your own thoughts and feelings too.”
“I just don’t understand how it happened,” I tell her, walking faster. If I slow down, if I think too hard, I’ll fall apart. “I would never,eversend those emails out. It must have been some kind of computer virus. God, I knew I shouldn’t have downloaded those mock papers from that dodgy website. I only did it because they weren’t available anywhere else.”
Abigail chews her lip. “Well, I . . .” But whatever she’s about to say dies on her tongue as she comes to an abrupt halt at the end of the hall.
It doesn’t take long to figure out why.
Next to our shiny awards display cabinet, filled with countless trophies and medals for everything from the rowing club to the chess team to interstate debating, there’s a framed photo of Julius and me. We had taken it in a professional photo shoot not long after we were announced as cocaptains. We’re both wearing the full school uniform, his tie fastened, my black hair pulled into a tight bun, our badges pinned to the center of our pockets. He has his arms crossed loosely over his chest, his air of superiority palpable even through the glass frame. I’m smiling more than he is, the freckles scattered over my full cheeks obvious in the light of the camera flash, my thick lashes successfully curled to look even longer.
The photographer had requested that we stand closer together until we were touching, but neither of us was willing to budge any farther, so there’s still a good inch of distance between us.
And now, in that gap, someone’s drawn a red, jagged line all the way down the middle.
They’ve also added a spear in my hand, and a sword in his. Instead of cocaptains, we look like we’re going to war against each other. Like we belong on the poster of some low-budget superhero movie.
“Oh my god,” I breathe.
Abigail purses her lips. “Don’t panic—”
I panic.
“This is awful,” I hiss under my breath, pressing two hands to the glass like I can somehow reach through and scrub the photo clean. “This looks so bad. This makesuslook so bad.”
“I know what you mean, but if it helps, you both actually look pretty hot—”
“Abigail.”It’s a half cry of protest, half yell of distress. I hate that I even need to be comforted;I’malways the one who comforts other people. I hate needing anything from anyone.
