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“Nope.” I giggle. “I’m going to ignore her; it’ll drive her nuts.”
The moment our teacher, Mr. Jones, walks into the classroom, Gulliver makes a big deal of leading me over to him and introducing me, loud enough that no one in the room could possibly miss it. My new desk is in the back row, situated between Gulliver and Davis. With our backs to the wall, we have the perfect view of the rest of the class, and my eyes linger on my sister’s empty desk, three rows across, three rows back—just like every other class, so we never sit in the wrong seat.
“Miss Rhodes, would you happen to know where your sister is?” Mr. Jones asks loudly.
“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know. We don’t have the same homeroom,” I tell him with a warm, trustworthy smile.
“I think I saw her in the senior common room, maybe she lost track of time,” Davis suggests, studiously reading the textbook he has open on the desk in front of him, fighting to hide his shit-eating grin.
“Mr. Aldrich, perhaps you would be kind enough to go and look for her and let her know that if she’s not in her seat in the next five minutes, she’ll receive a tardy mark,” Mr. Jones says, a tight smile on his lips.
“Of course, Mr. Jones. It’d be my pleasure,” Davis says, pushing out from behind his desk and happily jogging out of the classroom, his face stoic until he’s out of the door when he flashes us a cheesy thumbs-up and disappears to retrieve my sister.
There are very few times in my life when I truly wish I had a camera, but the look on my sister’s face when she walks back into our English class and spots me sitting next to Gulliver in the back row is one of them.
Just like normal, her hair is poker straight, her makeup soft and ultra-feminine, her lips pink and glossy. She always looks so polished, and it makes me a little wistful that even after being made up and styled by a stylist this morning, I still look a little rough around the edges, like the perfect just rolls off me.
Strangely, in the last three years, I’ve realized that it’s the imperfection that I like the most about myself. If I were perfect, I’d look like her, and that little bit of mussed uniqueness is how I know I’m actually staring at my own reflection.
I fight back a smile as her eyes widen and she glances comically around the room. She looks like she’s making sure she’s in the right classroom, even though Davis is behind her, sporting an infectious grin, as he moves past her and slides into his seat next to mine.
For the first time, I’m the one who is sitting in the middle of the two most influential people in the room, and she’s not. I’m not ashamed to admit I get a kick out of knowing that she probably hates me in this moment.
“Miss Rhodes, please take your seat. I think we’ve waited for you long enough. If you’re late for my class again without a hall pass, I’ll fail you,” Mr. Jones says, his eyebrow arched as he points at her empty desk.
Leaning back, Gulliver slides his arm along the back of my chair. “How does it feel?” he whispers.
I smile, and he smiles back, and we don’t need to say anything else. This is only the start, but so far, revenge is very, very sweet.
My next class is with Kip, and he meets me outside my English classroom, and we walk to statistics together. I take a moment to introduce myself to the teacher, then take the seat beside Kip’s and wait. When Penelope appears, her eyes find me the moment she steps into the room, like she was expecting me to be here. Her shoulders go rigid, and her back stays ramrod straight in her seat as she darts angry looks my way while the teacher delivers the lesson.
The text messages start just before lunch.
Mom – We need to talk, call me.
I ignore it, and another message appears a few minutes later.
Mom – This is not acceptable behavior, call me now!
The next one follows almost immediately.
Mom – You WILL be attending chemistry, no excuses, and we will discuss today’s behavior when the driver collects you this afternoon.
My heart starts to thump erratically when I read the final message. She can’t force me to go home, can she? I don’t ever plan to show them to anyone, but the doctor insisted that I take pictures of my face, stomach, and ribs when Mark took me to see him after my parents attacked me. If I have to, I can threaten to publish them, but it’s my trump card and something I’ll only resort to if I have no other options.
“Are you okay?” Gulliver asks, startling me when he appears at my side.
I’m not entirely sure when it happened, but Gulliver has made himself my safe place, and now that he’s here, all I want to do is to bury myself in his warm, reassuring arms and let him protect me. But I can’t allow myself to become too reliant on him.
The lines in our relationship have blurred so much that I have no idea what we are anymore. Are we enemies, simply using each other, or are we friends? We’re lovers, but sex doesn’t equate to feelings. Somehow it feels like we’re all of those things, but what does it mean when two people are both enemies, friends, and lovers?
“Ghost?” Gulliver calls, grabbing my arm and pulling me to a stop. “What’s going on? Did something happen?”
“My mom’s been texting,” I admit.
“What the fuck did she say to you? Why do you look upset?” he demands, pulling me into his chest and enclosing me in his strong arms.
“I’m fine,” I say, my voice muffled.
