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1
WREN
One thing is for sure, as I walk through campus on the first day of classes, holding on tight to the strap of my backpack and trying to stay out of everybody’s way, I do not belong here.
“Looks like somebody picked over the racks down at Goodwill.” Soft, high-pitched laughter follows me across the quad, which is surrounded on four sides by tall, stately buildings. The sort of buildings you see on TV, in movies, with ivy on the outside walls and everything. The entire place practically drips money. I keep my gaze trained on the ground, expecting to see cash oozing up through the few cracks visible in the pavement—very few—everything around here is close to perfect.
Again. I do not belong. I’m anything but perfect.
I don’t want to be here. That’s the only thing I know for sure. Most people would kill for the chance to attend Wicked Falls University, which is usually reserved for kids from the town’s wealthiest families. In other words, it’s not the kind of school I ever would have dreamed of attending, but then life has a wayof doing whatever it wants sometimes. It doesn’t matter what I want. How I feel.
Somebody wants me here.
“It’s official, kiddo. You’re going to college with all the rich kids. They won’t look down on us after this.”I can still hear Mom’s laughter, can see the way her eyes sparkled when she gave me the news during one of our rare visits. It didn’t matter that this was a bad idea. That she was basically condemning me to spend time with people who hate me.Because of her. That’s the worst part; they hate me because of what she has done, what she is known for… sleeping around with married men. Which is coincidentally the reason I got into this school. There she was, laughing it up and swirling red wine in her glass, not realizing she basically signed my death warrant.
I tug the hem of my washed out T-shirt, which used to be a dark purple but is now more like a faded lilac. It’s shrunk a little bit, and I keep feeling it ride up over the waistband of my worn-out jeans as I walk to the building where my next class is held. I had calculus earlier, and it was actually okay. I expected a bunch of dirty looks and whispers, but most people didn’t seem to care, even if they did notice me.
My luck is not going to last for long. It never does. Over the years, I’ve learned it’s better not to get my hopes up. If you expect the worst, you’re always prepared when it comes.
“Who’s that, one of the janitors?” This time a guy asks the question, laughing like he just told the funniest joke ever as I walk past where he and his friends are hanging out on the grass. I won’t bother looking. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing I heard him.
“Are you kidding?” a girl demands like she’s offended. “Don’t insult the real janitors like that!” Now there’s more laughter, and somehow it hangs on me like a heavy cloak, waterlogged, dragging me down. It makes my feet heavy, but I keep movingwith my head low and my eyes on the ground. I can’t believe this is my life.
My Early American Literature class is held in a normal classroom versus a big lecture hall with stadium seating. I was kind of hoping to hide in the back and be the first one out the door when class is over, but there’s no such luck. Rows of desks are arranged on the linoleum floor, and the bright fluorescent lights overhead mean I might as well be walking under a spotlight as I enter the room.
I would swear the temperature drops ten degrees when I enter, and it definitely gets quieter as my presence is registered by the people who are already waiting for class to start.I have every right to be here. I’m just as good as they are. My lame affirmations didn’t work very well last night when I was trying to fall asleep, and they’re not doing much better now. When am I ever going to be able to stop paying for somebody else’s choices?
Don’t let them see. Don’t let them know. Honestly, it doesn’t matter. This entire town has made me their mascot in some sick, twisted game whose rules they never bothered teaching me. They get off on tearing me down, laughing at me, making me the symbol of everything beneath them. Because what else do a bunch of rich, bored people have to do with their time? I don’t even know why they bother going to college. They’ll just live off their family money forever. If I had that kind of money, and I was set for life, I wouldn’t bully other people who don’t have it as good as me.
It’ll be better to find a seat in the back of the room and keep to myself. I walk that way, staying close to the wall to keep from brushing against anyone or getting tripped. I’m so close to escape, or at least something that feels like it.
That is until I lift my gaze enough to see who is already sitting in the back row. Sprawled out at a desk, wearing a blank expression that is somehow also threatening.
Briggs Weston. The ringleader. So much for hiding away back here when he hates me more than everybody else combined.
Those green eyes of his are like laser beams staring straight into my soul and burning me up inside. I have never seen so much open hatred in anybody in all my life. The worst part is, he would be handsome if he didn’t always look like he wants to rip my head off. He’s got a chiseled face and sensuous lips that are now tugging downward in a scowl. Any decent person would look at me, then look away. But no, he’s not decent, meaning he won’t bother with politeness. He would rather stare daggers at me, like he hates me for simply existing.
What I’m not going to do is let him freeze me in place. That doesn’t mean I want to sit anywhere near him, though. My eyes sweep the area, my heart pounding out of my chest when all I find is one taken desk after another. There’s an empty desk two spots in front of where he’s sitting, looking sullen and hateful. My salvation, even if it means sitting closer to him than I would like.
I slide into it and keep my head down as Professor Morgan enters the room. I can’t believe my relief at his presence. Finally, there’s a levelheaded adult around. I don’t feel so much like I have to look over my shoulder in case Briggs decides to mess with me.
The thing is, I don’t have to look. I feel him watching me, staring at me, hating me. It’s a surprise my long, brown hair doesn’t catch fire from the heat of his gaze. I’ve never done anything to him, or to anybody, but that doesn’t matter. Not when my mother is the town slut who happened to sleep with his dad.
The professor clears his throat and adjusts his glasses while the room quiets down. “Welcome to Early American Literature.”
For the first time, I can honestly say I hate Briggs, because I would enjoy this if it wasn’t for him. I know it’s nerdy, but I love reading books from this time period. It’s like getting a look at what life was like for the people who walked the streets of Wicked Falls centuries ago. To think, I was really looking forward to this class.
The professor goes on after handing out the syllabus. “You’ll find it on the website, as well,” he explains. “But I like to hand out a hard copy on the first day of class to make sure all of you have held it in your hands and can’t complain you never got the chance to look at it.” There’s soft, knowing laughter in the classroom when he says this.
“As you can see,” he continues, “a major percentage of your final grade depends upon your midterm project. You’ll be charged with analyzing a work of early American literature, identifying and breaking down the major themes, explaining how the presence of these themes in those early works has trickled down through the centuries. Are these modes of thinking still prevalent today? Can you see how today’s attitudes might have been shaped by these early beliefs and thought patterns? I look forward to seeing what all of you manage to discover with your partners.”
Back up. Partner? And here I was, with my blood humming and my head spinning, looking forward to diving into a book and spending weeks analyzing it. I mean, that is pretty much heaven as far as I’m concerned. I wish he had mentioned the whole partner aspect first.
“That being said, you can take the last few minutes of class to find your partners.”
Oh, fuck me. It’s not bad enough I’ve had to sit here while Briggs stared daggers, but now I have to secure a partner for this project? I know before I dare lift my head and look around what I’m going to find: a bunch of jerks who would rather take afailing grade than partner up with me. The daughter of a home-wrecker, a slut who has worked her way through half the men in town—at least. I carry that with me everywhere I go in this awful town full of awful people. As far as they’re concerned, I’m no better than she is.
One of the girls sitting a few seats in front of me turns in her chair, like she’s looking for somebody sitting near me. Our eyes meet and for one brief, breathless second, I think she might at least be kind. I should know better by now. “Get real,” she mutters, laughing before catching the eye of her friend and giving her a bright smile.
