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I’m so tired, I’m sick to my stomach, though that could also have to do with knowing I’ll see Briggs in English class. I tried to work a little on our project last night since what else was going to do, really? It’s not like I was going to sleep with what sounded like a wrestling match happening in the living room. I know Briggs choseThe Scarlet Letterfor our project as a message to me. Any little thing he can do to remind me who I am, or who he thinks I am.
My stomach is churning by the time I enter the building. I consider stopping off in the bathroom, in case I really do have to hurl, but I’m already running late as it is. The last thing I want is for the whole class to watch me duck into the room feeling guilty. They already pay too much attention to me as it is.
The sight of an empty desk behind my usual seat sends a rush of warm relief flowing through me. He’s not here. Professor Morgan is already at the front of the room and about to start the lecture, and Briggs isn’t here yet. Maybe he’s missing class today. The steel band around my lungs loosens, and I can breathe more freely by the time I slide into my seat. Finally, something is going my way.
It’s a shame my relief doesn’t wake me up a little more. As soon as I’m comfortable, a yawn almost splits my head in two. We are really going to have to talk about respecting my schedule. I don’t think I ask for much. A decent night’s sleep shouldn’t be a luxury. The odds of catching Buck when he isn’t either drunk or painfully hungover are low, but I need to try.
The professor’s voice drones on as he goes through a series of slides full of notes I really should be writing down. My hand is too heavy to work a pen. It wouldn’t help much if I could, anyway, since the words on the screen at the front of the room are blurry. I rub my itchy eyes, but it doesn’t help. I’m too tired.
From where I’m sitting in the back, I’m barely visible. The lights are low so we can see the screen better. That’s not helping. It’s dark and quiet enough in here that the idea of resting my head on the desk is way too tempting. I can’t help it. I need to. I can’t keep my eyes open. Just a catnap to refresh me a little, is all.
The sound of a few dozen people getting up from their desks all at once is better than an alarm clock. My head snaps up and, for a second, I’m caught in that confusing moment where I don’tknow where I am or what’s happening around me. All I did was close my eyes, and now everybody’s leaving.
Once I hear the snickers and see the laughing faces staring at me, it all makes sense. I slept through class.Shit!At least Professor Morgan doesn’t seem to have noticed. He’d be giving me a dirty look by now if he had, but he’s not paying attention as he gets his things together.
“Have a nice nap, Sleeping Beauty?” someone asks. “You snored loud enough. I could barely hear what Morgan was saying.”
I can’t help but flush with embarrassment as I shove my notebook into my backpack. “Better wipe up all that drool on your desk.” Somebody else snickers. Was I drooling? I duck my head and run a hand over my mouth, but I don’t feel anything. I’m so sick of these people. Why don’t they pick something else to care about?
I’m ready to make a run for it by the time I sling the backpack over my shoulder, and that’s when I notice something is off. It takes me a second to figure it out—that’s what happens when you wake up from a nap with everybody staring and laughing. It takes time to come back to reality.
Finally, it hits me. My head feels lighter than it did before class. Without thinking, I reach back, patting it.
My blood freezes in my veins. Shock and humiliation fill my chest.
There is no pretending not to care. No playing it cool. Not when the only thing my hand finds is the bluntly cut ends of hair that used to reach my waist, but now barely reaches my shoulders. The rest of my hair now lies on the floor, still in the braid I wound this morning.
They cut my hair. I fell asleep, and somebody cut off my entire braid.
Hot, bitter tears fill my eyes, blurring my vision as I stare down at what was attached to my head before I fell asleep. Something in me won’t let me believe what I’m looking at, but it’s real. And now what’s left on my head is uneven, choppy, ugly. That’s how they want me to feel, just as ugly as they are, all of them, in their ugly hearts. I can’t stand the sound of their snide laughter another second, and I don’t care anymore how it looks to run out of here. I don’t even bother taking the braid with me. Let somebody else clean it up.
I’m in such a hurry and half-blinded by tears that I run straight into a broad chest once I reach the hallway. “Wow. You’re in that much of a hurry to get out of class?”
Oh, god. Of all the things I don’t need. Briggs’s nastiness is like a disease—something cold and ugly that settles deeper into my bones the longer he talks. “Just let me go,” I whisper, and I’m not talking about right now, in this moment. Why won’t he let me go?
What a surprise. He acts like I didn’t say a word. “What the hell did you do to your hair? It’s a fucking mess.”
Right. Like I’m going to confess what just happened. It’s a shame he couldn’t be here—I’m sure he would’ve gotten off on it. “It was time for a change,” I lie, lifting my head, daring him to challenge me. I don’t have to act like a victim. I can’t give these assholes the satisfaction.
He shrugs it off. “Anyway, I’ve had a busy morning.”
“Congratulations.” I have already heard enough of his voice this morning to last me the rest of my life. When I try to walk around him and duck into the bathroom to get a look at the damage to my hair, he stands in my way.
“Rude.” He snickers. “Aren’t you going to ask what I was doing?”
“I wasn’t going to, no. It’s none of my business.”
“But it is, because it has to do with you.” Obviously, I’m not playing along and it’s starting to get to him, setting his teeth on edge. “You don’t have to go back to that shithole apartment anymore.”
I must be hearing things. “What did you just say?” I ask, stopping dead and looking up at him. Running to the ladies’ room can wait.
“You heard me. No more living in that shitty apartment.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.” With a triumphant grin, he explains, “You have a dorm room. You’re welcome.”
None of this makes sense. I’m afraid to ask for more information, but I’m going to have to. “Why? There weren’t any rooms left. How?—”
