Page 52 of Lethal in Pink

“Girl,” says the girl with the waterfall braids. She pitches her body forward, dropping her voice to the conspiratorial register reserved for state secrets. “If Professor Chen pulls another cold call on fiduciary duty, I am actually going to catch a charge.”

The table vibrates with performative panic. Eyeballs roll toward the ceiling; manicured hands slam against the sticky wood. I throw my head back on beat, releasing a laugh dialed to the exact frequency of effortless camaraderie. My facial muscles flex with the mechanical accuracy of a trap spring. Nobody looks closely enough to see the tension around my eyes.

“You think that’s bad?” Straw Flick Girl chews on her plastic mixer, her eyes wide. “I had to pitch the Uniform Commercial Code off the cuff. My slides looked like a cry for help.”

More collective shrieking. I tip the glass to my lips, letting the dead soda wet my tongue without swallowing. Keep the glass at chest height. Keep the smile neutral. Keep the boundary line drawn.

The conversation drifts through the standard Thursday night script: a house party in Silver Lake, who’s dropping out of Law Review, who’s sleeping with their seminar TA. I know their majors, their hometowns, and which ones use self-deprecation to mask the terror of being average. Especially Highlight Girl. Three layers of strobing powder catch the neon along her cheekbones, bright as a runway strip. She possesses the unbothered posture of someone who has never had a bank card declined or a boundary enforced.

She taps her acrylics against her phone screen, a sharp, rhythmic clack-clack-clack that makes the base of my skull ache.

“So,” she purrs, leaning down into the center of the table. The rest of them drop like dominoes, drawn into her orbit. “Has anyone actually talked to the new exchange student in Legal Environment?”

My thumb freezes against the sticky glass. My pulse doesn't spike—it drops. Cold and slow.

“Oh my god,” Waterfall Braids exhales, clutching her collarbone. “The tall one.”

“Korean,” Highlight Girl says, lingering on the vowels like she’s placing an order at a boutique hotel. “Broad shoulders. And his hands? Have you guys looked at his hands?” She spreads her fingers, curving them into the air.

A low, collective groan ripples across the table.

I take another microscopic sip of flat vodka. The liquid tastes like cheap alcohol and melted tap water.

“I would let him ruin my life,” Highlight Girl says, and she’s grinning now, teeth flashing green under the window neon, soaking in the rapt attention of the table. “Like, actually. Full permission. Take the wheel, buddy. Wreck the car. I'd let him absolutely demolish my pussy,” she says, “and then I'd say thank you after and offer him a glass of water.”

The table explodes. Squeals, hands slapped over open mouths, chairs scraping against the floorboards as they recoil in performative shock.

My mouth remains curved at the edges, fixed, like a porcelain fitting on a display doll.

Underneath my ribs, something shifts—a silent, heavy click, like a deadbolt sliding home. It isn't green-eyed jealousy. It isn't hot rage. It’s a sudden, dry clarity. I look at the thick layer of poreless foundation masking her cheeks, the wet gleam of her lip gloss, the effortless entitlement of her wide, laughing mouth, and a very specific image blooms behind my eyes:

A sheet of eighty-grit sandpaper. The coarse, gray grit pressed firm against her cheekbone. Dragged down, slowly, past the contour line, taking the cheek-tint and the top three layers of epidermis with it until the skin underneath bleeds bright and raw.

Not fast. No sudden impact. Just sustained, deliberate pressure until the polish is gone.

I don't blink. I don't move a muscle.

The pink neon sweeps back across her face, lighting up her features, rendering her pretty again. Beauty is a shield; it softens the world around people like her. It keeps them safe from the things happening in the dark behind other people’s eyes.

I set my glass down. The bottom strikes the laminate with a dull, flat thud.

“Did anyone actually finish the Crim Pro briefing?” I ask.

My voice isn't loud, but it has a low, dense weight that cuts straight through the lingering giggles.

“Bauer is going to tear us open on Monday if we can’t trace the fourth amendment exceptions. I’m setting up a review group Sunday if anyone needs the outline.”

The air at the table shifts instantly. The sexual fantasy evaporates, replaced by the cold, familiar panic of academic failure. They snap back to reality, arguing about search warrants and traffic stops, oblivious to the lever I just pulled.

They don't notice the sudden pivot. They don't notice that my hands are completely still. They don't see that for four seconds, I sat three feet away from them and methodically peeled the skin off a girl's face in my mind.

This is the work. Managing the temperature of the room. I’ve done it since I was sixteen, turning smiles into barricades and eye contact into a distraction. It isn't a personality trait. It’s armor.

My phone vibrates against my thigh. I pull it out under the edge of the table.

CALENDAR ALERT: Library / Ethics Project. 10:00 PM.

I glance at my watch: 9:17 PM.