Page 37 of Wicked Elites

Michelle raised her head as though checking for signs of Cormac. “She committed suicide in the summer term. Right on the summer solstice. Some people say she got heavily involved with witchcraft.”

I reared back. “Why would an intelligent girl do a thing like that?”

“Mental illness,” said a girl from another table who had been introduced to me as Cara. “There was something in her eyes that year.”

“Didn’t anyone report it?” I asked.

Cara shook her head. “We thought it was a newfound determination to drag up her averages.”

“They work us really hard.” Michelle’s shoulders sagged. “The pressure to keep up perfect grades is unbelievable.”

The little girl walked back, her face red. “Miss Claymore and Mr. Gibbons say I should apologize for what I did.”

I sat back and waited.

“Blah, blah, blah, blah!” with a lightning-fast movement, she upended the plate on my lap, splashing watery shepherd’s pie all over my skirt, and rushed toward the exit.

Miss Claymore grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and marched her out of the room.

“Little brat.” I shot Leopold my filthiest glare. If anyone deserved my wrath, it was him for corrupting an eleven-year-old.

* * *

The week plodded on with a slew of irritating pranks I couldn’t pin on the kings. First, one of the guys offering to help me lose my virginity stuck a sticker on my back that said 10k Punt, which I assumed was both a reference to Ireland’s old currency, a synonym for a bet, and a rhyming pun on female genitalia.

Next, some idiot pulled up my skirt—I whacked him in the face with a textbook before Cormac hauled him to Mrs. Benazir’s office. Another time, I found a used condom hanging off my doorknob, and on another occasion, someone threw orange juice at my back.

On Friday, I returned to my room to find my side ransacked, and the framed watercolor on the mantle smashed and torn to pieces. Mom had painted that with her love and her heart and her soul. Whoever did this just destroyed one of the few pieces of Mom I had left.

Grief lanced me through the heart, and my legs collapsed under the weight of my misery. “Oh, no.” I fell to my hands and knees and sobbed. “No!”

Ashley stepped through the door. “What’s going on?”

“Someone ripped up Mom’s watercolor,” I said through a voice thick with tears.

Ashley’s face paled, and she staggered back. “I… I need a drink.”

Mom’s reminder to take care of my sister flashed to the forefront of my mind. “No, stay.”

She spun on her heel and fled the room.

I curled into a ball and let out all my anger, all my frustration in harsh, wracking sobs. Mom was gone, and so was Dad. This destruction of Mom’s soul had cemented my loss, and it weighed on my heart like a boulder. Even worse, I was failing Mom’s wishes, and I didn’t have the strength to support Ashley.

When I had cried myself hoarse, and the tears stopped flowing, I pulled myself up and walked to the door. This was one round of bullying I would not overlook. They had gone too far, and it was time to speak to Miss Claymore.

* * *

It took nearly an hour to find the deputy head. She wasn’t in her office, wasn’t in the dining room, and wasn’t with Mrs. Benazir. After checking the lecture theater, the staff common room, and the library, I walked back to her office and knocked.

“Enter,” she said.

I stepped into the room to find her sitting on the fainting couch with a book.

“Miss Evergreen,” she asked. “Are you here to discuss the performance of your sister?”

“Something terrible has happened.”

“What?” She placed the book on the couch and stood. “Who did it?”