This time it’s a fresh start with the other seniors getting accustomed to the daily schedules. The only difference is they spent the last three years learning the ins and outs of this school and they understand the innate social hierarchy much better than me.
They know who to go to for a fix, who to avoid hooking up with if they don’t want to catch an STI, which teachers will let delinquent misdeeds slide and which ones are hardasses.
And which seats to avoid.
I find that out the hard way.
I’m late to study hall because I got held up after my class in the computer lab, enjoying my chat about Photoshop and Lightroom with Ms. Huang. I got lost on the way, the huge campus like a maze to navigate. The auditorium is packed by the time I make it several minutes after the second bell.
“Do you have a late pass?” A teacher in a tracksuit signals me forward with two fingers to the table in front of the stage, where she guards the hapless students of study hall.
Someone smugly mutters, “Busted.”
Rolling my eyes, I trudge down to the stage, aware of all the eyes on me. The vultures are out in force today. It’s the beginning of school, how exciting can it be to watch someone get a demerit over tardiness?
“I don’t have a late pass. I’m sorry, I got lost,” I explain when I reach the front.
The teacher squints at me. “I don’t recognize you.”
“I’m new.”
“Where are you coming from?”
“Second floor computer lab in the north building.”
“You mean the south,” she corrects. Frowning, she waves me off. “Don’t be late again without a late slip, please. Find a seat and work quietly.”
Nodding, I step away and head for the first empty chair I spot rather than skulking back up the aisles to search in the back of the theater. I don’t need to piss off the teachers into giving me a detention in my second week at Silver Lake.
I dump my bag on the armrest and catch the group in the row back watching with hawk-like focus. Furrowing my brows, I ignore them. What’s their deal?
I plop into the seat and immediately shriek when there’s nothing to catch me, the broken seat going vertical. I slide right off the cushion to the sticky floor and blink wide eyes at my surroundings. Hyena laughter echoes in the auditorium.
The group behind are the loudest.
I shoot them a dirty look.
“Five points for the squeal,” a dude with a green beanie declares.
“All right,” calls the teacher. “Settle down.”
She shoots an unimpressed look at me. Like I’m causing trouble on purpose.
I struggle to my feet with as much dignity as I can muster, my cheeks hot. I smooth my hands over my skirt and freeze when I feel the unpleasant stickiness that followed me from the ground.
The shrieking from the girls in the row behind me increases. One guy’s face is red from laughing at me.
I grit my teeth and carefully swipe my fingers over the wad of gum stuck to my skirt, shuddering.
“Eugh.”
“Here.”
A girl further down the row with hair the blue-gray color of a thundercloud offers me a napkin.
“Thanks.”
I take it and clean what I can from my skirt.
“That seat’s been broken for two years, but the school hasn’t fixed it. You’d think they would with how much money they have, but no. Seat 143. Remember it, you don’t want to run into the same problem again. People usually use it to dump their gum off instead of finding a trash can.”
“Seat 143,” I echo. “Got it. I appreciate it, thank you.”
When I look up to make a joke about getting myself into a sticky situation, she’s bent over her work, nail-bitten fingers sticking out of her baggy sleeves. She doesn’t have the blazer, just the white shirt and the green plaid skirt.
I scoot a few chairs down and subtly check the integrity of the chair before I take a seat. The catty group one row back cackle.
The teacher's level of caring has plummeted. She's absorbed in her phone.
“Those fireworks were epic on Friday,” the guy in the beanie says. I sense his hat is against uniform regulations, the same ones I’m breaking with my boots. “And my boy got with Kira in the lake.”
“Shut up, Kira was with me all night,” a girl counters. She blows a bubble with her gum and pops it. “Zach wishes he could hit that, but I’m pretty sure she’s dating Mallory now.”
Beanie dude groans, but I can’t tell if it’s in resignation or envy.
They’re talking about Lucas’ party. My lips thin as I pull out the math homework. I’m skimming over the worksheet when my attention snags on their gossiping again.
“Saint’s latest chick is hot as fuck though,” beanie guy mutters.
I can’t stop my shoulders from stiffening and clench my pen until my fingertips go white. Turning my head just enough without letting on that I’m listening, I nearly startle.
He’s watching me. They know, or they heard, or they saw firsthand at the party.
“Please,” bubblegum girl scoffs. “She’ll be over in two seconds. Marissa said she hung out at Lucas’ house, like, all weekend. They’re totally going to be prom king and queen this year.”
“Marissa’s got a dope ass, but this girl right here,” beanie dude pauses long enough to shuffle down the row until he’s right behind me. He prods me. “This girl let Lucas get wild.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I turn around to block them out. “Do you mind? I’m trying to work on an assignment.”
Hot air coasts over my ear and I flinch. His other arm comes over the seat, showing me his phone.
“Girl, I’ve got the proof right here. You like to get freaky.”
“You shouldn’t have touched Lucas.” The bubblegum bitch snaps her gum. “Marissa will stomp your ass.”
“I didn’t touch him. He did all of that on his own. I was just standing there, minding my damn business.”
“Thought you didn’t know what we were talking about?”
I open and close my mouth. Beanie Dick laughs at me.
“Here.” He drapes himself over the back of my chair. He presses play on the video queued on his phone. “Just watch. It’s already all over school. If you’re this much of an easy slut for Saint, I’ve got a fat sausage for you, sweetness.”
Inhaling sharply, I pinch the inside of his arm hard, close to his armpit. He yelps.
“You bitch!”
Twisting around, I eye him up and down. “Don’t touch me.”
He rubs the spot where I pinched with a surly frown. “Fine, whatever. Just watch this.”
He starts the video over and shoves his phone in my face.
Lucas and I fill the screen and wolf whistles sound from the speakers. The video shows his big hands digging down the back of my jeans and I’m mortified by the way I buck toward him. Before I bite his lip in retaliation, the video cuts to us kissing again, his tongue delving into my mouth and his hands all over me. Warmth creeps up my neck and pools in my belly.
It’s not even halfway through.
This video—the one apparently circulating through the school of the stolen lip lock Lucas forced on me—is doctored.