From the safety of the couch, I survey the room, waiting…no, dreading the moment when Doctor Fitzpatrick realizes no one’s going to participate in my debate topic. A book snaps closed on the other side of the room. Someone coughs.
And then…
A guy with black hair, wearing a ratty sweater, sitting by the fire says, “All language is constantly evolving. To claim the English language is dead because it’s changing and growing in a certain direction is like saying man became extinct when Homo Sapiens evolved from monkeys.”
“Well.” Doctor Fitzpatrick clicks the cap back onto his red marker. There’s a huge, shit-eating grin on his face. “Anyone have anything to say to that?”
Damiana pipes up. “You’re such a fucking moron, Andrew. Man isn’t extinct because Homo Sapiens evolved. We became something new. A different species or strain of hominid. The species that we evolved from became extinct when we changed. What you said doesn’t make any sense.”
“So, you think the English language doesn’t evolve?” Doctor Fitzpatrick asks her.
“Of course it does. Usually, when something evolves, it does so for the better, though. Our brains became larger and more complex because we learned how to speak and communicate using language. That was an improvement on the simpler, primitive versions of our minds. Text speak and slang isn’t a positive improvement on our language. It’s a lazy bastardization.”
Doctor Fitzpatrick rubs his hands together. “This is getting good, guys. Anyone have anything to say to Damiana’s statement?”
Wren slouches back into the leather sofa, spinning around so that his back is leaning against the arm. He kicks up his feet, lacing his fingers together and resting them on his chest. “Climb down from that high horse, Dami. You use text speak all the time. You’re far from a purist.”
“I do not!”
“Lol. Lmfao. Btw. NP. You text that shit to me all the time.”
Ha. Why am I not surprised that Damiana and Wren are on texting terms? They’re both as vile as one another. They’re probably best fucking friends.
“That’s not proper text-speak,” Damiana argues. “Those are just abbreviations.”
Oh my god. She didn’t just say that. Seriously? I hide my smile behind my notepad, trapping my laughter behind my teeth and two hundred pages of blank ruled paper.
“You look like you disagree, Elodie,” Doctor Fitzpatrick says.
Oh, come on.
His gaze is locked onto me, his eyes dancing with amusement. I might have refrained from snickering at Damiana’s comment, but I forgot about the parts of my face I didn’t cover; Levi always said I smiled with my eyes more than my mouth. Swiveling around in her chair, Damiana glares at me hatefully.
“Come on, then, Stillwater. Out with it, if you think you’re so fucking smart.”
All high schools are the same. Even the insanely expensive private boarding school kind. Regardless of wealth, parenting styles, opportunity or diversity, there’s always that one popular girl who thinks her shit don’t stink. It’s reassuring that I know what I can expect at Wolf Hall, but once, just once, it’d be nice if the whole mean girl bit wasn’t a thing. From past experience, shaking my head and keeping my mouth shut in this situation will bode worse for me than speaking my mind. Just like in the natural world, display any signs of weakness and the predators will home in on it and do their best to pick you off. They’re fucking relentless. Which is why I make sure my hands don’t shake as I lower my notepad and look her square in the eye.
“Yes, they’re abbreviations, but LOL? BTW? Acronyms. Emojis. Initials. They’re all considered text-speak.” I know this very well. Colonel Stillwater despises all forms of slang so violently that he swore he’d break my fingers if I he ever caught me using it. And my father will break bones before he ever breaks a promise. I’ve never used an abbreviation in a text message in all my life.
Damiana glowers at me from under her caked-on mascara. Some people might consider her heavy use of foundation and contouring pretty, but to me it looks like she’s wearing someone else’s face. “Why don’t you just shut the fuck up, anyway? You’ve been here five minutes and you think you own the place.”
Wow. What is this bitch’s damage? I’ve barely blinked since I got here, and somehow Damiana already feels threatened by me. Powerplays are not my thing. I have zero interest in vying for her crown. All I want to do is complete my assignments, get good grades to appease Colonel Stillwater, and then get the fuck out of here the moment I’ve graduated. Beside me, Carina makes a disgusted sound.
“Easy, Dee. You wanna take it down a notch? Elodie’s just—”
Damiana’s face contorts in disgust. “And what kind of name is Elodie, anyway? She sounds like she’s some sort of French whore.”
“Ha! La petite pute française,” Pax says, from his spot on the floor by the window. “You charge in euros, Stillwater? Or will a couple of greenbacks put you on your back? The exchange rate’s murder right now.”
“All right, all right. Enough,” Doctor Fitzpatrick says mildly, holding up his hand. He doesn’t sound shocked or even remotely bothered by what Damiana said, nor Pax’s shitty comments for that matter. Everyone falls silent the second he speaks, though, obeying his lazy command. Pax still winks at me suggestively, biting the tip of his tongue. Obviously, he’s scrolling through a number of lewd scenarios in his head.
“Hate to break it to you, Dee, but if you use those terms when you message Wren, you are using text speak,” Doctor Fitzpatrick confirms. “If you—”
“Like I’d text that pervert anyway!” she cries.
Wren smirks, closing his eyes. “She does. Usually after midnight. And yes. DTF is considered text speak, too.”
Damiana explodes from her seat, stabbing a finger at Wren, who can’t see her outrage with his eyes closed. “You’re a piece of shit, Wren Jacobi. I’d never fuck you in a million years. I’d sure as hell never ask you for it.”
“Okay, okay, sit down. Wren, stop fucking talking before I boot you over to Harcourt’s office. You guys know I love a lively debate, but we’re getting a little off topic here. What do you think ol’ Bill Shakespeare would say about all of the new words we’re creating to express ourselves, guys?”
The debate continues. Every time the class somehow veers towards the topic of sex, Doctor Fitzpatrick manages to wrangle us back into order. I sit quietly, unable to take my eyes off Wren, unhappy about the way my eyes keep gravitating back to him the moment I forget to actively not look at him. The old adage is true: it’s impossible to look away from a car crash. And I already know that Wren Jacobi isn’t just a metaphorical car crash. He’s a fifteen-car pile-up, and there are already people dead at the scene. I’m headed straight for him, though, and I can’t steer myself away. Worst of all, I’m not wearing a seatbelt, and motherfucker’s cut my brake lines.
He’s brutal, and he’s mean, and he’s rotten down to his very core. I can’t escape him, though. There’s a very real danger that he’ll hold his cup to my lips, and I’ll drink down his poison like I’m dying and he’s the cure.