Ivory Tower isn’t welcoming, not because it’s any less opulent, but because once you’re kicked from Government, you’re like a disease. No one wants you near them. All the popularity you once had dissolves into dust, forcing you to try and fit in any way you can.
Making my way through the main floor to find the assistant’s desk, I’m stared at by every student I’ve ever met and ones I’ve never seen before.
Yeah, it’s a change for me, too, losers. Stop gawking.
“Freak,” some freshman whispers under his breath.
His friends chortle along with him until I flip them the bird. Their gazes narrow, and I hunt for the main desk that’s basically the student center to get my new key and room assignment. Emo isn't an emotion. It's a lifestyle. It's not a common one at Arcadia, though.
Life without Yang this year will be miserable. She was the one person who got me through everything and was my protector from asswipes. Not that anyone messed with me. Student Government gives you a pass from scrutiny. It’s almost a shield for the battlefield of bottom-feeders.
“Name?” the chick at the desk asks, her tone bored.
It annoys me that she hasn’t looked up at me. Why can’t people make basic eye contact while talking? This generation will be the death of human connection.
“Colton Hudson,” I vexingly respond.
As soon as her eyes land on mine, recognition blossoms, but there’s also confusion. It’s probably the change. It’s not like I’m Colton from last year. No, I’m a new brand of dead. Black and green. Beetlejuice’s long-lost cousin.
“I-I’m sorry about your brother,” she mumbles.
Don’t react. Don’t react. Don’t react.
Yeah, most people apologize whenever they realize my brother died. They send condolences, and they act as if a simple word changes the fact that he stopped aging and breathing and existing. Well, fuck you all. It changes nothing, and it just pisses me off. No one was there to save him, so their words are useless annotations soothing no one's dead heart.
“Thanks,” I mutter, not wanting to act out toward a girl with probably honest intentions. I’m not in this school year to make enemies. Only survival.
“You’re in room six-twenty-two,” she says while handing me a badge and key card.
My eyes water. Cassidy’s birthday was the twenty-second of October. Eleven months apart from mine.
“T-Thank you.”
She gives me an almost knowing look, like she knew Cass or the number’s significance. Wouldn’t be a shock. He was one of Arcadia’s rugby stars. Everyone was devastated, even if their only connection to him was his success on the field.
I try to smile, but it comes off as more of a grimace. Shuffling off, I head for the stairs. Elevators freak me out. Even though each tower has one for its ten floors, I’ll never use them.
My heart hammers as I pass by it, feeling sweat slick against my forehead with the knowledge that tens, if not hundreds, of kids use it daily. My palms clam up as I make my way up to the sixth floor.
Gripping the straps of my backpack, I use it as a tether, hoping my anxiety settles. It’s not like I’m riding the elevator. I don’t even have to really see it. It’s just the thoughts and overwhelming realization that people get trapped in those boxes all the time. Like coffins. A forever home.
Small spaces never used to bother me. Not until I watched my lifeless brother be buried in one. His everlasting home. An eight by two box, covered in dirt, malnourished by death, deprived of oxygen.
As my body shudders from the imagery, I make it to the sixth floor. Stopping at the last stair, feeling dizzy, I take in a huge breath, praying for a swift and easy year. Needing it.
Not paying attention, I turn the corner, running into a big bulky form. We collide and tumble to the ground, a gruff fuck along with other expletives leaves the stranger’s mouth.
His hands are on my sides, his fingers digging a little too harshly for a safety hold. I’m practically laying on him and start to apologize profusely, hating that I’m such a mess already. My words lodge themselves in my throat when my gaze connects with Bridger Clemonte’s. His inky sable eyes stare at me with annoyance, the pitter-patter in my chest becomes a gallop from his expression. Underlying his distaste is an emotion neither of us will recognize for what it is. Loneliness.
That’s who we are now. Nothing. All alone.
“Can you get off me?” he hisses.
His pouty lips curl into a sneer, nearly making me jump out of my skin. His voice never went this low or full of hatred. Not before anyway.
Once upon a time, his face alone would bring snakes of thrill slithering inside my body, pebbling my nipples with expectation and promise. Now, it only reminds me of what I hate most in life. Student Government.
I rise off of him, my heart pounding along with my head. We must’ve smacked into one another. He’s emotionless like sand, a dry breeze of nothingness to pass in the wind. Even before, his emotions were held close to the vest. You would never know what he was thinking, feeling, experiencing. He hid that well.
Bridger, or Ridge, as his friends call him, is your run-of-the-mill charming dillweed. He’s got rich brown hair that looks darker indoors than in the light. Catastrophic to the heart and damning to the soul, his eyes dissect everyone in his presence. An attacker of opportunity, he strikes when you trust him most.
Bridger’s jaw could cut diamonds, and his body could give Stephen Amell a run for his money, but attraction aside, he’s ugly everywhere it counts. When I was a different person, I crushed hard on him. If he even gave me five seconds of his time, a secret touch, anything, I melted like chocolate left in the sun.
But I’m no one’s fool now.
“Sorry,” I mutter, not willing to give more than that. He’s not deserving of more than proper hostility.
He straightens his uniform as if I’m a leech that ruined it. Before he harshly brushes past me, he stares at my outfit up and down, reminding me how emo I appear to others. Baring his teeth like an animal, he makes sure his distaste is known. “Freak.”
The word should upset me more, but it makes me smile, knowing he cares enough to want to be a dick to me. He’s in for a hard lesson if he thinks I care that he doesn’t like me anymore.
This isn’t the first time the student body has witnessed me in all my goth glory, but it definitely still shocks the fuck out of everyone when they pay enough attention.
Two
Being without clothes bites. Not realizing that tidbit until I got to school, I went to my favorite Dark Princess website and bought every black dress and skirt they had in an extra small. Then, knowing my moms wouldn’t approve, I went online to My Shirt is Better than Yours and got every shirt, crop top, and lace coverall they had in black.
As my Onyx Visa card screamed for me to chill, I took it a step further and bought from Penn & Co., my secret thrill store. They sold the most expensive clothing in the elite world from five-hundred-dollar bras to thongs that cost just as much, all the way to clothing that could put a down payment on a car. I added some of their signature perfumes and hope it would get here quickly.
Tons of deliveries were made the next day, and it got me more looks than I cared to have. Since then, I’ve ordered new things from new shops across the globe. My moms won’t be happy about the twenty-thousand-dollar charge on their card, but I don’t care.