They didn’t bother to take me shopping before school, so it’s their own fault.
I’ve avoided students by going to the mess hall late every meal, sneaking in when everyone has left or before anyone arrives. It’s not easy being the only bright green-haired girl in this school, but I want everything to skate by. Why not avoid confrontation where I’ll be most vulnerable?
Practically running down there now, I’m excited to see the halls filling with people and not a single one notices me. It’s nice, to have outlandish outfits—their words, not mine—and not be looked at twice. It’s not a phase. It’s not a mood. It’s a lifestyle.
After avoiding crashing into the row of rugby players in the center of the hallway, I finally round the corner that leads where I want to go. Upon entering, I see someone I wish I hadn’t.
Tennison Dellamore.
“You’re beautiful, Col. Goddamn beautiful.”
I shiver at the memory, feeling my skin prickle with awareness and distaste.
He’s leaning against one of the classroom doors, talking to a pretty blonde. I’ve seen her before. She’s on the drill team, always smiling, but where she gets those smiles is the only issue I have with her. She’s not nice. Not to me. Not to anyone who’s unpopular. She’s only kind to Student Gov, and by Student Gov, I mean, the boys.
Last year, she didn’t spare Yang or me a second glance.
Shaking my head, I look back over at Ten. My heart nearly catapults at the sight. He’s as close to goth as any guy in this shithole. This year, he went more sporadic. Long, messy, inky locks on top hanging over his forehead in a heap and a bright red undercut that makes him look edgier than usual. His arms are crossed across his chest. They’re thick and covered in tattoos beneath his charcoal gray sweater. He’s sporting his signature black skinny jeans that show every toned muscle in his thick thighs, and I hate that my breath catches at the sight.
When his eyes drift to me, I swear my heart halts. Though he’s too far away for me to see them now, I know what those silver eyes look like really close, like melted soldered metal pools. His sharp jaw looks like it would cut me if I touched it, angular and angelic in an ethereal way. His pierced lip has me near combustion, and when he excuses Blondie like she’s a waste of air, I bolt.
“Don’t run away, princess. I’ll always catch you.”
Another shiver racks my frame at his words. It’s a promise, unless it comes to caring about me after Cass died.
Before he can get to me, I’m through the doors and running to the salad bar. It’s an easy and safe meal. Until I’m used to buying and choosing my own food again, I’ll have to avoid overindulging. That and the pills I’m forced to take.
“What can I get you, sweetie pie?” an older woman asks me, standing behind the bar.
I grab a biodegradable takeout tray and point to the spinach.
“Greens for the green girl?” she wits.
I laugh at the way she seems surprised. I’m not like other people. I don’t eat greens as a way to stay skinny. Usually, my form is a lot more filled out than it is right now. I eat them because when Cass died, I went catatonic to a point where I didn’t eat, went into a coma, and had to be tube-fed. It wasn’t purposeful. I’m not anorexic or hating myself. I just couldn’t fathom eating when my brother no longer could.
He doesn’t get to enjoy food, so why should I?
I’m a pizza fiend. Wings, soda, Monsters, candy, anything that’s unhealthy, those are my favorites. Until my body can handle any of it, though, I’ll be avoiding everything in the league of grease, which breaks my fat-covered heart.
“Yes, ma’am,” I finally respond with a fake joyous tone.
When she smiles, it makes me feel less bad about it. She must believe my front. After pointing to the cucumbers, beets, carrots, eggs, cheese, and all the other toppings I want to use to make the salad edible, she leads me to the register.
The person she gives my tray to smiles meekly at me. He’s a student. I think I recognize him from somewhere. It’s just not hitting me where. While I’m blatantly dissecting him with my eyes, he’s trying to bring my attention anywhere but at him.
“Miss Hudson,” Ike Rimbaur muses, gripping the base of my skull gruffly. “You should get on the table and dance for us.”
My body felt light. High. Floating above the kids who abandoned me when my brother was buried.
He assists me, helping me onto the table, handing me another drink. I’ve lost track of how many I’ve had, but I’m still somewhat able to think.
“That’s right, Hudson. Shake that ass,” he presses, and I do. Attention isn’t pretty when you’re below your lowest low.
My mind fogs at the memory. This fuck. He’s that dick.
“Fourteen ninety-two,” he mutters, his face reddening. Why is he flushed? It wouldn’t surprise me if he somehow got sent back to the time where he took advantage of my drunken state.
I peer down wondering if I have something on my shirt since that’s where his eyes are directed, but soon realize, he’s looking at the scar right above my cleavage, the one I’ve yet to hide with ink. It’s not every day people try ripping out their own hearts, guess it’s pretty gnarly to see.
Over the summer, I tried covering every scar with tattoos. It isn’t easy. Finding tattoo artists who are willing to work on a teenager, let alone one who has tons of scar tissue from her own doing. They like using excuses. And while I’ve inked both my arms and thighs, my chest is clear as day.
I almost wish it wasn’t. I’ve done a lot of body modifications. Piercings everywhere, even places a teen shouldn’t put it, but that’s a story for another time.
After I hand him my Onyx Visa, he stops ogling the tarnished skin and scans it. I’m surprised to see him working. His mom is the dean at this school. She’s a no-bullshit kind of woman. It’s something I admire about her. Some people have a shitty work ethic when it comes to teens, but she treats us all the same, expecting greatness. Ms. Rimbaur is as straight as it gets.
He hands me the card and receipt, and right before I turn away, I make sure to look into his eyes.
“If you want to see my tits, all you had to do is ask. Haven’t you heard? I’m the school whore.” His face flushes once more, reminding me of how confident he once was, using me to take pictures and upload them onto the school’s forum board.
He’s lucky I was out of my mind with loss because I would have strung him up by his balls for his actions. It was inexcusable, and now I’m labeled the Arcadia Whore.
Just another thing I’ve learned about myself.
Instead of giving him the chance to say anything, I turn and walk off, taking my lame salad with me. Next week, I’ll make sure to add some carbs to my stomach. It’s flatter than shit, and I’m sick of not absorbing my hatred in cheese and meats.
After lunch is over, I’m heading to History. It’s one of my favorite subjects. I’m lucky to have been assigned Richter. He’s my favorite teacher. Hell, he’s half the school’s favorite. Not only does he make learning fun, but it’s also fruitful. We learn and absorb instead of reading a textbook and hoping to get somewhere.
Walking into the classroom, my pursuit is halted by the face I see.