Broken Pretty Things by Amber Faye
Chapter 6
I cameinto senior year almost a month later than everyone else. It’s October now, which means a few things. Everyone has dug in for the year, friendship-wise — even Dimitri, clearly — and I am starting the year already behind in every subject.
And now I’m having to head into my first Chemistry lab of the year fifteen minutes late, wearing whatever the hell I just got in the lost and found. All in all, this year hasn’t started great.
And now I’m wearing some kid’s confiscated hentai sweatshirt.
The poor lady at the office didn’t know what to do with me. In just a couple of weeks, not enough lost stuff had been collected for me to wear anything. She had to grab the sweatshirt covered in sketchy black and white anime orgasm faces. Some sophomore guy — who also didn’t smell great, thanks for asking — wore it on the first day on a dare. Well, thanks, dude. Your awful sense of humor is now another layer to my terrible day.
When I walk in, my hair crusty and red, my face nude and raw from scrubbing it, and a sweatshirt covered in doodles of sexually satisfied cartoon women, the entire class bursts into collective laughter. I nod at them all, give a little wave.
“Miss Palmer?” the Chemistry teacher barks as I enter.
Luckily, it’s not obviously obscene. You have to look pretty carefully to notice. Kind of.
“Sorry,” I say, already feeling like I’ve been through the wringer. And knowing it’s only just beginning.
“Uh, sit down,” the poor guy says, taking in the absolute trainwreck that is my appearance and clearly having no idea what to say. I thank him and head to the only remaining seat. The tables are set up in groups of three, at standing height, and all equipped with a sink and a bunsen burner. My table is occupied by only one other person: a short Asian kid I don’t recognize.
The table behind us is Larissa, Logan and Gunnar. Because of course it is. Larissa and Logan snigger, whispering to each other back and forth as I set down my backpack and take a seat. I pull out my Chem books and a pen and try to force myself to listen, even though it feels like everybody in this class is looking at me. I don’t blame them.
I finally get the nerve to turn around and give them a look. Gunnar is wearing my favorite of his hoodies. It’s deep black, tight on his arms. I’ve borrowed it more than once, snuggled up in it. His clothes always smelled so good. I can’t comprehend the fact that he isn’t my friend anymore, and the feeling thickens my throat.
He leans in and says something low to Logan, who crouches down with the effort not to laugh too loud. Gunnar smiles, a vicious smile, and looks up at me.
For a second, our eyes lock, the world stills, and I try not to let him see the jolt of fear on my face.
I’ve seen that look on his face before. Just never, ever aimed at me.
No. He’s not my friend anymore. He’s my enemy. And Gunnar Rayne is the last person in the world anyone would want as their enemy.
I turn around to the front, cheeks flaming. I can avoid them for a year. I can do it. How hard could it possibly be? They’re just a handful of people in a pretty huge high school.
But I know for sure that they sat behind the only available table on purpose, and what happened this morning was definitely planned. So maybe avoiding them isn’t going to be as easy as I’d hoped.
“Miss Palmer,” the teacher says once he’s set some work. I rifle through my books, my hands shaking, trying to find the exercise everyone else is working on. “Come up here for a moment.”
I set my books back down, tuck my stiff hair behind my ears and walk as nonchalantly as I can muster up to the front of the classroom. Another ripple of laughter moves through the room as I’m on display again, and I cannot believe this is just the first class of the day.
“Mr Greene,” he introduces himself, and I nod and smile. He gestures to a chair beside his desk and I sink into it. He leans forward and talks so only the two of us can hear. “Are you OK?”
I give him a weird smile. “Uhh.”
He nods. “The faculty discussed what happened, and what it might be like when you returned here. Tell me who did this.” He gestures to me. I shrug.
“It doesn’t really matter,” I say. “It was a group of people. And every single one of them is, you know, exempt from real discipline here,” which is my way of saying their parents are all donors. The Raynes are one of the most powerful families in the town. That was a source of great entertainment back when I was friends with one. Now, though, I get the feeling it’s going to suck.
Mr Greene looks like he understands, at least, because he leans back in his chair. “I can’t force you to tell anyone who’s doing this, but I think you should consider it.” He opens and shuts his mouth, trying to decide whether or not to say the next part. “Andrea … it’s really important you know that nobody wants you to suffer in silence like—”
Oh, God. I feel my pulse pound in my ears. I don’t want to hear him say it. “Thanks,” I interrupt, too loud. “Can I get back to the work?”
He shakes his head and ushers me to stay seated. I’ve missed a few fairly important weeks, and this is a tough class, so he gives me a folder of printouts of stuff I’ve missed, scheduled upcoming exams, and suggested extra credit projects. I’m as grateful as I can be in my current state of mind, and head back to my table.
Immediately I can tell something stinks. Literally stinks.
My burner is on, and I rush to it and switch it off before I see the plume of plasticky smoke curling up from my sink. Inside are all my Chemistry books, one borrowed from the library and one bought new, plus my notebooks. I dart over in pure panic and turn on the faucet just as the flame really catches and blooms higher. Some of the students scream, someone dramatically coughs.
“Mr Greene, the Killer is trying to kill us all,” some kid announces at the top of his lungs. Murmurs rip through the room and I roll my eyes. They all know I was up at the front.
Greene stands up. “Who did that?” he demands. “Who saw who did that?” He raises his eyebrows at me. “Andrea?”
I shuffle my feet. Out of the corner of my eye, Logan has his hand clamped over his mouth like he’s trying to win a damn Oscar for best look of surprise. Larissa is chewing gum and scrolling on her phone under the table, and Gunnar is looking right at me, boring a hole in the side of my face. “I have no idea. I was up there with you,” I say. He shakes his head, but he can’t force me to say anything more.
“It was her, before she went up there,” Larissa says, not looking up.
“Ugh. Bitch probably hadn’t had an attention fix in five minutes,” some other girl says, and the rest of the class laughs.
“Just … stop,” Greene says, swiping his hands through the air. “Enough. Let’s get back to the material.” Very effective. Thanks.
When the bell rings, Logan brushes past me so close that I stumble hip-first into the sharp corner of my desk. “Watch it, Killer,” he says, flashing me that languid boyish smile girls go crazy for. I gather up all my things as he catches up with the other two. “Let’s get to Mint’s after school,” I hear him say as they head out, and I feel a pang of physical pain. We all used to hang out at Mint’s cafe together, share milkshakes and talk about nothing.
We used to do everything together.
I set myself the challenge of getting through the day alive. That’s all I have to do.