Page 29 of Our Ruined Beginnings

Coach yells from the sidelines, and the ref blows the whistle, waving his hands, but still, the mascot continues to make his way across the field. I wonder who’s inside, ’cause they’re about to be in a shit ton of trouble. When I see the mask they’re wearing over the enlarged, furry head, anger takes over me too.

It’s Harper’s face.

It’s not the prank that enrages me—that’s stupid. It’s the possibility that, after the conversation I overheard, this may actually be Harper’s underwear. I told them to leave her fucking shit alone, and now the whole student body and faculty are getting a firsthand look at her panties. I don’t think so.

Running toward the mascot, I approach him just as the ref is scolding him on the halfway line, but he’s still waving at the cheering crowd, not giving a shit. I run into him, knocking him straight on his fluffy ass, and rip at the material. It comes away easily as I grab the bottoms and the bra, snatching the mask off at the same time.

“Get the fuck off this pitch,” I seethe. I lean down to look into the large mesh eyes, hoping whoever is inside can see how furious I am. He holds his hands up, and I throw the handful of mask and lace into his lap before he dutifully picks it up and rushes back to the sidelines, where a furious-looking Coach waits for him.

After the excitement is over, the crowd calms back down, and the ref starts the game, but I’m not in it. My head is all over the place, and I play like shit. The team must sense the lack of enthusiasm from their captain, because they play crap too, and by the time the final whistle blows, we’re all grumpy and ready to get home. Coach gestures for us to head straight to the tunnel, and I know he’s about to give us fucking hell. Honestly, we deserve it. We’re never winning the league with these kinds of performances.

“Hey, Madden,” a voice calls as I’m about to walk underneath, and I look up to see Bethany hanging over the edge. “We’ve made dinner plans. You’re really gonna wanna be there for this.” Dinner with them all is the last thing I want to do after today, but at the excitement in her voice, I know I have little choice. I’m curious, that’s all. At least that’s what I’m telling myself, despite the sinking feeling in my stomach. “I’ll text you the details.”

Harper

It’s been hours since my confrontation with Bethany, but adrenaline still pumps through my veins. I know it was her in here, which means it’s she who currently has my most valued and sentimental possession.

It’s not just a sweater anymore; it’s one of the only things that makes me feel close to him. Thatmeanssomething.

Watching the giant mascot running across the pitch dressed in the lingerie that had been sitting in my drawers yesterday didn’t exactly calm me down. God, it was mortifying. Mainly because the other school saw it too—a mask of my face strapped on and all—and are now no doubt finding out why it happened. If I thought there was only a select group trying to make my life hell before, God knows how it’ll be once the gossip spreads further. Bethany stared up at me with a huge, smug smile, and I wanted to ram it into the wooden bench she was perched on. I can’t believe I let Kinsley convince me to go, let alone stay once I’d seen Bethany and got myself fired up confronting her.

I throw myself down onto the sofa. I have a mountain of work I could be doing, but there’s no way my brain is going to focus on that right now. I need something to keep me busy, to keep my mind busy and not let it spiral on what could’ve happened to my sweater. It’s stupid, I know it is—it’s only a sweater—but the thought of it in a bin somewhere ripped to shreds is like a vise on my heart.

I’ve still got a couple of hours until I’m due at the restaurant, but it’s too long. I’m fired up from the game, partly from the confrontation with Bethany but also from sitting in the stands. Back in high school, I always loved watching the guys play. Soccer was their favorite thing, so by extension, it became one of mine. It’s ingrained in me to be just as excited and invested in the game as they are. Not that it matters anymore.

I need a distraction. Without conscious thought, I’m walking toward my kitchenette and opening the cupboard. Fishing around for the basic ingredients, I figure out I’ve got enough to make brownies. That’ll do. Thoughts cloud my head as I measure the butter and chocolate, but as I slowly melt them together, they begin to quiet, and by the time I’m weighing out flour and cocoa powder, my mind is blissfully silent. All I can hear is the crack of the egg, the spoon beating against the bowl, the chopping of chocolate. When I finally slide the tray into the oven, I feel calm. I feel better. For now, at least.

I set a timer and take the opportunity to try and look over my notes for last week. They’re a mess, as predicted, so I run through some summaries online and transfer them onto study cards. The ringing of the timer makes me jump, but in a way that puts a small smile on my face.

Baking is my favorite pastime … or it used to be. Whenever I had a spare hour or needed something to get me out of my head, be it stressing for exams or feeling overwhelmed with something, I’d bake. It wasn’t just a sign of bad things, though. I’d bake for people’s birthdays and holidays, or any excuse to celebrate, really. I love knowing I’ve made something with my hands that the people I love can enjoy.

As I pull the tray out of the oven and set it down on the side, I belatedly remember that the people I normally love to feed with goodies are no longer around to share them with me. Sure, I can give some to Kinsley, but there’s only so much brownie one person can eat.

I pick up a knife to cut myself a slice. Tasting the final product first is usually one of the perks of being the baker, but today, my stomach turns at the idea of it. Even the warm chocolate scent is enough for nausea to make me lightheaded. I let the knife fall back to the counter with a clatter and turn away from the suddenly painful reminder, deciding instead to get dressed for my first shift.

As soon as I walk in, I know I’m in for hell. The first face I see is his. Of course it is. My stupid brain is wired to find him in any crowd. It takes me a minute to register that he’s not alone—in fact, there’s a huge group, including Bethany. There’s no way this is a coincidence, but I have no idea how they could have known I’d be here. The only person I told is Kinsley, and the person I called from the sheet pinned to the information board in the common room.

By some miracle, I don’t go out into the main restaurant straight away. They give me a full tour and explain the way everything runs behind the scenes. We discuss pay, which is thankfully in cash, and I sign a bunch of forms, but eventually, the next step is to take an order front of house.

Kim, the waiter I’m shadowing, points me over to a small table that just got seated, but before I can make my way over, Bethany is waving us down. She has her hand in the air, clicking, and Kim sighs behind me.

“You’d better go sort them first.”

Oh. Yay. I pointedly ignore every other person at the table, seeing as Bethany is the only one making a fuss, and keep my eyes on her even as they ache to find Madden. The table is already covered in food and drinks, so it’s clearly not urgent, whatever they need, but I plaster my best “fuck off” smile on my face and pull the little pad and pencil from my apron.

“What can I get you?”

“Errrrrrrm,” Bethany draws out, only now picking up the menu and leaving me standing there waiting as she decides. “Ooh, I think…” She carries on, reaching for the large milkshake in front of her as she thinks. Except she doesn’t pick it up—instead, she knocks the whole glass over with the back of her hand and watches as it splashes over my legs, dripping down onto my feet before I can step back. “Oops,” she says, smirking as she watches it spread over the floor.

I sigh as I bend down, thankful my apron protected some of my trousers at least but saying goodbye to my shoes. I’ve only just righted the glass when I feel something hit the top of my head, thick liquid seeping into my hair.

Gasping, I lean back and slip in the milkshake only to fall straight on my ass. I look up at the table, where a now empty plate of spaghetti sits as marinara falls on my shoulders and over my white shirt. Oh my God. I don’t think I’ve ever been as embarrassed or furious in my life as I am right now, and the last few days have definitely been up there.

Kim appears next to me with a roll of wipes, and looks down at me in shock. Ignoring the offer—because what the hell are wipes going to do now—I push myself up off the floor and head out the back. The manager gasps when they see me, but I have no words.

“Maybe we’ll try this again on a different night?” she offers, which is actually more generous than I thought. I half expected her to fire me on the spot. I nod and head to the bathroom to fish pasta out of my hair as I call Kinsley to come and get me.

“Hey, girl,” Kinsley says with an enthusiasm I certainly don’t feel. As soon as she sees me, her mouth drops open and she reaches over her seat, grabbing the towel I asked her to bring. I use it to cover her leather interior and then slump down into her passenger seat. Her lips turn down, and she wrinkles her nose. “What happened?”

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