Page 29 of Raise Hell

Fucking Havoc Boys.

I see Anya at a table in the center of the room. She sits next to Drake, who has his arm wrapped around the back of her chair. Cozying up to my roommate has to be deliberate, anything to make me feel like I’m all alone here. Other Havoc Boys are at the table. They are the only ones in the cafeteria who are looking at me.

The only thing I see in their gazes is hate.

Anya gives me an apologetic smile, but she doesn’t get up from their table. I can’t blame her. Taking sides against Havoc House would be a terrible decision at the best of times. Being friends with me isn’t worth making an enemy of the Havoc Boys.

There is an empty seat at their table, and I briefly consider taking it. They’d likely just get up and move, but then I’d follow them to the next table and the next, until Drake was forced to actually confront me.

I abandon that idea. Looking desperate won’t do me any good. And as much as it might make me happy to annoy Drake, I can’t let him think he’s gotten to me.

But it’s going to be impossible to figure out what secrets Havoc House is hiding when none of the guys who belong to it will speak to me.

Right before I reach the only empty table in the room, a group of people rushes forward to get there first. Every seat is full before I can set down my tray.

When I head toward the table they abandoned, the same thing happens. Enough people rush to fill the space that there isn’t a seat left.

It’s like we’re playing a game of musical chairs, but I’m always the one left standing when the music ends.

Jesus fuck.

Frustrated tears burn in my eyes, and I force them away. I want to cry more from anger than embarrassment, but that won’t lessen the satisfaction Drake will feel if I let even a single tear fall. My fingers tighten around the tray, that bit of pain enough to keep the emotions at bay for the time being.

I wish I’d known what it must have been like for Olivia here.

When I risk another glance at Drake’s table, they’ve already turned away and are deliberately not looking at me. Now that I’ve been thoroughly humiliated, I’m no longer worthy of their attention.

I’m going to look like a fool if I walk out of the cafeteria with a tray in my hands, but it will be even worse if I dump all the food I just bought into the trash.

Just as I’m about to drop the food on the floor and storm out, a small voice speaks up behind me.

“You can sit with me, if you want.”

When I turn, I see a girl sitting at an otherwise empty table a few feet away. There are only two chairs at it, though. She waits to pick up her bag from the chair next to her until I’m close enough that no one can snag it out from under me.

She doesn’t say anything as I set the tray down and glare at my bowl of salmon poke. It looked good when I ordered it, but now the thought of eating even one bite makes me want to vomit.

Fuck this place.

“I hear that someone always gets it bad during the first week of school,” the girl comments, her voice soft. “Though it doesn’t usually escalate this quickly. You must be a special case.”

I glance at her, but she isn’t looking at me. This girl is definitely different from the rest of the student body, young enough she might even be a freshman. The crisp white of her pressed dress shirt is a stark contrast to her dark skin, so smooth she has to be the only teenage girl in existence who has never had a breakout. Unlike the Kardashian-inspired beach waves all the other girls wear, her true black hair is done up in Bantu knots like a Zulu princess.

“Who was it last year?” I ask, finally picking up my fork.

“No idea, this is my first year.”

“How do you know, then?” The words come out a little more caustically than I intend. “Sorry, you know what I mean.”

“It’s fine.” But the girl’s already straight spine stiffens a little more. “I have an older brother who went here. He told me a little about how things work.”

I perk up. A new student who presumably doesn’t know anything about the sad story of Olivia Pratt might be just the ally I need.

“I guess that means you didn’t get the memo about me being persona non grata around here.”

“I guess not. People have left me alone, for the most part.”

“I’m Ev—Olivia. Olivia Pratt.” It’s a testament to how much the dining hall shut-out has thrown me for a loop that I almost spit out the wrong name, despite practicing in the mirror for days before I got here. “What’s your name?”

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