Page 32 of Sweet Nightmare

When he ditched me freshman year to hang out with Ember and their other two friends—Simon and Mozart—I promised myself I’d never trust him again. And now, the first time he so much as looks at me in years, I let him pull me back in like the last three years never happened.

Like I didn’t spend the first half of my freshman year crying myself to sleep, reeling from loneliness and confusion at being discarded by my best friend the same day my favorite cousin, and only other real friend, got sent to the Aethereum.

I’m not sure who’s worse—Jude for being such a jerk or me for being so incredibly gullible. But even as I ask myself the question, I know the answer.

It’s definitely me.

Jude’s just being Jude, horrible as that is. I’m the one who knows better than to trust him, but I slipped up and did it anyway. And now I’m the one left standing here, totally mortified.

Instinct has me reaching for my phone to text Serena and tell her about this latest disgrace. But then I remember. I’ll never text her again, never talk to her again. Never see her again.

A scream wells up inside me, and this time it’s a million times harder to swallow it down. But somehow I manage it, even as grief rocks me to my core. Pulling me down. Pulling me under.

I fight my way back up, grabbing antiseptic and a few cotton balls to treat the last of my wounds. I focus on the pain, use it to beat back the sorrow for at least a little while longer.

When I can breathe again, I bandage up the bites and put the first-aid supplies away before closing the cabinet door. Then, after sending a text to my aunt Claudia letting her know that all is well, I grab my backpack from the ground and head for the door.

But I’ve barely made it into the hallway before I catch sight of my mother striding down the hallway, a very unhappy look on her very pinched face.

She catches sight of me and pauses for a moment before arrowing straight toward me. Her Calder-blue eyes are locked on my face like a heat-seeking missile while her red stiletto heels click out her displeasure with each commanding step she takes. Normally I’d be glancing around, looking for an escape route—dealing with my mother when she’s dressed in her red Chanel pantsuit is never a good idea.

But right now, I couldn’t care less about how this ends. I’m too angry, too sad, too hurt to run away. Serena’s death is a gaping wound inside me, while Caspian’s acceptance at my first-choice college is lemon juice poured straight into that wound.

So instead of running, I stand my ground, eyes locked with hers as I wait for her to unload so that I can do the same.

But instead of launching into what’s bothering her right away, she stops in front of me.

And waits.

And watches.

And watches.

And waits, until I feel like I’m about to jump out of my skin.

Which is exactly how she wants me to feel—not only is she a master strategist, she’s also a master manipulator. Plus, she’s in the wrong here and she knows it, which means she’ll wait forever to talk.

But knowing all of that doesn’t make it any easier for me to wait her out. It definitely doesn’t make it any easier to stand here like I’m some kind of lab specimen while she studies me with her signature narrowed gaze, her head cocked to one side.

But whoever makes the first move dies—my mother taught me that long before Squid Game ever could—so I keep my mouth shut and my eyes open as I wait some more.

Finally, she sighs—a long, slow exhalation that has skitters of anxiety racing along the back of my neck. I ignore them, and eventually she says, “Your shirt has several holes in it.”

“The monsters were—”

She cuts me off before I can go further. “I’m not sure why you’re presenting that as a valid excuse.” She shakes her head, and for the first time a touch of exasperation creeps into her tone. “You know prevaricating is not acceptable. The menagerie is perfectly safe.”

I stare at her for a second, not really sure what I’m supposed to say to that. I suppose I could argue with her. But instead, I settle on classic old avoidance.

“Fine,” I say shortly. “I’ll change after class.”

“You represent this school, Clementine. You’re a Calder. You need to be above reproach at all times, and that includes following the dress code.” She throws up a hand. “How many times do I have to tell you? If you don’t follow the rules, how can we expect any of the other students to do so?!”

“Yes, because me having a messy uniform is going to lead to total anarchy in the rest of the school.” I start to brush past her, but her red-tipped fingers reach out and grab my arm, aggravating the fresh cuts and keeping me from walking away.

“You don’t know what will lead to anarchy,” she insists. “And neither do I. These students have had difficult lives. They’ve made some pretty terrible mistakes. A dress code may seem trivial to you, but keeping things regimented, orderly, uniform, is how we keep them on an even keel.”

Ah, now I get why she’s so worked up.

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