Page 42 of SNOB

I don’t know how he got my number, but Mac texted me the minute I entered the rink. So did Angelo.

Angelo: u rlly w that fool?

Working on this piece helped me ignore that text and everything else this morning. After dodging the police, the few hours I spent getting started on the mural was enough to calm me. Each brushstroke and each spray of paint helped quiet the voices in my head. The ones that tell me to leave. The ones that remind me of how Mac tried to calm me down in his car with his weapons of torture. My thighs clench thinking of his hands between my legs, those clamps on my nipples.

Did that bring calmness too?

A whore that can be a good girl for me.

Heat burns my cheeks as I push through the heavy wooden doors of the rink, a bit more warmth hitting my skin. Then it all comes back.

“Did you hear Beau’s missing?”

“Do you think she did it?”

Those few hours of peace disappear, but the whispers I heard this morning haven’t. They’re even louder than before.

My water-damaged sketchpad pressed to my chest, I move across the lawn, keeping my head down. But I still hear those comments like it’s on a speaker.

“Of course, she did, look at her.”

“Should never let Valley Vermin in.”

They glare at me as I move across the pristine cobblestone towards the art building, Mac’s deep voice in my head.

Keep your head down.

We’re in this together, Butterfly.

My grip tightens on my pad. I should’ve known better.

Glancing up, more students glare and whisper as I pass, my chest tightening. Sure we just met, but without Beau, I'm more alone in Paradise Hill than ever.

And Mac? Mac left me to the crows.

“Oof!” My body hits something hard, my sketchpad dropping to the stone.

“We know what you did, Ember Everett.” A girl from Hannah’s posse sneers at me, blocking my path.

My eyes narrow in on her heavily made-up face. “I know what you did too, that nose-job isn’t fooling anyone.”

Her jaw drops. I smile. “Yeah, well, at least I can fit into a size six.” She kicks my sketchpad further away. My weight? Low blow, but the people at SBU don’t care. They all look like her. Thin. Sculpted. Mannequins. The students around me cackle and hell, I’m on my own again.

With a sigh, I pick up my pad, bringing my focus back to the art building. A familiar face stands by a golden water fountain and the tension in my jaw loosens.

Maybe I’m not.

“Greta,” I call, moving towards her.

She fills a glass water bottle, stopping before her eyes land on me. As she does, water sprays all over her beige sweater vest, dripping onto her short white skirt.

“I’m so happy to see you.” A weight lifts off my chest as I approach her. “Saint Bons is hell. Be my angel?”

“Oh, hey,” she says. Her voice sounds way less enthusiastic than mine. “Sorry, I can’t chat. I have class.” Her response is dry. Dismissive. So much for solidarity.

As she walks away, I call out again, “Is it me or are you avoiding me too?”

She stops, looking around before she turns to me. “You’ve heard, right? About Beau?”

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