Page 36 of Wicked Fury

Stepping into my sneakers, I don’t look back. I don’t need to. My mind is focused on one thing and one thing only.

Causing an angel’s downfall.

Chapter 14

Iris

The seconds stretch like hours as I tap my foot against the cool tile of the classroom floor, waiting. The crisp scent of paper and that vaguely musty aroma of old textbooks fill the air. While that’s my usual comfort zone, there’s a sour twist of anticipation curdling in my stomach. Professor Hastings finally starts handing back our graded tests, his thin lips curved in a perpetual semi-smirk.

“Shelby,” he calls out, my last name hanging in the air like a guillotine’s blade.

I reach for the paper, my fingers brushing against his as he relinquishes the test with reluctance, or maybe it’s just my imagination. But then, the grade slaps me in the face. It’s a big, fat D glaring up at me from the page—and I’m pretty sure my imagination has nothing to do with this nightmare.

“Excuse me?” I blurt out, my voice betraying a crack. Smirks and whispers buzz around me like flies to a carcass. Heat singes my cheeks. How could I have possibly gotten a D? There’s no way in hell I bombed this thing—I know Rousseau’s social contract theories better than I know the intricate lines of scars hidden beneath my clothes.

“Problem, Miss Shelby?” Professor Hastings drawls, arching an eyebrow as if I’m some kind of intriguing specimen under his microscope.

“Uh, yeah. There’s a mistake.” My hand shoots up, nails digging into my palm to keep it steady. “This can’t be right.”

“Are you questioning my grading methods?” His voice is smooth, but it’s laced with something else—amusement, condescension…delight?

“Of course not, Professor.” I force a laugh, hoping it sounds more casual than hysterical. “I mean, I don’t see how this is possible, a D? Must be a mix-up.”

“Or perhaps you’re not as infallible as you believe.” His tone is low, patronizing, and it echoes off the walls, etching into my skull. My classmates are getting a kick out of this, their eyes flicking back and forth between us, eager for a show.

“Right.” I chew on my lip, tasting the metallic hint of anxiety. “Silly me.”

The sarcasm drips from my tongue, heavy and bitter. I sit back down, the bright red grade burning a hole through the desk, through my meticulously curated GPA, and straight into my pride.

I swallow the bile of defeat and raise my hand again, trying to keep my voice level. “Is there any chance for extra credit? Anything I can do to make this up?”

Professor Hastings’ lips curl into a smirk that doesn’t reach his cold eyes. “This is college, Miss Shelby, not kindergarten. There are no redos or gold stars for effort.” His flat insinuation of ‘no’ rings in my ears like a death knell, and the last embers of hope disintegrate.

“Understood.” The word is a shard of ice lodging in my throat. I’m pinned under the weight of his indifference as my classmates’ whispers scratch at my already raw edges.

Class is dismissed, and the room empties, leaving me with the debris of my academic invincibility. My chestnut waves cling to my face, heavy and limp, mirroring my defeated posture. I gather my things mechanically because I’m on autopilot now.

The hallway outside is a blur, but I don’t miss the pitying glances thrown my way. I push through them, wishing I could outrun the image of my father’s face when he finds out. The man’s got emotions like a brick—hard and immovable; his disappointment will be just as unforgiving.

“This is going to be so fun to explain,” I mutter under my breath, a bitter laugh escaping my lips.

Each step feels heavier than the last, my GPA’s downfall thumping in sync with my racing heart. I flick a stray lock of hair from my eyes, biting down on my lip until I taste the prick of broken skin. The familiar sting is a welcome distraction from the storm brewing inside me.

I force my feet to keep moving, but the anxiety coils tighter, a clinch squeezing every ounce of bravado out of me. This is more than a bad grade; it’s a chink in my armor, a crack in the facade I’ve fought so hard to maintain. It’s going to push my father over the edge he’s been teetering on for weeks.

I stride through the hallway, my mind a whirlpool of numbers and letters that refuse to add up making each breath I take feel like an inhale of defeat.

“Hey, Iris,” Nicole’s voice cuts through my brooding thoughts like a knife. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. He was an ass back there. Are you okay?”

I force my lips into a semblance of a smirk, but it feels more like baring my teeth. “Worse than a ghost. More like the entire underworld decided to throw a party on my transcript.” I know I sound absurd. It’s just one bad grade, but for me it’s so much more. Every single time I’ve let my father down is suddenly bouncing around in my head.

Nicole’s brows knit together; her soft features etched with concern—a stark contrast to my own hardened lines of frustration. “It’s just one grade, you know. Not the end of the world.”

“Yeah, something like that,” I sigh, not even trying to explain. For years, I’ve let everyone think I’m just some sort of uptight bitch who can’t see past her own grade point average. Everything is riding on this, though, and the only person who will understand that is my father. Nicole’s shoulder brushes against mine as we walk, a silent offering of solidarity that I’m not sure I deserve or even want.

“Come on, let’s bail on our next classes and call Nick. You need to chill,” she suggests, her voice laced with that carefree lilt I don’t think I’ve ever mirrored in my entire life.

“Oh, how I wish I could join you,” I reply with a chuckle, the words tasting sour on my tongue. “I’m already skating on the thinnest ice known to man. One more crack and I drown.”

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