Page 23 of Wicked Dreams

If there’s one thing I’ve learned across so many different schools: kids are all the same. Once they’ve claimed something—say, a seat in a class—they’d be loath to give it up.

The royalty comes in after everyone else. Caleb, obviously, but Ian—the lackey who picked on me the first day—is with him, along with a few girls I don’t recognize. They take their time moving through the students, greeting everyone, and finally sprawl out in their chairs, laughing with each other.

Mrs. Stonewater stands from her desk and closes the door with a purpose. “We’re going to start a history project that will carry us through the semester.” She passes out papers and explains the details of the project.

It sounds boring, honestly. History is one of my least favorite subjects.

Someone raises their hand. “Can we work with a partner?”

“Yes.”

“Do we get to pick?” another asks.

Caleb’s gaze burns into the back of my neck. I don’t have to turn around to feel it, and I pick at my nails to keep from squirming.

Our teacher’s cold gaze shifts around the room, and she seems to be deciding something. “I’ll allow you to submit three names to me at the end of class, and I’ll be making final decision on the partners by the end of the week. Moving on…”

“Better see my name on your paper, little lamb,” Caleb whispers. “We’re inevitable.”

This time, I can’t hide my shudder. It’s stupid that I can still taste him. I drag the back of my hand across my lips again, and he kicks the back of my chair. I repeat the motion, and he kicks harder.

Why? Because he doesn’t want me to be as disgusted with him as he as with me?

I’m beginning to understand this resentment he’s harboring. My own is growing.

“Stop,” I hiss.

“Make me.”

“Mr. Asher,” Mrs. Stonewater snaps. “Are you paying attention?”

“Trying to, ma’am. Wolfe here is quite distracting.”

The students snicker.

“Margo?”

Twenty-five pairs of eyes land on me, and I hunch lower in my seat.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

The students’ attention slowly drifts back to the teacher. We write out who we’d like to be partners with on papers that she collects at the end of her lecture, and I hate the way I only have Caleb’s name to put down.

There’s no one else in class I know. Familiar faces, like Ian Fletcher, I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. The girls seem to be all in agreement about hating me on sight, taking the lead from Caleb’s treatment.

The bell finally rings, and I book it out of the room. I leave Caleb and his judgment behind, dodging between people until I’m safely at my next class.

Rinse and repeat.

On the way to lunch, I manage to catch a glimpse of Caleb and his friends by the stairwell. It’s the main route to the cafeteria, and the way they’re taking their time raises my hackles.

They’re not waiting for me, right?

Instead of finding out, I take a hall on my left. I hurry, because with every second it grows emptier. I take a right, then go up a half flight of stairs. I haven’t been over here yet, and the next door I push through exits into a stairwell with rounded sides.

The steps go up and down in a spiral.

One of the towers, then?

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