Page 8 of Wicked Dreams

I pause, my face heating.

Slowly, I walk toward Caleb. He raises an eyebrow at me, and I look away. I sink down into the chair in front of him. The weight of his stare is like a laser. He’s going to burn a hole through my skull… Either that, or I’m freaking imagining it.

When did he get so beautiful? Dark hair and light gray-blue eyes, muscles packed onto his lean frame. He grew, too. In elementary school, we were the same height. He’s got at least six inches on me now.

And hate.

Where did the hate come from?

“Ms. Wolfe?”

I jerk. “Yes?”

The whole class snickers.

“I was asking if you’d had a chance to read through the syllabus.”

I slink lower. “No, ma’am.”

She pauses at my desk and sets down a textbook. “See me after class.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“No, ma’am. Yes, ma’am,” the boy next to me parrots under his breath. “Such a fucking saint for a coke-whore’s daughter.”

More laughter, which the teacher seems fine with ignoring. Her back is to us as she writes on the board, and it seems like I hold more attention in the room than her.

If only the floor could open and swallow me whole.

Coming back was a mistake. I should’ve insisted on public school. At least that way, the bullies wouldn’t know my history. They would’ve made fun of my secondhand clothes and haircut, but they wouldn’t have picked at my past. My parents.

“You planning on snorting up under the bleachers at lunch?” The guy leans across the aisle toward me. “Like mother, like daughter?”

How have I become an insta-pariah?

I try to ignore him, but he nudges my chair, shaking the whole thing, until I face him. I’m poised to say something—anything—but the words lodge in my throat. The vitriol in his glare stops me. He’s almost as hateful as Caleb.

Light-brown hair, his nose his most prominent feature. I recognize him.

Ian Fletcher.

One of Caleb’s friends from elementary school. Are they still close? They must be if he automatically takes up a stance against me. Pairing that with Caleb’s reaction…

“Take a picture,” Ian suggests. “It’ll last longer than your memory.”

I face forward and focus on Mrs. Stonewater. She’s talking about the Civil War. I open my textbook and try to find where we are, keeping my head down.

Blend in. That’s all I need to do.

I go from class to class, managing to slip in before the bell every time except once. The teacher reads the note from the guidance counselor, and I find a seat toward the back.

And that’s how I manage to stay alive until lunchtime.

It takes forever to find my locker, where I drop off my bag and remove the nearly crushed peanut butter and jelly sandwich Robert made for me and a water bottle. I thought I might be okay navigating since I had been to the elementary school, but this building is a whole different beast.

I roll my shoulders, happy to have the weight off my back, and follow the straggling students toward the cafeteria.

Ahead of me, Caleb and his friends are making their way in the same direction. I automatically slow down, keeping my gaze on them. I hug the lockers and hope they don’t see me, while I drink in everything I can about them.

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