Page 105 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

I walk up to the mansion, detached but uneasy at the same time. Our family has never really had money. I don’t know why, because both my parents are reliable, intelligent people. But they have been discussing colleges with me, so maybe they’ve been saving toward that. If there’s one thing my parentsdon’ttalk to me about, it’s finances. Which I’m glad about—my dad is an accountant, but I definitely didn’t inherit his skill with money.

The sleek frosted-glass door swings open before I can touch the handle. A tall woman with piercing blue eyes stares at me, a smile slowly growing on her wide mouth. “Nim,” she says, stepping aside and waving her hand for me to enter. “Come inside, sweetie.”

She closes the door behind me, and walks past, beckoning me with a flick of her slim hand. “Your parents are in the kitchen.”

I’m torn between staring at the woman or her house. Both are equally elegant, sophisticated, and rich as fuck. Even though she’s only wearing skinny jeans and a plain-looking top, the cut of both suggests that they’re probably brand-name apparel. Her red-soled black high heels are definitely not something you’d find in Walmart’s shoe section. And her house?

Highly reflective, white tiled floors. Luxurious wallpaper with just a hint of damask patterns in champagne gold. And huge abstract art in slim, minimalist frames. A lot of them look like someone just drizzled paint onto a canvas while they were tripping on acid.

I find my parents in the kitchen. Even in here, everything is white and glossy. I can’t imagine what it would be like waking up with a hangover in this place. You’d have to wear sunglasses inside.

Mom looks over her shoulder when she sees Dad lock eyes with us, and gives me a big smile that grows even bigger when she looks at the woman. “I see you’ve met Vicky.”

Ah, the mysterious Vicky my parents couldn’t stop talking about on the way over here. They met in Cinderhart Academy, and were best friends with her and two other people whose names I can’t remember. Vicky was the one who invited them back to Cinderhart for their 20th reunion.

“She’s absolutely stunning,” Vicky says, turning to look me over. “Those eyes? Best of both.”

I don’t think eye color works that way, if Vicky is saying my hazel eyes are the result of my mother’s green eyes and my dad’s brown eyes. But I don’t say anything—I’m too aware of how grubby I am after my ordeal in the woods. I was still picking leaves and shit out of my hair as I came up the drive a few minutes ago.

I had every intention of telling my parents what had happened, but when I saw they weren’t outside in the car, mywillpower drained. If I told them about what I’d seen...I’d have to tell them everything. I don’t know if I’m up for reliving the stuff that happened out there. I mean, I can still feel their hands on me. How Smackdown fingered me. How the others stroked me to feel if I was wet.

And that’s where it all falls apart.

Somewhere out there while they were doing those awful, forbidden things to me...my body began to respond. I can’t explain it any more than I explain why they didn’t kill me, but I’m so fucking embarrassed at howgoodit felt, that I don’t think I can ever say anything. I’d been trying to convince myself that they wouldn’t care, that my parents would be focused on the murder, that I might not even have to tell them anything about my assault...

But then I walked in here, and suddenly I can’t bring myself to open that can of worms again.

“May I please use your bathroom?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest and hoping that there isn’t still some blood somewhere in sight.

“Yes, of course. You can use the one in your room.” Vicky points down a wide, airy hallway. “Take the stairs, yours is the first door on the left. Your bags are already inside.” She gives me another movie-star smile, but I give her more of a grimace than anything else.

“Don’t make a mess, Nim!” Mom calls out behind me.

“Oh leave her, Ruthie,” Vicky says through a laugh. “Come, let’s make a quick jug of margaritas, and then we have to go get ready.”

I swear my mother giggles.Giggles.

The sweeping staircase takes me to a second floor that’s just as immaculate and modern as the rest of the house. Thick, white carpets, demure wallpaper, carefully selected pieces of art on thewalls and a few plinths down the hall. I open the first door on the left and stare for a second before I step inside.

It looks like I’d imagine a hotel room to look, except cleaner. My bags are at the foot of the bed, and I hurry over to grab out a pair of sweats and my favorite hoody. I know I’ll stick out like a sore thumb wearing this, but I want to be all bundled up right now.

I let myself into the en-suite bathroom, and again my legs lock up.

“Oh my fucking God...”

This place is so white, it hurts my eyes. White marble floors, white tiled walls, white vanity, white claw-foot tub.I feelfilthyin comparison.

I kick off my shoes before I dare step inside, and shuck off my clothes a step later.

How can anyone enjoy living here? I’d be too scared to sit or lay down or use the hand towels in case you accidentally leave behind evidence of your dirty self.

I step into the shower, doing my best to keep the wound out of the water until I’m ready to clean it.

It should feel delicious...but the hot water stings when it touches the fabric burn Smackdown gave me when he tore off my underwear, and makes the bruises on my ass from Vuitton’s spankingache.

I carefully wash out the S-shaped cut on my inner thigh, giving it a good look for the first time. It doesn’t look all that deep. Before I got into the shower, it wasn’t even bleeding anymore. There’s no dirt or anything in it, so it should probably heal up fine. When I root around in the vanity cupboard, I find a small first aid kit.

This place makes me think of a hotel more and more.

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