Page 145 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

But if today made one thing crystal fucking clear, it’s that there’s nothing I can do. They can bully me as much as they want, and I’ll just have to sit back and keep playing that victim card until they tire of me.

I sit up.

I’m not their only victim. And bullying isn’t the worst thing they’ve done. I slip my thumb in my mouth, worrying the edge of my nail with my teeth as I turn and stare at the bathroom door.

At this point, I’ll doanythingto make them stop. But I doubt Romi would even believe me if I told her what had happened in the woods nearly three months ago.

Ha. Maybe she’ll just tell me to walk it off.

I throw myself back on the bed, yanking angrily at my sheets until I’m buried under them. It takes me a long time to fall asleep—I listen to Romi moving around the room getting ready for bed, and then as she falls asleep and gently starts snoring.

But eventually, my thoughts drift apart and darkness takes me.

Whatever helps you sleep at night, Nim.

I wake up alone. Romi’s bed is made and, judging from the slant of light through the arched windows, it’s way past breakfast. I guess she already knew I wasn’t going to eat in the cafeteria with everyone else. I crawl out of bed and wash my face before sitting at my desk and nibbling at the sandwich I brought here last night.

Reluctantly, I dig in my backpack and take out my class schedule. I groan when I see my first class is accounting. I wonder what the penalty for skipping class is? Actually, I need to go speak to the dean about changing my classes. I can do that, right? I wonder if I need to make an appointment?—

There’s a knock on my room door, which instantly gets my back up because Romi wouldn’t knock. I smirk to myself as I walk over the carpet to answer the knock. Yeah, the Serpents wouldn’t knock either.

I don’t recognize the girl outside. She blinks owlishly at me and then gives me an uneasy smile. “Nim Winters?”

“Yes?” I answer reluctantly, and then lean out to check both sides of the hall. Just in case.

“Dean Rigby wants to see you.” She hesitates and then steps back. “Now.”

I look down at my pajamas, then back up at her. “You’re going to have to give me a few seconds to change.” I gently close the door in her face, spin around, and press my back to it.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

My mind whirls as I throw on my uniform and run a brush through my tangled hair.

This is good, right? I wanted to speak to the dean, and the universe was all like,here you go, Nim.

But this isn’t an invitation for tea. This is a summons. Oh my God, why would he be summoning me to his office? Maybe this is about my tuition. Was there a mistake? There’s a flicker in my heart, and I don’t know whether it’s relief or disappointment.

The girl leads me down the hall, ignoring me when I ask her if my uniform is okay for an audience with the dean. But she looks as nervous as me, so maybe she’s incapable of idle chit-chat. We head into the east wing, and go to the top floor. The dean’s office is about halfway down the hall at the end of a small foyer where a secretary pointedly ignores us when we take a seat in two of the four chairs outside the dean’s frosted-glass door.

The phone rings, the dean’s secretary picking it up before it can get out more than a single warble. She says nothing, just listens. Then glances up at us and points at the dean’s door with her eyes. “You can go in now.”

The girl stands up with me, which makes me feel a little better because this obviously involves both of us.

Dean Rigby’s office is large, and cluttered, and dim. Big, dark bookshelves line one wall, and the ubiquitous bronze earth ballstands about a yard away from his expansive mahogany desk with its dark green leather inlay.

He looks up at us, and then waves a hand to the two chairs in front of his table. I sit down, shift a little, and then look over my shoulder when the girl who brought me here doesn’t follow suit.

“Thank you, Elizabeth. That’ll be all.”

Elizabeth nods, and leaves the room.

Oh God.

When I turn back, Dean Rigby is studying me with narrowed eyes. My heart jams in my throat and stays trapped there no matter how hard I swallow.

“Miss Winters,” the dean says slowly. He’s a middle-aged man—trim with a tanned face and salt-and-pepper hair. He leans back in his seat and runs a hand down his jade tie. I wonder if he planned it to match his desk? “It’s good to finally meet you.”

There’s a flutter of relief in my belly, but he squashes it like a bug a second later.

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