Page 20 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

I lose sight of the figure as I hop on one foot and grit my teeth against the pain. When I look back, he’s gone.

The fine hairs on the back of my neck lift up.

Someonewasstanding there. Shoulder length hair, sandy or blond, and a video camera in his hand. Not a cellphone or anything—a proper video camera with a lens.

Maybe I am hallucinating.

It wouldn’t be the strangest thing to happen since I’ve set foot in this place. My toe aches in time with my hammering heart as I step inside the chapel.

Awe washes away the pain.

This is nothing like our church in Redmond. That place always reminded me of a converted barn. It could seat two hundred and store a bunch of hay bales at the same time.

This place?

Oh my fucking Lord.

Whoever built this place must have been blessed with visions of heaven. Maybe he’d been dying of syphilis or something. You’d have to be on the spectrum to create something this…

“Gorgeous, isn’t it, little slut?”

I instantly recognize the voice. It’s the guy who threw me up against my closet yesterday morning.

I try to swing around. He clasps my shoulders, keeping me facing forward.

The thought of this guy touching me makes my insides clench. I should be horrified,terrified…but for some reason my body isn’t on the same page as my mind.

His touch sets everything inside me squirming.

“You’d think it was some crazy-talented architect who built this place, wouldn’t you?” His breath tickles the hairs alongside my face. “Turns out, it was just some religious nut who knew how to use a hammer.”

Still rooted to the spot, I don’t have a choice but to take in—I meanreallytake in—this place. Everything from the vaulted ceiling to the immaculately designed stained glass windows. The floor is a ceramic artwork of mesmerizing patterns so glossy it reflects the rows of pews like a mirror.

It must have taken years to construct.

“Better take your seat, New Girl. Old Scratch hates it when we’re late to prayers.”

Then he slaps my ass.

Hard.

My gasp travels through the chapel like a whip crack. Everyone turns around to look at me, some grabbing hold of the backrest of their pew to twist in their seats.

I can’t imagine what I look like, standing in the doorway with my hands clutched at my chest, hair disarrayed and cheeks glowing like hot coals.

I’m not in the least surprised when most of the boys start snickering into their hands.

Moving on wooden legs, I force myself to the closest pew.

I don’t bother looking behind me. I already know the guy who’d been standing there whispering into my ear like Satan himself is gone.

But he must still be watching me from somewhere, because someone’s staring at the back of my head.

I take a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

At least my pants haven’t split. Today might even turn out to be a good day.

It seems the first two rows are reserved for the teachers and staff. I glance at them all and try to figure out who they are.

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