Page 202 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

After what happened outside the school this morning, I’m doing my best not to attract unwanted attention. After all, it’s been made pretty damn clear no one’s on my side.

“Morning, class!” Ms. Parsons says as she makes her way to a desk overflowing with books, files, and wilted flowers. “Did we all have amazing weekends?”

A few “Yeah’s,” and “Sure’s,” are thrown back from just about everyone except Briar.

That’s because the Prince of Lavish Prep has suddenly decided to train his attention on me. His gaze is so intent, I feel like I’m melting inside.

“Anyone have anything to share before I start with announcements?”

The general consensus is a mumbled, “No.”

“All right.” The teacher shoves aside a stack of papers and perches on the edge of her desk. “We have a new student to welcome this morning. Can you all give Indigo Virgo a nice?—”

“Indi,” I cut in with a grimace.

The teacher’s mouth is still open, but it had to be said. If I don’t nip this in the bud, every Tom, Dick and Jock Idiot will be calling me Indigo. And my new fun surname, Virgin.

“Oh?” Parsons nods her head. “Then let’s all welcomeIndito Lavish Prep.” She begins clapping, but only a handful of students bother to join her.

Every single student in homeroom decided to look at me, though, so there’s that. I thin my lips and raise a hesitant hand, giving them a small wave.

Nobody waves back.

And then the murmurs begin.

That’s the virgin?

Heard she fainted.

Got a thing for Briar.

Fuck.

Briar gives me another of his shark-like grins.

Holy crap. Tough crowd.

Maybe it’s because I was brave enough to stand up to their deviant Briar. I guess that kind of stuff just doesn’t fly around here, especially judging from that French teacher’s response.

“Now, who would like to volunteer to buddy up with Indi for the first week?”

Wait…what?

Too late, I realize I’m gaping at Ms. Parsons, instead of declaring myself unfit for supervision. I mean, shit, I’m seventeen, not seven.

“I’ll be happy to do her, Ms. Parsons.”

The class roars with laughter.

Ms. Parsons—idiotic flower child she is—doesn’t seem to notice Briar’s Freudian slip.

I do.

My eyes go wide. My chest tightens.

Briar has his hand up real fucking high. He’s wearing a grin that I can tell is both smug and weaselly, but one which Ms. Parsons seems to think is completely innocent.

“Why, Prince,” Ms. Parsons enthuses as she stands, a hand to her chest. “That’s marvelous.” She turns to me, and points between me and Briar as if this is some kind of special school where your IQ has to be in the single digits before you can even apply.

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