Page 94 of Rage

Icicle

By: Torrence Robb

Chapter One

Calista

May, 2016

After what has felt like the longest week in the history of long weeks, the final bell rings and we all pack up our books. Ms. Yardly, our history teacher, a crotchety woman who appears to be about seventy, harrumphs. The same way she does at the end of every school day as she fights to be heard over the sound of our bags rustling.

"Make sure to stop by my desk on your way out and pull a topic out of the jar for your next essay. They'll be due in two weeks and need to be at least two thousand words, as well as contain reliable sources. This assignment is worth twenty-five percent of this semester’s grade for my class. I expect all of you to write your own," She says as she narrows her eyes at a handful of the male athletes seated in the back of the room.

I finish packing my bag, and stand from my seat just as Alistair Covington shoves past me. I'm caught off-guard and the jolt causes my bag to fall to the floor. It lands on his freshly polished oxford loafers.

"Watch where you're going, you fucking trailer trash cunt." Alistair pulls his shoes out from under my bag and kicks itbefore one of his lackeys shoves me. I lose my balance and fall backwards onto the desk behind me. The lightweight desk isn't meant to hold the weight of anyone, let alone a short, fat girl, and it releases a loud creak right before it breaks. My ass lands on the cold tile floor, causing Alistair and his group of assholes to let out a peal of raucous laughter.

"Gentleman! That will be enough of that," Ms. Yardly chastises my tormentors. My heart swells with the hope that someone finally sees the hell these boys inflict on me every day. But that hope is dashed immediately as she speaks again. "I doubt your parents are going to be happy to hear that they have to pay for yet another broken desk, Mister Covington. What is that, four this semester alone?"

Alistair whips his head around to the teacher, then slowly turns back towards me. If looks could kill, I am one thousand percent positive that I would be dead and buried. The absolute fury in his eyes has me inwardly terrified. More than any other time he's looked at me like this. While I've heard other girls whisper about how gorgeous his eyes are, I've only ever seen them black with anger or annoyance. I can almost see the wheels in his head turning as he plots how he can make me suffer for this.

I'm frozen, pinned in place by his stare until Ms. Yardly lets us know just how done with students she is for the week. "Mister Covington! Miss Graves! That will be quite enough! Grab your things and leave my classroom!"

I snatch my bag from the floor and rise to my feet on shaky legs. I make sure not to look at anyone still in the classroom as I pull the slip with my essay topic from the jar on the teachers desk. As quickly as I’m able, I slip out of the classroom and down the corridor. I already have everything I need, so I’m able to pass by my locker without stopping. Which is great because I need to get the hell out of here, now.

The wind blows gently as I walk the half mile home from the private school my father insisted I attend. Growing up, I was taught to always pay attention to my surroundings, but there is almost never any traffic down this stretch of road, and both the school and my father’s house are located in safe areas. So, after making this trek five days a week for the past year and a half, I tend to zone out after the first block. I can’t help but feel a little resentful that none of the other students have to walk home like I do. They all live on campus because they’re from out of state. I'm 'fortunate' enough to live nearby, but my father refuses to send his car for me in the afternoons. He tells me that I need to be glad he allows his driver to take me to school every morning and the walk will do me good.

I scoff, and roll my eyes as the music playing in my earbuds changes to a song that my mom used to love. I don't know why I keep it on my playlist. She didn't care enough about me to bother with treatment when she was diagnosed with stage three lung cancer. Nor did she care enough to tell me that she was sick until it was too late. Mom shipped me off to live with her own mom when she grew too weak to do anything other than lay in bed.

Grandma had wanted to take care of me after, but the state decided that her health was too poor and forced her to contact the father I’d never met. It took her weeks to get in contact with my father and inform him of mom’s death. But when she did, he begrudgingly took me in. I’ve lived with him since I was sixteen, and he still never fails to remind me how much of an inconvenience my existence is to his playboy, billionaire lifestyle.

I pull my phone out of my cardigan pocket and plan to skip mom’s song, but decide instead to switch playlists altogether. I unlock the screen and pull up the music app. I'm in the mood for loud, angry music. It helps me deal with the trauma of having such uncaring parents.. I cycle between three different angrymetal playlists most days. Today I choose the one that features heavy bass drops, wicked guitar riffs, and screaming female lead singers.

Just as my tense shoulders start to relax, I feel the rumble of an older model car through the sidewalk. I tighten my backpack straps, and keep my eyes straight ahead. I've attended Winter Lake Preparatory long enough to recognize the sounds of certain students' vehicles. The one that appears to be approaching me slowly is owned by none other than Alistair. He's the biggest douche at our school. He comes from old money, like all of the other students at Winter Lake, and calls himself "untouchable" because any time he gets in trouble, his mom throws herself at the headmaster.

The engine of Alistair's classic sports car revs, and from the corner of my eye I see him slow down until he matches my pace. My hair is still in the required ponytail, so I know he can see my earbuds in my ears. But that doesn't stop him from yelling to get my attention. As if the perfectly waxed car, and loud, rumbling engine aren't enough to do that on their own.

"Hey! Graves!" he calls, and doesn't hesitate before starting to hurl derogatory names at me. "Bitch I'm talking to you! A low income bitch like you should know to acknowledge their superior when they’re talking to them!"

I do my best to ignore him. He isn't saying anything I haven't heard from him and his cronies before. I pick up the pace and hope that he'll grow bored and leave. But of course, I don't have that level of luck. Brakes squeal and his car slams to a stop.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, fat bitch!"

Something hits my backpack, but I keep walking. I can see the gate at the end of my father's long driveway, and I know that if I can just make it to the gate, the guard will be able to get Alistair to leave me alone.

"Don't fucking walk away from me!" He grabs onto my backpack and yanks me backwards. I stumble, and the only reason that I don't fall is because my backside slams into him. His hands roughly grip my shoulders and he spins me around so that I'm facing him. I still can't bring myself to look up at his face, so instead I stare at his shoes again. His hand grips my throat and forces me to look up. But even that doesn’t satisfy him.

My heart is racing, and it's taking everything in me to keep myself from trembling. As frequently as he's bullied me, he's never actually put his hands on me like this before. It's always been verbal, from him at least. His fingers tighten and he practically screams in my face.

"You will fucking listen when I'm speaking to you. Do you fucking understand me, trailer trash?" His hand forces my head to nod. "That old bitch Yardly was already dialing my mom's number when I left her classroom. Even though it was your fat ass that broke the goddamn desk. If I get blamed for it, I will make your pathetic existence even more miserable than it already is."

Before I can even blink, one of his buddies, a beefy jock named Derren, steps behind me and holds my arms. Alistair's fingers tighten even more around my throat, cutting off my air, and I know that by tonight there will be finger shaped bruises in place of his hand. His other hand makes a fist, clenching and unclenching. He draws it back, and I realize too late that he plans to hit me.

My body tries to double over as my lungs fight for air, but Alistair and Derren hold me upright. Alistair punches me in my belly over and over, and tears prick my eyes even though I try to keep them in. My stomach is already cramping from the repeated blows and if he doesn't let up, I may puke. Which would only spell more trouble for me. I try to breathe through the pain,but his grip on my throat is still restricting how much air I can take in.

His fist hits me one last time, higher than the previous punches, and I think I hear a rib crack from the blow. His hand finally releases my throat just as my vision starts to go black, allowing me to suck in lungfuls of air. My vision returns, but now it's blurry from the tears I've stopped trying to hold back falling freely. From the corner of my eye, I see that Alistair has a vicious sneer on his face, his top lip curled up in the corner. A phone rings, and his face grows even more angry.

"Bring her to the car."

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