Page 47 of Don't You Pucking Dare

The practice room's familiar scent of rosin and wood polish usually calms me, but today it feels oppressive. I unpack my cello with deliberate slowness, hyper-aware of Amanda's eyes on me.

"Saw your man at Thatcher's last night." Her voice carries that particular note rich girls perfect in private school—sweet poison wrapped in silk.

I focus on tightening my bow, watching the horsehair pull taut. "Thatcher's?"

"God, you really are from another world, aren't you?" She turns in her seat, designer perfume wafting between us. "Hot hockey player? Huge house on Maple Grove?"

My fingers slip on the rosin. Of course Brody would be there. Of course he'd be—

"He was all over Sloane Fitzpatrick." Amanda watches my face like she's studying for an exam. "You know her, right? Blonde? Trust fund? Everything you're not?"

Sloane from American Lit. The girl who wears Chanel to eight AM classes and never takes notes. My stomach turns.

"They were about to head upstairs." Amanda's voice drops conspiratorially. "Until I cockblocked them." She glares at me. "You’re welcome."

"I’m not thankful. Brody can do whatever he wants."

"Oh, so you didn’t fuck him?"

She smiles because she knows she has me.

The practice room suddenly feels too small. Other students filter in—Emily with her viola, Matt settling at the piano—but they sound distant, underwater. All I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears.

Professor Schweig enters, his eyes catching on Amanda's unexpected presence beside me. He pauses, probably wondering if we'll need to be separated like children. If he only knew.

"Take out the Vivaldi," he calls, but I can barely focus on the sheet music in front of me. The notes swim on the page.

Brody's moved on. No—he was never mine to move on from. I was just a task, a game I still don't understand. And now he's back to girls like Sloane, girls from his world, while I sit here pretending I ever had a chance at being more than a conquest.

My bow hovers over the strings. At least in music, I know who I am. Even if everywhere else, I'm just a broke loser to take advantage of.

My fingers shake as I dial the facility's number. Two weeks of "she's unable to come to the phone" has my stomach in knots. Each time, the staff's voices carried that particular tone—the one that means they're hiding something about my mother's state.

The hold music drones in my ear, some soft jazz meant to be soothing but setting my teeth on edge instead. My free hand finds my cello strings, seeking comfort in their familiar tension. One minute passes. Two. Every second feels like confirmation that something's wrong.

Then—

"Lola?" Mom's voice hits me like a punch to the chest. She sounds clear today, present in a way that makes my eyes sting with relief.

"Hey, Mom." My voice comes out small, young.

The change is instant. "You fucking bitch!" Her words slash through the line, that familiar manic edge turning her voice razor-sharp. "Too good for me now that you're at that fancy fucking school?"

Ice spreads through my chest. This isn't her normal medication haze or even her old drug-induced rage. This is something new. Something targeted.

"Mom, what—"

"Don't play innocent!" Something crashes in the background. "I know you've been talking to him. To your precious father."

My throat closes. "I haven't—I wouldn't—"

"He came here, Lola!" Her laugh holds hysteria's edge. "Wanted to know what kind of trouble his little girl's gotten into."

Voices rise in the background—staff trying to calm her. Mom's breathing comes harsh and fast through the phone, like she's running from something. Or toward something.

The line goes dead with a final click.

I stare at my phone, mind spinning. Rick Kemper visited her? After all these years of nothing but signed checks, he suddenly cares enough to show up?

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