Page 79 of The Pawn

"We're done."

Footsteps leaving—that must be Holly. It's just Cole now. Maybe if I walk very quietly, I can get out of the library through the back entrance without being seen.

Before I can, I hear the distinctive sound of a low, pained sob.

Shuddering, insatiably curious, I get up and tiptoe over to the bookshelf between me and Cole. Peering over the top of the books, I carefully observe him. He's on the opposite side of the aisle, leaning up against the shelves, hand covering his face.

His shoulders are trembling, his breath coming fast and hard. As I watch, he reaches up to wipe his eyes.

He's crying. Full-out sobbing, with heaving, snot, and everything by the looks of it.

My stomach does a weird little somersault. I don't know how to feel about the fact that I'm the one who did this to him. It seems like I should be jubilant, triumphant, celebratory even, but all I feel is tired and sad. Watching him is too confusing to bear, so I turn away from the books and head towards the back exit, my taste for revenge turned to ashes in my mouth.

Once, I thought I knew what I wanted: to see them destroyed. Now I don't even know what I'm doing anymore. What I thought was justice feels more like just another tangled web of questions without answers.

Maybe publishing the exposé on what really happened the night Mariana Marks was raped will finally make me feel better. It's what I came here to do, and it feels like the end of everything.

After that, I'll surely feel at rest, and the fire inside me will go out. Then I can finally go home and forget all about Coleridge—and the four terrible boys who prowl its hallways.

* * *

Everyone on campus is talking about Cole now. It's in the murmurs and whispers. The Legacies blog has gotten so many hits that the server temporarily crashed until the previous admin let me know they'd upped the server space to account for all the hits. My tweets about the DUI have gone viral, and there are murmurs going through the political sphere about the governor's actions in a possible cover up. Multiple journalists have reached out to me via the Legacies social media, wanting to know more—including my source, and whether or not I can put them in touch with them.

It's all overwhelming. Especially now that I'm in a precarious position at the school. My joint meeting with Mrs. Reynolds and Holly is after class today, and I have no idea what the outcome will be. For all I know, I'll wind up packing my bags by the end of the day.

At least now I have a video that proves my brother's innocence. It's the most valuable thing I've gotten here.

I'm not sure at first if I should go to my Visual Arts class, but I decide it would look odd if I skipped. And I need a distraction from everything going on in my life. Art is about the only thing I'm good at anymore since I fucked up all my friendships—or in Chrissy's case, I guess, discovered the truth about someone I thought was a good person.

We're doing recreations today. Rainbow brought in various prints of master painters' sketches, showing the process before the final piece, and we're meant to copy them. Once we've done a few sketches from reference, the assignment is to do a few in the style of the master we've chosen, but with our own subjects.

Five minutes into class, Cole hasn't shown up yet.

Fifteen minutes in, he's officially marked absent as the teacher moves around the tent taking roll.

I should feel relieved, but instead the pit in my stomach has just grown, like a tumor deep inside me. I feel like I'm going to be swallowed whole by the darkness growing beneath my skin.

Just a few more days. I'll get through a few more days, double check all the information I got from Mariana, see if I can pull any public info about the assault, and make my last post. Whether I do it from here or back home in Wayborne after inevitably getting expelled, it'll be done, and I can finally sleep easy again.

* * *

"So, Ms. Schneider, I'll be interested to know why you called this meeting." Mrs. Reynolds peers over her glasses at us. "It's atypical for two Rosalinds to have a roommate dispute."

I'm tapping my finger on my thigh, my knees squeezed tight beneath my blue tartan Coleridge skirt. It's the first time I've seen Holly in person since the night of the festival, not including eavesdropping on her breakup with Cole. Though we're here to speak to Mrs. Reynolds about our living situation—no doubt she wants a new roommate—I can't stop looking to the left of me, observing Holly.

She looks tired and withdrawn, especially compared to her normally outgoing, confident self. That's to be expected, given that she just broke up with her longtime boyfriend, but I can't help wondering if I had something to do with it, too.

I wish I could make up for the things I've done.

But she's made it very clear that's not going to happen, so I'll just have to accept—and suffer—the consequences instead.

"I don't want you to worry," Holly says to Mrs. Reynolds. "I just think it would be best if I found a new room to stay in."

I blink at her, shocked. "You want to move rooms?"

Holly's hands tighten on the armrests to either side of her. She doesn't quite look at me as she answers, "It's the simplest way to take care of things. We don't get along well, it turns out, and I have no cause to kick you out. So I'll move, and this will all be done with quickly."

I'm gobsmacked. I thought for sure she scheduled this meeting so she could tell Mrs. Reynolds to fire and expel me. The last thing I imagined was that she would volunteer to up and leave her room, the best one in the dorms.

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