Page 21 of The Wrong Side of Kai
We sit down at the table together, side-by-side, and I look around at all those empty seats again. I feel a thousand eyes burning into me. “Where is everyone?”
Chyna shrugs and turns her eyes down to her lap, but we both know where our friends are. Nowhere near me, that’s where. Refusing to be associated with the school tramp. Well, screw them. Fake ass friends. Chyna slides her tray over to me, offering me some of her grapes in consolation. “I’m sorry,” she says.
“It’s fine,” I lie, and pop a grape into my mouth. I guess I already knew she was the only real friend I had anyway. I have my back turned to the cafeteria, refusing to glance over at anyone, instead staring aimlessly at a dirty smudge on the windows. It’s really not fine. Is this what it feels like to be a social outcast? I bet even creepy Ryan Malone has more friends at his table than I do right now.
“You still haven’t told me what happened last night with Kai. What went down?”
I look at Chyna. It’s probably not wise to admit that I was an accomplice in a misdemeanor crime, but she’s my best friend. “We rode around on bikes, went to Harrison’s house, and messed up his truck,” I say under my breath, leaning in close to her. I manage to flash her a devious smile. “Thanks for the suggestion.”
Chyna’s eyes go wide and she nearly bursts out of her seat. “You actually slashed his tires?!”
“Shhh!”
“Sorry. But holy shit.”
“It was Kai who did the dirty work,” I explain, taking the heat off myself like a coward. “I was just the lookout. It was. . . fun.” I think back to last night, remembering the terror, but also the rush of exhilaration and adrenaline, and I wonder what move Kai and I will make next. It feels like we’re playing a video game.
Chyna folds her arms across her chest, giving me a stern look up and down. “Don’t tell me you’re about to fall off the rails and end up in jail or something.”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” I say, rolling my eyes. If I can survive losing Mom, then I can survive anything.
“Yeah, I kinda do.” Chyna’s expression turns serious. “Are you okay?”
I just nod, forcing a smile onto my face. We both know it’s fake and we both know that no, I’m not okay. But what can I do other than just bear the next few days, weeks, or months until attention shifts to someone else’s mistake?
*
#SmileForTheCamera is scrawled onto my locker door in bright red Sharpie. I hear people around me snicker as they watch me discover it, but I swallow and continue to open up my locker and fetch my books. Was that written by the same person who tweeted that hashtag on Twitter yesterday? Or has it simply become the agreed phrase for all my peers to taunt me with?
I slam my locker shut again and turn around, but a gasp escapes my mouth when I find someone standing directly in front of me.
“Vanessa,” Harrison says, his voice low. He glances at the words painted on my locker and grimaces. His eyes meet mine and he steps closer. “You didn’t happen to slash the tires of my truck last night, did you?”
“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” I state calmly, then barge my shoulder into his as I push past him. I can’t even look at him. Ihatehim.
A firm hand grasps my arm and yanks me back. “Vanessa,” Harrison says again, more aggressively this time. He squeezes my arm too tight and his glare becomes threatening. “Don’t fucking touch my stuff.”
“Don’t leak our private business,” I bite back, then widen my eyes and add, “Oh wait,” before giving him a bitter smile. Roughly, I pull my arm free from his grip and we glower at one another, two lovers turned enemies.
It’s only then that I realize we have an audience.Of coursewe do. Everyone is watching our every move, listening to our every word, desperate for new developments in this scandal. I don’t want to give them any more juicy gossip, so I grit my teeth and walk away despite how badly I want to kick Harrison to the curb.
With my English Lit books hugged to my chest, I walk to class at full speed and arrive just as the bell is ringing. I’m one of the first inside the class, which means I get first dibs at the desks. Everyone tends to stick to the same seats, but it’s not a rule, so there’s no way I’m willingly taking up position in my usual spot. I share this class with Noah, and we sit next to one another on the back row where we engage in mindless bickering and flirting – or at least we did. It’s how we started hooking up in the first place, but after I called things off, we didn’t talk as much. Yesterday he was a dick to me, so I refuse to sit near him and be subjected to a barrage of verbal abuse. I steal someone else’s desk right up front by the windows instead.
The rest of my classmates filter into the room, their judgmental gazes unable to avoid peeking over at me, and it slowly occurs to me that every desk around me is empty. No one wants to sit near me. It’s like being that kid in middle school who hasn’t discovered deodorant yet, like I’m too disgusting to come within a five-foot radius of. I close my eyes, inhale.All these people, all their phones with that video. . .
A body slouches into the seat next to me. My gaze flickers over. It’s Kai. He’s wearing a Cleveland Browns snapback backward on his head and he gets comfortable, dumping a textbook on the desk. His every mannerism is effortless, languid, and, as he glances quickly over at me out of the corner of his eye, I swear I catch him smiling.
“Hey,” I mumble, angling toward him. The only friend I have in this room. Thank God he’s in this class – hopefully he’s in some of my other classes too. There is suddenly hope that maybe I can survive the next hour.
“Undercover, Nessie,” Kai hisses, his lips unmoving. He stares straight ahead at the blank projector screen on the wall. I can’t tell if he’s sitting next to me by choice or because there aren’t many options left.
I sigh and turn back to my own desk, drumming my fingertips against the wood while I wait for Miss Anderson to show up. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and raise an eyebrow at Kai – it’s a new message fromKai Washington (Partner).He won’t look at me, and I can see the great effort he’s making to blatantly ignore me.
I told you not to talk to me.
Oh, nice. He was actually being serious about that. I text back quickly, honest as I admit:
Sorry. Got no one else to talk to.
