Page 6 of Quiet Rage
When the doors open again and Tamson walks in, my pulse picks up speed.
She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s about to have a very bad day—and I’m lucky enough to have a front-row seat.
Chapter 4
Tamson
I’m freaking starvingby the time I reach the cafeteria with barely enough time to grab something to eat before class starts. It’s not enough that I accidentally turned my alarm off instead of hitting the snooze button and slept an extra forty-five minutes. To make things worse, the damn car wouldn’t start right away—I was in the middle of weighing whether to get an Uber or skip class altogether when the engine finally turned over. I’m going to have to get it looked at eventually.
I’m going to have to do a lot of things. What a shame I never have the money for any of it.
At least I got here, but now I have to find something to get me through the morning without passing out from the hunger that is already gnawing at my stomach. Usually, there are wrapped sandwiches sitting under a warmer, but I guess I got here too late to snag one.
The only other option available and ready to eat right away is the oatmeal sitting in a large, metal tub. Steam billows up when I lift the lid to ladle some into a bowl, which I top with brown sugar and cinnamon. It was always one of my favorite breakfastsgrowing up. “This will stick to your ribs,” Mom used to say to Jason and me on cold mornings.
I barely remember those times when I look back now. It’s easier and better not to look back at all. Looking back hurts too much. All I do is long for the way things used to be, which doesn’t do me any good.
After swiping my card, I pick up my tray and scan the room in hopes of finding a free table. I’ve never been the girl who sits down with strangers, and I don’t have the time to start this morning. Thankfully, there are a few empty tables on the other side of the cafeteria, so I head that way, ready to scarf down my food as fast as possible.
It happens out of nowhere. One second, I’m walking like normal. The next, the lower part of my shin hits something hard.
Momentum is a funny thing. My body is still in motion, even though something got in the way of my bottom half. My top half keeps moving, pitching forward. It’s reflex that makes me drop the tray so I can catch myself with my palms when I hit the floor with a bone-rattling thud.
I wind up covered in the oatmeal that seems to shoot up from the bowl like a fountain.
My brain has barely caught up to what’s happening when loud, obnoxious laughter splits the air just behind me. Now I understand why laughter is sometimes described as infectious, because it spreads like an infection now, filling the room. The girl who tripped me is still the loudest of all. “Whoops,” she calls out in a way that tells me she’s not even going to bother pretending it was an accident.
When my hands slip in the mess all around me and I almost go down again, a fresh wave of hysterical laughs threatens to drown me. How is it possible for laughter to carry that sort of weight? Crushing me like an elephant sitting on my chest.
I’m a mess. Scalding hot oatmeal clings to my T-shirt and jeans, plastering them to my skin until it burns a little. That’s nothing compared to the heat making my face flush under all the attention and laughter. My knees and wrists are screaming from the impact with the tile floor, but it’s the nastiness of everyone around me that hurts worse.
That, and the way none of them offer to help.
“Poor thing.” The girl who tripped me clicks her tongue and shakes her head like she actually cares while watching from her seat. “I hope I didn’t ruin your clothes. They must’ve been so expensive.” She looks me up and down, lips pursed, while her friends giggle.
No, my clothes aren’t expensive like hers obviously are, and of course she knows it. I carefully work my way to my feet, trying like hell not to slip in the oatmeal that splattered all around. What do I do? Am I supposed to clean this up?
It’s like this heinous girl, whoever she is, can read my mind. “I hope you don’t think you’re going to walk away and leave this mess laying around. You’re probably used to cleaning up after people, though, right?”
One of her friends agrees. “That’s what some people are good for—cleaning up after the rest of us. You should find a bucket and a mop.” The people sitting closest to them chuckle, which only encourages them, of course.
I have never wished so hard that I could disappear. If a hole opened up in the floor, I would step into it and let it consume me, and I would be happy to do it. Why me? Why does this have to happen? And why do they all have to be watching and snickering?
My eyes dart around, looking for a way out of this. But instead of finding salvation, all I find is the tower of attitude who stared me down in class yesterday.
And when our eyes lock, a ripple of hair-raising energy passes between us. It must be the intensity in his gaze. Like he sees through me. That would usually unnerve me, being studied by a stranger who obviously hates me, but all I feel is a deep warmth blooming in my core.
Until two and two finally add up and I recognize the satisfaction in his smirk. Almost like he expected this to happen but definitely like he’s at least glad it did. He doesn’t just think it’s funny. He’s happy about it.
The two guys sitting with him look uncomfortable, but not him. He props his elbows on the table, hands folded under his chin, and silently takes in every moment while wearing that pleased smirk. The only sympathetic person at his table is the girl sitting between the twins, who actually almost looks like she could cry.
Still, even she doesn’t try to help. Nobody does but the janitor, who comes over with one of those buckets on wheels. “Don’t worry about it,” he murmurs when I try to mumble my way through an apology. “These things happen. Why don’t you go clean yourself up?”
Finally, a little kindness. It’s enough to snap me out of the layers of shock that have built up around me and made me numb. It’s a survival mechanism, probably. My way of defending myself.
With the little bit of dignity I have left, I pick up my backpack—it’s pretty much clean, by some miracle—and cross the cafeteria to go to the closest bathroom. Thank God, nobody follows me in. As soon as the door is closed, I look down at myself, and tears fill my eyes. My body hurts all over, including patches of my chest and stomach where the hot oatmeal soaked through my t-shirt.
What do I do now? Gripping the edge of the sink with both hands, I force myself through a few deep breaths which I release slowly. I know every minute I spend in here is another minute I risk getting bullied again, but I can’t go back out there. Not yet.
