Page 5 of Fall From Grace
I know I’m young. I know most high school relationships don’t make it the distance. I might be naive, but I never thought I was stupid. But, like most people my age, I guess I thought we would be the exception. That we meant more than that.
I’m the biggest joke around, aren’t I?
Chapter Three – Logan
I’m a fucking joke.
That’s the thought that has bounced around in my head ever since I was forcefully kicked out of the only thing in my life that mattered. Ousted because I got a little too wasted one night while in my disguise, and was taped saying some not-so-PC things. I was dubbed a sexist, misogynistic asshole and thrown out of the band I helped create.
That happened about a year ago now, and I’m still not over it. I thought going home would help, spending some time with my parents, but it didn’t. They told me I needed to figure out what I want to do with my life since I’m not in the band anymore, so I decided to apply to a bunch of colleges and pick whichever one had the best party scene.
Hey, old habits die hard and all that.
That’s how I wound up enrolling in Midena State University. I got myself a small house a few minutes away—all that money I saved up from my Black Sacrament days came in handy, at least.
As a twenty-three-year-old freshman, I do not anticipate having much fun in my classes. No. The fun’s going to come from the parties. From the clubs. From whatever I can get my hands on around here.
I lost everything I cared about, and now Black Sacrament is bigger than ever, without me as its front-runner. I really am the biggest fucking joke around; I doubt anybody could give me a run for my money in that department.
The only saving grace about this turn of events is that nobody around here knows who I am. The masks, the body paint; it meant my identity was a secret. Nobody here will know that I’ve gone by Pope for the last few years.
No more Pope. Only Logan.
Logan was never great at school, so classes should be interesting. Honestly, I’m not expecting to pass with flying colors, but as long as I don’t fail, I’ll consider it a win. Hey, I’m a work-in-progress as far as I’m concerned. Besides, I think we all know college degrees aren’t really worth shit anymore; nothing is. In two decades, will humanity even exist? I doubt it, although the level of doubt depends on the day and time you ask me that question.
If I’m being one hundred percent honest, I’d say nothing I do really matters. I lost the one thing that was important to me, so what’s the point in all of this?
I head to the campus bookstore the Wednesday before classes start to load up on whatever shit I’ll need. Money’s no object for me right now, so I couldn’t care less about ordering online to get the textbooks cheaper, or to grab the older edition. I have a list of books I’ll supposedly need. Might as well get them. Why not?
The campus bookstore is in the student union, right to the left when you walk inside the main front set of doors. Past the campus merch are the aisles with the textbooks, and it takes me a while to figure out how the aisles are organized.
Hint: it’s not by author name. No, it’s by subject. How fucking stupid.
My first few books are for my intro to psychology class. Once I figure out I need to search by subject and that those subjects are alphabetical in the aisles, I follow the signs and turn down the aisle. I hold my phone up and divide my time between glancing at the books I’ll need and scanning the shelves for them. Most of the selection is picked-over. Huh. Maybe I should’ve swung by here sooner.
Not like it matters in the end, but whatever.
I stop before a book I think I need. It’s the last one there, so I double check the title—some ridiculously-long bullshit thatcould have been shortened—and while I’m double-checking, a soft voice beside me says, “Excuse me.”
I don’t move; there’s plenty of room to go around me, so whoever it is can fuck off.
“Oh-kay,” the voice speaks the word, putting emphasis on the two syllables.
I finally put my phone down and am ready to grab the book I think I need when I see a small hand pull it from the shelf before I have the chance to. “Hey,” I say, brows furrowing as I turn toward the girl who took the book. “I was getting that one.”
The girl holds the book against her chest, her brown eyes angled up at me. She wears jeans that are a size or two too big for her, and a shirt that practically swallows her up. Her brown hair is in a messy bun. She looks like she just rolled out of bed, but she’s wide-awake.
Maybe this is just what she looks like. Not my kind of girl. Call me superficial, but I like the hot ones. The ones who actually give a shit about their appearance.
“But you weren’t,” she says, her voice soft, hesitant, like she’s afraid to speak up.
“I was.” My voice, on the other hand, is much harder. Rougher. I need to be careful, otherwise I might start to sound like Pope—doubtful, without my mask and body paint, but still, you never know.
“But you were just standing there, looking at your phone.”
“I was making sure the titles matched.”
Her lips tug into a frown. “It takes you that long to read a book title?”
