Page 27 of Broken Pieces
But I don’t owe any of them the truth.
“Fuck you,” I say.
Heads turn.
Desks creak as people lean in, hungry for the spectacle.
Liam doesn’t blink. His sneer cuts across his face, blood still on his lip.
“Don’t worry, foster girl,” he spits. “If you ever get tired of the street rat fucking you, I’ll show you what a real man feels like.”
Every muscle in my body coils tight, but I keep my expression carved in stone.
I have heard shit like this before. In houses where the doors never locked, where shadows lingered in the hall. In kitchens where men stared too long over half-empty bottles.
That is why I ran from those foster homes and stopped letting anyone get close. That is why I learned how to make my glare a weapon sharp enough to cut.
I lean forward, only a fraction, enough to show I am not afraid.
“I’d rather fuck a cactus with teeth than touch you,” I say, my tone surgical. “At least it wouldn’t ask if I came when it barely lasted thirty seconds.”
Gasps ripple through the class, sharp little intakes of breath that bounce off the walls. A few people cough into their hands, trying to bury laughter they can’t quite swallow.
Cassie exhales beside me, and it sounds suspiciously like pride. Her smirk is hidden behind her notebook, but the pride radiates off her all the same.
Liam’s jaw locks so tight I can see the muscle twitching, his teeth grinding down on whatever comeback he wants to spit but can’t find. He blinks hard, twice, then narrows his eyes in a glare he thinks still has power.
“Bitch,” he spits.
I raise an eyebrow.
“That’s the best you’ve got?” I ask, tilting my head. “Jesus. No wonder your girlfriend’s always crying in the bathroom.”
Before Liam can say a single word, another voice cuts through the room.
“Miss James.”
Mr. Harvey.
The vein in his forehead ticks, pulsing with irritation. He points at the door. A lazy, silent dismissal that says everything his mouth doesn’t bother to form.
He is done.
I stare at his finger.
For a moment, the fight claws at my throat, begging to be let out. But I swallow it whole.
The assholes never get in trouble.
They are the chosen ones, grins painted on, all teeth and charm, and somehow the world keeps mistaking it for goodness. The school protects them, funds them, builds banners with their names in bold black letters, monuments to boys who will never be held accountable.
They are untouchable.
But girls like me?
We are disposable. Warning labels. The easy blame.
The dirt swept under the rug so their shine never dulls.
