Page 10 of Cruel Elite (Princes of Ravenlake Academy 3)

“As if I’d trust you with the guest list,” I snap. “You couldn’t even manage the most basic shit today.”

Hurt flashes across Anika’s face.

I hate seeing that so fucking much. I hate hurting her. Why am I like this? Why am I doing this?

Anika stammers out an apology. “I’m sorry. I know I was kind of… scattered today, but let me make it up to you. You go home, and I’ll take care of everything.”

“Anika, no.”

“I have leftover alcohol in the back of my Jeep, and Jennifer has those Bluetooth speakers in her trunk from the party last weekend. It will be perfect.”

I sigh, losing patience. “I’m just going to go home.”

“You can’t sit home by yourself tonight.” Anika leans forward, her voice lowered. “This party is where everyone’s reminded that the status quo is still the status quo, remember? That’s what you said today. If you leave, people may think you’re slipping. Especially after that Haley girl hit you last month. You have to stay here and—”

Momma’s voice is still going in my head, drowning out Anika’s.

You have to stand up taller, Penny.

Put on some blush, you look anemic.

I thought yoga bodies were supposed to be toned. What’s this hanging over the sides of your jeans?

I think you’ve eaten enough, don’t you?

You have to—

You have to—

You have to—

“I don’t have to stay here and do anything!”

The words come out in a shout, grabbing the attention of a few people nearby.

I lower my voice and dismiss Anika with a wave of my hand.

“I’m not sure how much clearer I can make it: I don’t want to be here anymore, and I don’t want you following me home like a lost puppy. Stay here, grope your sophomore hook up, and leave me the fuck alone.”

Anika’s eyes well with tears, but I turn and stomp away before she can start to cry.

Not because I care whether I’ve made her cry, but because I feel my chest constricting in the familiar way it always does before I have a panic attack.

“Not here, not here,” I mutter under my breath as I try to regulate my breathing.

Stop being so dramatic, Penelope,Momma always says, looming over me like the Grim Reaper.Really, you can’t take any criticism.

A montage plays in my mind as I scratch and claw at my throat, trying desperately to breathe.

I’m eleven, dancing on pointe across the living room in my leotard and tights while Momma watches on, a smile plastered on my face.

As soon as the music cuts, I fall sideways and clutch at my bruised, bleeding toes.

The world is starting to darken at the edges. I still can’t breathe. It’s a full-blown panic attack now.

But the memories keep on coming.

I’m thirteen, being fitted for my first pageant dress. The gown is pale pink and gorgeous, flowing in layers of tulle and lace from the trumpet flare at my knees to the floor.

---