Page 53 of Impossible

“What actually happened?”

“I fell,” I shrug. I don’t want to talk about Cam and Rose. “Dumbass move on my part. No more sneaking around for me.”

“Did you see your friends?”

I exhale slowly. “Yeah. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Cecilia eyes me for a moment. She bites her lip and cocks her head and finally nods, once, just a little, as though reassuring herself that she can respect my wishes.

“And I’m sorry I ran off,” I continue. “I’m still not used to the idea of being trapped here, and it wasn’t fair to you.”

I can smell the food; oatmeal, brown sugar, and more fruit. I want to eat it, even as the anxiety nausea grips and twists my stomach. This is the slippery slope I was afraid of. Eat one meal, and you start eating them all.

Cecilia waves off my apology, looking around the room as she sets the tray down on my desk. “That’s a nice nest,” she nods at the bed. The squeeze in my chest is like a messed-up kickflip—too many things at once. Pride, in the little nest I’ve managed to make out of the school-provided linens, and protectiveness, like I don’t want Cecilia looking at it, and then, strongest, shame. Because it’s just sobaseto create anest. I read the textbooks, I know it’s normal, but I don’t have tolikeit.

She has no clue that the spare few items of clothing I’ve woven between the blankets and pillows are the ones I was wearing on Friday and last night. And Leon’s jacket. Everything that’s touched him, with the barest tendril of Risk still clinging to my dirt-stained clothes as well. I’ve been bemoaning the quickly dissipating scent while curling up in the nest, but now I’m hoping there isn’t enough for Cecilia to catch it.

“Help me pick out clothes for today?” I ask instead. “Something that will help me fly under the radar?”

Cecilia gives me a look. “You were stampeded on Friday, hidden all weekend, and, according to most of the school, assaulted last night and carried back to campus like a damsel in distress. I don’t think ‘flying under the radar’ is going to be an option.”

My stomach drops. I hadn’t realized that everybody was paying that much attention to me. I’m no stranger to the limelight though—Rose loved attention, and I loved Rose, so I was used to it.

“Ok,” I hedge. “How about, ‘yes, I may be seven feet tall and wheelchair bound and the center of a large quantity of recent drama, but I’m totally normal I swear’?”

Cecilia laughs. “A tall order.”

“Literally.”

“Let’s see what we’re working with.”

“Not much,” I grimace, doing my best to maneuver the chair out of the way of the closet so she can look inside. The insides of my elbows are already painted black with bruises from where they bang on the arms of the wheelchair when I try to move.

“Wow, you weren’t joking.” Cecilia lets out a low breath when she takes in the contents of my closet. It is a fairly dismal offering. My old Adams uniforms are obviously out of the question, everything else is black or takes on black. Indie: master of disguises. Indie the Invisible. More like Indie the Impoverished.

I never had enough money left for clothes after paying for my meals and books and theatre club dues each semester. My parents stopped sending money altogether when I was sixteen. I didn’t bother asking why—I knew. Labor laws.

I should have known there was no hope of flying under the radar today. Not as the new girl on campus, not with the giant brace on my knee, not in a wheelchair pushed around by a fiery redhead who I suspect has no plans on leaving me unattended at any point.

Fifteen minutes and an awkward shuffle of an outfit change later, I have the tray of oatmeal on my lap and Cecilia is pushing me outside. For once, the Virginia weather is cooperating and giving us a sunny morning somewhat worthy of the label “May”. Cecilia somehow convinces me to eat in the giant quad at the center of the Complex, surrounded by students mingling before classes start for the day. We nab a picnic table that’s designed for wheelchairs, missing a seat on one side so Cecilia can push me right up to it. It’s nice—from far away you probably can’t even tell that I’m in the chair.

I take the chance to truly take in my surroundings. Yesterday I was so intent on getting to Ms. O’Brien’s office, I hardly looked around at all. Now I drink it all in. Groups of alphas stand around the quad. Anderson and James stand with a third alpha that looks similarly menacing. I don’t even know what it is exactly about them that seems dangerous—they’re dressed like all the other alphas, maybe a little nicer. They just seem… poised to attack. All the time.

None of the other alpha groups look like that. A few omegas mingle as well—they are few and far between compared to the alphas. I notice older alphas and omegas, and maybe a few betas as well, standing at regular points around the commons. Supervising. That makes more sense to me—this casual, collegiate scene is one rut or spike away from disaster, if what happened to me on Friday is any indicator.

Some of the groups are obviously headed for packhood—omegas lean into alphas, kissing hello, brushing noses and hands, grazing hips and waists. Others are a little more distant, all smiles and scenting and demure nods and giggles. The earlier stages, I guess. After Shawn and Jake yesterday, I’m not surprised to see some of the alpha-only packs behaving just as affectionately with each other as those with an omega—lots of arms around waists, smirks and ass-pinching and some outright open-mouthed kissing, which makes me flush and look away.

It feels likeeverybodyis more touchy-feely here. It goes against everything I’m used to up at Adams, where kids are self-conscious and rigid. Even the theatre kids need a few shots in them before they start truly groping each other. Their hand-holding and too-long hugs are always more performative than genuine. But these alphas and omegas are just… comfortable. It’s an unspoken need that everybody shares, and everybody does their best to meet. Warmth curls in my belly, the memory of cloves and strong arms giving me goosebumps.

The only pack thatisn’tall over each other is Anderson’s. They’re aloof, not talking to each other, just standing on the grass. Michael and the third guy are on their phones, Jared is just looking around, slowly absorbing the groups around him. I watch his lip curl and follow his gaze to two alphas, leaning hip to hip against a decorative planter, one with his arm slung over the other’s shoulder as they watch a video together. His eyes continue onwards, and then they fall on me. Ice water pours down my spine.

“Jared!” a voice calls from behind us. I twist to watch the blonde omega from my dorm strutting across the quad. She is all leather and denim and silk and designer labels and even in the grass, she manages to walk elegantly on her toes to keep her stilettos from sinking in the mud.

Jared doesn’t call back, watching her approach, utterly impassive. When she gets to the group, Michael leans in for a brief half-hug. Their other packmate just watches. The blonde rubs herself against Michael’s neck, making him shiver and step back, looking deferentially to Jared.

“Who is she?” I ask. “I met her over the weekend in my dorm. Real peach.”

“That’s Kennedy Ryan—the pack princess I told you about last night? She was supposed to be mated last year but the pack reneged. Got to know her and ran screaming for the hills.”

---