Don’t You Pucking Dare (The Blackridge Reapers #2)

Chapter 4

It’s my first day of classes. The girl in the mirror looks different today. More grown up, maybe, or just more alone. I brush my fingers over the simple silver cross necklace my mom gave me for graduation, trying to calm the flutter of nerves in my stomach. Everything feels bigger here— the ancient stone buildings, the sprawling quad, even the silence in my dorm room.

My new laptop sits in my backpack, still smelling fresh. The whole town pitched in for it— bake sales, car washes, even little Tommy offering up his piggy bank. "For our Lola," they'd said, "who's gonna show those rich kids what real talent looks like." I blink back tears, remembering their faces at my going-away party.

They don't understand what it means to walk these halls when your whole wardrobe came from thrift stores and Target clearance racks. When your hands are calloused from actual work, not manicured for show. When everything you own fits in two cardboard boxes, except for the one thing that matters most.

My cello stands in the corner, honey-colored wood gleaming in the morning light. It's been my constant companion since I found it at that estate sale six years ago, held together with hope and careful repairs. My fingers find the worn spot on its neck, smooth from countless hours of practice. With it, I'm not just the girl from the trailer park— I'm music itself.

The scholarship letter hangs on my wall, framed in a second-hand frame I painted myself. "Full ride," it proclaims, based on talent alone. Not connections, not family money, not anything but the way I can make strings sing. Still, the thought of my first class— Music Composition— sends butterflies racing through my stomach. At least there, surrounded by other musicians, I might find a place where I could fit in and find friends.

I shoulder my backpack and double-check that my cello is safely locked away. The mirror catches my reflection one last time— simple brown hair cut straight across, clear skin that's never known expensive creams, eyes that my mom says hold all my determination. I might not belong in their world of trust funds and family legacies, but I belong to the music. I hope it’s enough.

Reality hits harder than expected. The first girl I encounter takes one look at me and curls her lip. "Are you lost? Janitor's office is in the basement. Better hurry— he hates slackers."

Her friend, drowning in a designer sweatshirt, smirks. "Don't forget about the overflowing toilet on four. Hope you brought your plunger."

Their laughter cuts through the hallway, and it’s like they’re twisting the knife already in my gut. My mom always said I got her snarky attitude along with her eyes.

"Oh, which one of you was it?" The words slip out before I can stop them. "You flushing your stash before Daddy finds out, or Beauty Queen here purging her breakfast to match Mommy's sample size?"

Their faces flame red as their friends' laughter shifts targets. It's a hollow victory— I know I've just painted a target on my back— but thank God for the professor choosing to appear in this moment.

I slide into a seat as far from them as possible, their glares burning between my shoulder blades. Maybe I should've listened to Mr. Peterson when he suggested community college. The words hurt more than I expected, sliced deeper than I prepared for. I can trade barbs with the best of them— growing up in Pine Grove Trailer Park teaches you that much— but each cruel comment feels like a paper cut to the soul.

But giving up? Moving home, abandoning my scholarship, letting my cello gather dust? My mom didn't raise me to run from a fight. She raised me to stand my ground, to work twice as hard for half the credit, to know my worth even when others try to deny it.

"I want to start the year by getting to know each of you," the professor announces, his voice warm with genuine interest. "Has anyone here composed before? Even a small piece for your instrument?"

My heart leaps. Music fills my head— dozens of melodies I've written in the quiet hours before dawn, when the trailer park is silent except for early-shift workers. Compositions that pour straight from my soul onto paper, that keep me company on lonely nights. I try to stay quiet, to let others raise their hands first, but something must show on my face. The professor's eyes find mine instantly, despite the forest of eager hands around me.

"How about you?" His gaze pins me in place. "Your name?"

"Lola Kemper." Heat creeps up my neck. "But I'm happy to wait—"

"No, you see I’ve had some of the others in previous classes. I’ve heard their compositions before. You, I don’t know. And, according to the notes I have here you’re a scholarship student, meaning you’ve got an actual brain. You play the cello. Did you happen to translate your music into something that can be played on a piano?"

I realize he believes he’s giving me praise. He doesn’t see that he’s making everyone hate me more by mentioning the scholarship and my intelligence. The man’s digging a hole for me that I’ll never be able to climb out of. I would much rather play it cool and brag about the other’s compositions and downplay my own.

With reluctance I answer honestly. "Yes, Professor Schweig. I always translate the notes to fit the piano. Not all music teachers are proficient at the cello, but they seem to do well with piano."

"A rather nice way of saying that those who can’t do, teach," he laughs, and I’m starting to get nervous because his smile makes him look younger than I judged. "I’m betting you have several of your compositions with you, so bring me a favorite and let’s hear it. I’ll do my best to interpret it correctly."

The professor plays my composition, and something in my chest tightens. These notes were written in darkness, born from lonely nights and a need to turn pain into something beautiful. Hearing them in this bright classroom feels like exposing a secret—like everyone can suddenly see the darkness I try so hard to hide.

Jealous eyes stare as I walk over and hand him my absolute favorite. It’s moody and dark, befitting a magical movie or maybe a horror. I know it’s much better on a cello which can give you the deepest notes but it’s okay on piano, too. I can’t help but show some pride when he begins to play it.

I see a few people close their eyes and let the music take them over. I smile until I see the daggers flying from across the room. My smart retort to them earlier is going to destroy a lot of chances at making friends.

Then I catch sight of the beauty queen and her friend. If looks could kill, I'd be six feet under. My earlier victory wasn’t enough— I might have won the battle of words, but I've just lost any chance of blending in here.

The music swells to its crescendo, and I wonder if this is how it's always going to be: my greatest joy becoming my deepest isolation.

"Excellent," the professor says when he stands from the piano. "Bring your cello next time. I want to hear it as it’s meant to be."

He moves on, and I cringe every time he criticizes someone’s best efforts. The jealousy and hatred against me grow with each word.

Free at last, I hurry to the quad where it seems everyone gathers for a break between classes. They stand or sit in groups of three or more, yet I’m not asked to join anyone. I can see there are definitely other scholarship students, wealthy and not so wealthy. It’s obvious by their less stuffy attitudes and their concentration on studies rather than who’s screwing who, or where the next kegger is. Still, I’m ignored.

I claim a spot under an oak tree, fishing out my English textbook and a pack of peanut butter crackers. My stomach growls, reminding me that anxiety killed my appetite at breakfast. The crackers are stale, but they're better than nothing.

The rich bitch from composition class walks by with a group of girls who look exactly like her. She giggles as she passes and tells them, "That’s the suck up I told you about. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s sleeping with the professor. But maybe not. Just look at her. Who’d want that when he could have one of us?"

Their words shouldn't cut so deep—I've heard worse in the trailer park. But something about being here, trying so hard to belong while knowing I never will, makes each barb slice deeper. Maybe because for the first time in my life, I actually care what these people think. And I hate myself for caring.

Their laughter chimes like she’s actually funny. So much for college being different from high school. I was wrong in thinking something would change, that some growing up would be done in the months of summer. But I don’t mind it because there’s a special place in hell for girls like her.

I start to laugh as they walk off but suddenly get an eerie feeling. The tingling on my neck isn't like the earlier stares of judgment and dismissal. This feels... hungrier. More focused. Like being sized up by something that sees past my carefully constructed walls. My head swings around, but there's nothing obvious to spot. That's almost worse—knowing the threat is there but not being able to identify it.

I no longer feel calm and safe out here despite dozens of other students nearby. I need to move. I’m cold even beneath the bright sun. Quickly, I stuff the book back in my bag and shove the trash from the crackers in my pocket. I hug the backpack to my chest without zipping it closed and walk as fast as possible to the library building.

The feeling doesn’t leave me. I swear I’m being followed, which is a ridiculous thought. Why would anyone follow me? No one knows me. I’m not important. I’m not worth kidnapping that’s for sure.

Yet, I’m not wrong. I know I’m not.

I keep glancing around but nothing.

The library wraps around me like a paper fortress. I choose a corner table where I can see down three aisles at once, pressing my back against the wall like every survival instinct demands. Deep breaths. I'm being ridiculous. It's just first-day nerves, just the weight of being the scholarship girl in a world of trust funds.

I grab my phone to distract myself. Of course, a text from my last hookup from summer is occupying the screen.

Levi: Hey, baby. How’s Blackridge?

Lola: Just a rich snobby version of high school

Levi: Do you have time for me tonight?

Lola: You wish

Levi: I’ll call you

Lola: Not going to answer

Levi and I agreed that this wouldn’t continue once I started college. I didn’t think he’d break our pact so soon. I glance around, still feeling like I’m being watched. But no one’s around.

I can’t shake the feeling, but I pull out my books and pretend that I have homework to do before my next class starts.