Chapter 3 Isolde
It takes less than a week for Charlie and Lucy to start ignoring me.
They don’t do it all at once—at first, it’s just a missing “good morning” or a coffee pot emptied without refilling.
Then it’s conversations that close the second I step into the room, or a sudden fascination with their own phones whenever I try to talk.
I want to believe it’s normal transfer drama, but no one at Westpoint does anything by accident. They’re not shunning me out of boredom or spite; they’re shunning me because I’m a hazard. Radioactive. The new mutation that needs to be isolated and monitored for signs of aggression.
So, I let them ghost me. It’s a relief, honestly. The less I have to pretend to be invested in their fake roommate bonding, the more I can focus on the reason I came here: the war.
Still, hunger is hunger and I can’t stand the awkward silence while I cook so I make another plan. By day four, my stomach’s gnawing itself raw and the snack shelf is empty, and Charlie’s grocery order has mysteriously left off all the protein bars I wrote on the list. Along with everything else.
I’d been living off vending machine chips and energy drinks because conveniently the app we use to order had my ID locked out.
My only choice was to rely on Charlie to put my items on the list and then e-transfer her…
which she had no problem doing until that incident with Rhett and the coffee spill.
Word travels fast, I guess.
Which is how I end up at the dining hall, walking headfirst into the mouth of the monster.
It’s big and obnoxious, filled with the sounds of rich kids chattering about their latest car purchase.
Everyone is packed together in dense, territorial clumps, like zoo animals who’ve learned that crowding close is the only way to avoid being picked off.
Or like packs of wolves, waiting for a little rabbit to cross their path.
There’s a raised dais at the far end, a literal feeding platform for the Academy’s apex predators. I recognize the four Feral Boys instantly: Colton, Jules, Bam, and, of course, Rhett. One chair is empty and somehow that makes the scene more ominous.
They’re dressed in blue and gold blazers and sit shoulder to shoulder, carving through roast chicken and ham like it’s sacramental.
Bam’s already laughing with his mouth full, his teeth too white against the red of his tongue, and Jules is holding court with a pack of second-stringers trying to catch his eye.
Rhett barely glances at his food, instead surveying the room with a lazy, wolfish scan.
He catches me in the entry, his gaze rolling over the crowd and fixing on mine with interest. He doesn’t smile, but there’s a small, knowing up-tilt to the corner of his mouth.
I push through the first row of tables, keeping my spine straight and my chin up. The rules here are the same as in any other prison: survive by all means necessary.
The buffet for the normies is a joke—boiled vegetables, slabs of meatloaf sweating under heat lamps, rice that’s already fused into a single, continent-sized mass. I fill my tray with enough calories to avoid fainting and then scan for a place to sit.
Every table is full. Not actually, but in the sense that no seat is truly empty unless you’re invited to it.
I try the far left, then the right, then the cluster nearest the window.
Each time, the residents lock eyes and perform the same ballet of rejection: bags moved to block a chair, a backpack thrown on the table, one girl physically turning her body to shield the space like a goalie defending the net.
At the fourth table, a pack of girls in matching maroon sweaters go silent as I approach.
The leader—platinum blonde, pink lipstick, nails filed to glassy points—looks me up and down, then murmurs something to the girl on her right.
The whole table snickers. I catch the phrase “suicide chic” in the middle of it.
I keep moving, even though my palms have started to sweat.
I remind myself of the plan: get in, get out, learn the lay of the land.
But the sound of the giggle follows me, sticky and electric.
I squeeze the tray tighter, the edge digging into the bruises on my hip, and find an open spot at a table next to the serving station.
I’m halfway through arranging my utensils when a boy with perfect teeth and a rugby neck sits down across from me, swinging his leg over the bench like he’s mounting a horse.
He doesn’t say anything for a while, just watches as I try to peel the top off a container of ketchup.
His lips are parted, like he’s waiting for me to mess up.
After a minute, he finally leans in. “Didn’t think we’d see you in the zoo so soon.”
His voice is slick and nasal. I know the type—used to talking shit with impunity, never been punched in the face.
I raise my eyebrows. “Were you planning on missing it?”
He grins, showing off a row of fake-perfect incisors. “Nah. Just didn’t expect to see you alone.”
I spear a chunk of meatloaf with my fork. “Guess I’m not as popular as you.”
He laughs, but it’s forced. “Nah. You’re way more popular. Everyone’s been talking about you.”
I meet his eyes and don’t blink. “You have a lot to say about me?”
He shrugs, suddenly less sure. “Not me, personally. Just… you know.”
I do know. I take a bite and chew it slow. “My sister?”
The word lands like a dead animal between us. He can’t look away, but he’s not brave enough to stare me down. I watch the sweat form at his hairline.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “It’s just… people talk.”
I lean forward, elbows on the table, fork in hand like a weapon. “What do they say?”
He glances at the Boys, then back at me. “Just that, uh… it’s kinda weird you’re here after, you know. What happened.”
I wait. He doesn’t elaborate.
Finally, I put down my fork. “If you’re going to say something, say it.”
He shifts in his seat, eyes darting to the Feral Boys again. “They said your sister… like, she… never mind.”
I sit back, crossing my arms. “She what?”
He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
It does, but I don’t force it. He’s not the enemy. He’s just a mouthpiece for a system that wants me to hate myself.
He picks at his plate, clearly wishing he’d chosen another table.
I eat in silence, letting the institutional food go cold on my tray while I scan the room.
There’s a pattern to the chaos: girls in tight formation, boys in loose packs, the outcasts huddled at the periphery, pretending not to notice the pecking order.
The air hums with gossip, some of it whispered but most of it launched like hand grenades at anyone vulnerable enough to react.
Every few minutes, a new insult hits me from a different vector.
Some are subtle—an arched eyebrow, a cough behind a hand, a smirk followed by a not-so-quiet “just like her sister.” Others are bolder: a boy at the next table pantomimes drowning, holding his nose and flailing until his friends crack up.
A girl with purple hair takes a selfie and aims her phone so the lens catches me in the background.
Her caption, which I catch as she types, reads: “#nexttogobyebye.”
I don’t react. I take notes.
I watch every face, every sneer, every gesture. I memorize the ones who look at me with hunger, the ones who look at me with pity, the ones who look at me and immediately look away. I map the topography of cruelty, carving it into my brain so I can burn it down later.
By the time I finish eating, my jaw is so tight that it hurts to unclench. My hands have left half-moons in the plastic of the tray. I stand, dump my food in the trash, and walk out without looking back.
Except for a single glance up at the platform.
Rhett is watching. He raises his glass to me, a slow, deliberate motion, then sets it down and resumes his conversation with Bam. The message is clear: I’m in his territory now. And he doesn’t intend to make this easy.
I walk back to Archer House with my head high, but my stomach is a knot of acid and ice.
I get why my roommates don’t eat in the dining hall.
I get it, and I hate it, and I can’t wait to see what happens when the Feral Boys finally decide to make their move.
Sleep is a joke. Even when I manage two or three hours, my dreams are a replay of last night: the sneering faces, the drowning pantomimes, the scrape of chair legs and smirks.
I wake at 5:18, fully alert and exhausted.
My phone is at 9% because somehow my charger didn’t work.
Stupid kinked chord. I stare at the cracked ceiling and think about how nothing here ever works the way it should.
I make tea, scald my tongue, and kill the next hour pretending to study for the only class that matters today: Environmental Science. It’s one of Casey’s old favorites, which is probably why I picked it. Maybe some sick part of me wanted to be near whatever part of her survived the wreck.
The room is three buildings over, tucked between the old chapel and the greenhouses.
By the time I get there, the hall is already buzzing with bodies.
Most of the seats are claimed, everyone with their assigned spots like we’re children.
I find my name on the posted chart: Greenwood, I. —second row, dead center.
Of course.
I wedge myself between two girls whose entire existence seems to revolve around pretending I don’t exist. They don’t even flinch when my bag scrapes their knees.
I slide into the chair, adjust to the cold plastic, and scan the rest of the room.
No sign of the Feral Boys, thank fuck. Maybe they can’t be bothered with intro-level sciences.
On the desk, someone’s carved a message in shaky ballpoint: SUICIDE SLUT. The S’s are jagged, the L nearly gouges through the top layer. For a second, I stare at the words. My hands start to sweat. I trace the letters with my pinky, wondering which of Casey’s classmates did the carving.