Pretty (King’s Heart #2)

Prologue

I try to concentrate on my drawing. Keeping my head down and listening to the smooth squeaking sound of my Sharpie gliding across the notebook paper. Ignoring the rest of the people in the cafeteria. But I can feel all the eyes.

They’re crushing me.

Why can’t the floor just open up and swallow me?

That’s what I’d really like. I don’t want to actually die. But also… not existing right now would be kind of great.

It’s not like I was Mr. Popular before this happened. In fact, it was the opposite, and I liked it that way.

But it’s only the first day. It’ll pass. They’ll get bored and move on.

I’ve always been more of an outcast, especially at an all guys school full of preppy assholes like King’s Heart Preparatory Academy for Young Men.

Jesus. Just listen to how long they made the fucking name.

I wear makeup and dye my hair light purple. I’m small and soft in a school full of macho bullshit. And I’ve always been fine with that. If people can’t accept me, then fuck ‘em. It gets better and all that.

I have my Sharpies to draw with. I have Harold and Nancy, my adoptive parents, who are actually the most supportive and loving people alive.

But still, something feels profoundly lonely about what’s happened.

Getting a small taste of community—of belonging—and then having it ripped away.

At least I think it’s been ripped away. I’ll know when I see him.

I look up from my notebook, trying to find him.

I almost look back down. The staring is too much. A mix of intrigue and judgement.

But I persevere because I’m pretty sure he’s different.

He will see. Really see. He won’t believe it all.

But it turns out that I’m naive as fuck, because when I see him, whatever we had before is gone.

He stares back at me, his top lip lifting in a slight sneer.

His feelings are written all across his face.

Disgust. Disgust. Disgust.

Something breaks inside of me.

He’s supposed to get it. He’s supposed to realize. He was supposed to be there for me.

But I guess no one cares.

So, fine. That’s what they think? Then I’ll fucking lean into it.

That’s what they want, anyway. They don’t want the truth. They didn’t ask.

Not one person. Not even him.

I straighten my shoulders, hiding away all the other stuff forever, and raise my middle finger, pointing it right in Javier Morales’s direction, refusing to look away until he turns his back on me yet again.