10. Sydney
ten
sydney
Unknown
Savory or sweet?
Not like you to go missing like this.
Such an important question left unanswered…
U OK?
Me
Both. Salted dark chocolate is my jam.
…and I’m sorry, something came up.
I’m fine.
Something in the form of assholes, or…?
Just a few bullies.
Did they get any of their own medicine?
If you see a girl sporting a broken nose and pair of black eyes, it definitely *wasn’t* me.
[laughing gif]
Noted.
You know my name, right?
Yes.
And I know virtually nothing about you.
I suppose that’s a fair assessment.
I need something.
Fine, ask and I’ll answer… maybe.
Name?
Right for the jugular. Call me L.
A single letter? How fashion-forward your parents were.
L.
I know. I give them shit all the time for it. The period is a package deal with the letter, by the way.
Jeez. Okay, well, since that gives me nothing—guy or girl?
Guy.
In college. That one’s a freebie. I’m not some sick 60-year-old hoping to talk you into sending nudes.
Although I wouldn’t turn them down either
FSU or SJU?
Pass
Why???
I want you to think of me as a neutral party. Where I go to school doesn’t matter, right? I’m kind of awesome at being a voice of reason and being on your side at the same time.
Uh-huh.
Does that bother you?
I’d be lying if I said no.
Tell me a lie, then.
I was tied up in the women’s restroom during the hockey game tonight.
The photo doesn’t appear online. Not on Sunday anyway. And I don’t get any more disgruntled looks than usual when I head to meet Dylan before Calculus Monday morning, which makes me think the gossip hasn’t fully ramped up.
Maybe since yesterday was a recovery day for the campus, following what I’m assuming was a party-filled night after FSU’s win. I don’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth.
But Calculus also gives Dylan her first glimpse of the bruise on my cheek that I tried to cover up. An attempt that apparently completely failed.
She touches my chin and turns my head to the side, mouth open.
“Who—what—when— where ?”
“But not why?”
She touches my cheekbone, and I wince.
“The why is obvious.” She passes me the coffee she bought before I arrived.
I really need a job. I don’t like to think about how fucking poor I feel all the time. It only creeps up on me for the little things, like buying my own coffee. If Dad didn’t secure me essentially a free ride to FSU, fund my textbooks and school supplies, and cover the basics, like my meal plan, housing, groceries, and utilities, I’d be shit out of luck. The coffee place uses those flex dollars attached to my meal plan, but coffee is expensive. I’d burn through those too fast if I wanted coffee every damn morning.
As it is, my bank account is down to a single digit.
When I asked Dad for help, I didn’t expect everything . The unfortunate truth of the matter is that he made me comfortable… and that made me complacent.
“Do you know anywhere that’s hiring?” I ask Dylan as we walk to class.
She hums. “I don’t, but you could check with Brandon. He’s got that bartending job at Briar, maybe they need more help. Have you waitressed?”
I straighten. “Yeah, I did in high school.”
“The good thing is, FSU has a shit ton of bars around it because we’re all alcoholics.” She snorts. “I can’t vouch for how well college assholes tip, but I’m pretty sure they all shifted to paying fair wages. Talk to Brandon.”
“Good idea.”
She nudges me. “So, what, where, when, who …?”
I shake my head and brush her off.
Halfway through Calculus is when it happens. There seems to be a rolling tide of attention shifting in my direction, so much so that even the professor stops teaching. Students have their phones out, some vibrating or going off silently with alerts.
Even Dylan’s goes off, and she turns to show me the screen.
A photo of me from Saturday night, with the security guard’s arm around my shoulders.
The caption reads, Once a snitch, always a snitch .
Fuck.
“Settle,” the professor calls. “Now, once you’ve solved…”
It was posted by the FSU gossip page, the one that gave out my information. My concentration is fucked . My mind keeps wandering back to Saturday. And it sucks because Sunday in my apartment actually felt somewhat good. I didn’t think about anything other than the show I decided to binge. I stayed in bed and hid from the world.
But now this?
It’s not like it’s paired with the photo Andi took, because at least that would explain why I was with security. But, no. There are already replies to the main content, people taking the photo and warping it, editing horns into my hair or making my eyes red, my brows bushy and overexaggerated.
“Class is over.” Dylan closes my notebook for me. “Let’s get out of here.”
Agreed.
I shove my stuff in my bag and follow her to the library. We find a table in the far back, half hidden by the stacks. She shoots Brandon a text, then dumps everything from her bag onto the table.
Not school supplies.
Food…?
Granola bars, candy bars, a rather large bag of pretzels, one of those squeeze tubes of peanut butter. Her notebook from Calculus comes sliding out, too.
“Why…?”
“I have diabetes, so I’m always prepared. I need sugar if my levels drop too low.” She lifts her shirt slightly, revealing the pod stuck to her stomach a few inches above the waistband of her leggings. She taps the compact black case amongst the snacks. “This has my extra insulin and supplies in case I spike, but this device usually keeps track and gives me insulin as needed.”
“I had no idea.”
She shrugs. “I don’t advertise it. It doesn’t stop me from living my life, I just have to make some adjustments.”
“Okay, good.”
“Trust me, I have more at my apartment. Take whatever you want.”
I’m still deciding when Brandon arrives, breathless and wet-haired.
“Did you run here?” Dylan asks.
“I was on my way out anyway.” He makes a face at her.
“With wet hair? Who are you, and what have you done with my best friend?”
“Shut it.” He focuses on me. “I saw the post. I’m sorry, Sydney, I don’t know why they keep targeting you.”
I sigh. “Yeah, well…”
The real problem is Oliver Ruiz. He seems intent on keeping my past fresh in people’s minds by any means necessary.
“This story is going to require more than snacks,” I finish.
Something behind me catches Dylan’s attention. And Brandon’s.
“Oh, shit.” She grabs my hand. “Don’t turn around. They probably don’t see you.”
“Who?”
“Ruiz, Walker, and some others.”
I close my eyes.
“We’re tucked pretty far out of the way,” she offers.
“I found you pretty easily,” Brandon mumbles. “But—I knew you were here.”
“And you don’t think they look around when they get into the library?” I shake my head. “I need to get out of here. Or, I don’t know?—”
“Too late,” Brandon interrupts.
Someone drags out the empty chair beside me and drops into it. I glance over at Oliver Ruiz. His dark hair is perfectly styled, and he raises a thick eyebrow at whatever expression is on my face.
Probably irritation.
“Sydney.” He says it like he’s never said my name before.
“Oliver.”
“You and your friends are formally invited to our next party.”
Dylan chokes.
“I’ve been to parties, and they don’t tend to come with formal invitations attached.” I scowl. “Why would I want to be surrounded by people who hate me anyway?”
He shrugs. His hazel eyes are more green than brown today. “It would go a long way to convincing your dad you’re okay. Since Bear can’t keep his mouth shut, and it’s only a matter of time before something about the snitch slips out.”
“It seems unlikely that he doesn’t already hear rumors. Is that why he brought me into the locker room? To try and sway you guys?”
“Such a straightlaced guy, your father.” He leans in. “An honest man. Makes me wonder about the other genes his daughter possesses to turn out so different?”
Every muscle in my body goes tight at his insinuation about my mother. My absent mother, who I haven’t given a thought to since last week.
“Okay,” Brandon interjects. “We’re trying to work here. You’re welcome to do a case study on nature versus nurture if you’re so inclined… as long as you’re not in our space.”
He smiles. “Sure thing, Moore. Just remember—once someone has a history of lying, you can’t trust a damn thing they say.”
He strolls back to his table, and I can’t help but turn and watch him go. He, along with most hockey players, Carter and Penn included, has a fantastic ass. Even in dark-wash jeans.
I meet Penn’s darkening gaze at their table and quickly swivel back around.
“I, um, have to go.” I grab my bag. “Thanks for trying to cheer me up with sugar. I’ll see you guys later.”
In reality, though, the library is the exact place I need to be. I ask the student at the front desk for past yearbooks—I shoot for nineteen to twenty-three years ago, because I can’t quite remember when Mom graduated—and take the stack upstairs. There’s just a narrow strip of two-person desks up here, arranged along a railing that overlooks the first floor.
The fact that my mother attended FSU continually shocks me. The more I think on it, the more I am convinced she never mentioned it.
She knew of the rivalry and didn’t stop me from going to SJU. Never said a word about it even when I was enrolled at St. James. And Dad works here . I’d bet they met here, although I never asked. All signs should’ve pointed to me attending FSU from the beginning.
Once I have a table, conveniently with a line of sight on the hockey table and my friends, I dig in.
My first find comes in the second yearbook. Not from the individual portraits, but one of the clubs that are listed first. It’s her face that snags my attention, and then her name in a short list at the bottom confirms it.
I suddenly can’t get in enough air.
The thing is, I have a picture of my mom in my head. It’s been shaped by growing up with her, loving her, and trauma in fair portions. Living with her over the summer revealed traits that I had either been blind to or ignorant of, and that kind of eye-opening is hard.
But what’s worse is seeing this completely different version of her. One that’s smiling easily, with her hair loose around her shoulders and her hand on a guy’s arm. This one doesn’t have to wear layers of makeup to hide the dark circles under her eyes. This one didn’t scrounge enough money together for months just to buy a nice shirt and skirt for her job.
Happiness seems foreign on her.
The mother I knew was stressed and tired. She would sometimes disappear on me for a day or two, especially once I was old enough to use the microwave. It was up to me to get myself to school, to brush my hair and teeth, to put on clean clothes and pack my bag with all my homework.
But she always came back, delirious, sometimes caught in fits of giggles that seemed to seep out of her cracks. Even when, as I got older, her absences grew longer.
Her return was usually accompanied by cash. New food, the electricity bill paid. The heat turned on, if we were lucky.
New outfits.
And within a week or two of epic, sometimes nausea-inducing mania, we were back to square one.
I shake it off, until my gaze snags on the bracelet she’s wearing.
My body goes clammy.
I flip through the rest of the book, scanning each page for her, although now queasiness distracts me. Mom was in the drama club—that’s the first picture I found. But I don’t see her again until the juniors are listed, and her maiden name in small print: Jessica Hansen .
There she is. Again . I’m going to throw up for real, but the important thing is that I’m not crazy—she was here. Now I just need to figure out if it connects to where she went.