Chapter 1
The campus vibrates with Monday-morning electricity—laughter ricochets off brick walls, and the bitter tang of coffee cuts through the crisp February morning air.
Thankfully, the winter has been mild. Here and there, the weather fluctuates. But I guess we have global warming to thank for that. No more dreams of the snowed-in winters that New Jersey used to know.
I try to enjoy the last semblance of peace before people start losing their minds.
Valentine’s Day is just two weeks away—my least fucking favorite holiday.
I mean, what is it anyway? A commercialized parading of affection that puts millions of dollars in the pockets of big commercial companies that exploit love.
But what’s the worst of all is all that fucking pink.
Red I can get down with, but pink makes me want to claw my fucking eyes.
Maybe it’s because my mother forced me to wear too much of it when I was younger, or maybe it’s just too frilly and shit for my liking.
These hoes take it as an elective, but to me, it is why I wake up every morning.
Writing takes me to a different world—things I can’t say flow on to pages so effortlessly as if it were the air I breathe.
Maybe it’s due to all of my silence, but I can write about my life, my truth, and no one would bat an eye, assuming my words are nothing more than that of a creative mind.
Writing is the only thing that keeps me sane.
When half of my life makes no sense and the other half is plagued with pain, writing is how I come up for air.
Our footsteps fall in perfect sync against the marble floors of Stanton Hall as we rush up the stone staircase to the second floor, perched outside our classroom door, waiting for the missing piece of our friend group.
“Did you see Luke yesterday?” Tiffany’s voice slices through my thoughts, her hair whipping around as she looks between us, ready to spill some boiling tea. “He was talking to Malcom Fairborne.”
Stormie’s laugh is sharp. “No way. Malcolm is as straight as a board.”
“If anyone could prove us all wrong, it’s our Luke,” Tiffany says, chomping her chewing gum, snapping bubbles in several sharp pops in that way that drives me insane.
I step in front of her, stopping her and Stormie in their tracks as I hold my palm flat in front of her, narrowing my eyes. She frowns, puppy dog eyes fully activated, but I stand my ground, hardening my gaze.
“Fine. Fine.” She huffs, spitting a large, wet pink wad into the middle of my palm. “Happy?”
“Very,” I deadpan. Stormie makes a face that rivals Nosferatu’s, her lips pursing together and her eyebrows drawn as she blinks at our display in disgust.
“Hey, bitches!” I look over Tiffany’s shoulder to see Luke waving as he skips toward us. His clothes are in disarray, as always. His blue short-sleeved button-down half-tucked into the baggy light blue jeans, collar hanging off his shoulder, with a white, wrinkled shirt underneath.
“Guess you’ve had a busy morning, it seems,” Stomie says.
It’s less of a question and more of a statement, because we all know Luke is serious about his early morning cardio and I don’t mean in the campus’s state of the art gym.
Nonetheless, she beams up at her brother until he kisses the top of her forehead.
“Ew, gross,” she says, wiping the wet spot he left there.
“I don’t know where your lips have been! ”
“Nowhere your precious little Tiffany’s hasn’t.
” He boops Stormie on the nose when she narrows her eyes at him, but truth be told, she could never stay mad at him; a smile already creases the corner of her mouth.
“She’s just as much of a slut as I am.” He tugs Tiffany against him on his other side.
“Say, bestie, have you told your new beau what a naughty girl you’ve been? ”
Tiffany scowls at him, throwing his arm off her shoulder before shoving past me to take Stormie’s hand, kissing the back of it. “None of those assholes meant anything, you know that, my love.”
Our dear little Stormie immediately blushes, bright red cheeks and lashes that won’t stop batting.
Truth be told, this is a new norm for all of us. As far as I knew, all of my best friends are into guys—well, Luke doesn’t have a type, just as long as you have a hole to fill, he’s down—but then one fine day in the middle of the night.
Storiffy?
Tiffmie?
Either way, I fucking ship it as long as all of my friends are happy.
I love them because they are so different from me, but somehow we find common ground.
Unlike my baggy jeans, strewn with chains, and my millions of oversized layers, they are both the girliest of girls.
Tiffany swears if I let her give me a makeover I would be the “hottest goth bitch”, her words not mine, but I like my layers.
They are my armor, they keep me safe, invisible.
I don’t have any desire to be like my friend, loud and edgy. At least, I haven’t for a long time.
Today, Stormie rocks that oversized black hoodie again, sleeves pushed up past her elbows, paired with a ripped denim jeans over fishnets.
Her combat boots give it an edge. Her hair’s twisted into braids, the ones that bounce when she moves.
The chains on her backpack glint in the morning light, even more than her light green eyes.
She’s stormy—like she could rain on someone’s parade without even trying—and I love her for it. My little badass.
And Tiffany, of course, is an entirely different kind of storm. She sports that pink crop top she thinks makes her look innocent, but somehow lands just shy of scandalous. Paired with that pleated mini skirt and little white sneakers that make her porcelain legs look like they go on for days.
She giggles at something Stormie whispers into her ear, looking like she stepped straight out of some magazine I wouldn’t even read—too pink, too frilly, it’s just not my thing.
Flirty, the kind of girl who can capture anyone’s attention without meaning to, including a number of the students scurrying between classes, tripping over themselves as if they have never seen two women in love.
Luke says something, and I force a smile, but my focus fractures as a deafening sound cracks through the air that I barely register.
Time compresses.
And I can’t even see which direct the sound came from as panic floods the halls.
Students scatter in every direction. Tiffany’s scream tears through my eardrums. Stormie crumples, like a marionette with cut strings.
Luke drops to his knees—almost in slow motion—clutching his sister to his chest, the next shot lands on the boy across the hall.
Blood pools, too fast, too red, and I want to move, but my muscles seize. I try to run, but my legs are concrete, my lungs collapse as screams rip from my throat.
Another shot ricochets off a wall and lands between Tiffany’s perfectly manicured brows.
Her body cracks against the cool, hard tile before slipping down a wall, leaving a crimson trail behind.
Luke is still in shock. Stormie’s blood coats the front of his shirt; his mouth opens as he rocks her, but no sound comes out.
Gunfire continues to erupt around us, automatic and loud, getting closer and closer, more bodies falling around us. Screams, bullets, and chaos are the only noises that fill the air.
The shooter stands over Luke—clad in an all black, ski mask covering his face—his jeans darken, yellow liquid spreading beneath him as his body quivers like a leaf.
The shooter reloads, but neither of us has the guts to move.
He shoots Luke at point-blank range; one shot in the back of the head is all it takes for his body to go limp, settling on top of his sister.
It is only then that I find the will to move, to breathe. “Please. Please.” I hold my hand out in front of me, stumbling backwards as he draws closer. I lose my footing, tumbling to the ground, but I continue to back away. “No. Pleas—”
A searing pain blossoms in my chest before everything goes black…
“Mackenzieee.” Tiffany snaps her fingers three times in front of my face, pulling me from my trance, her face coming into view. “Are you listening?”
I blink several times, sweat coating my skin. My hand covers the phantom hole in the center of my chest where I can still feel the searing pain.
“Hey, bitches!” I hear Luke drawl, skipping toward us. And a sense of shrill panic floods my veins, the sudden need to get away.
“Hey, are you okay?” The back of Luke’s hand lands on my clammy forehead. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“We have to go!” I yell frantically, grabbing Tiffany’s wrist, trying to tug her down the hall. “We have to leave!”
Tears form in my eyes, hot as they trail down my cheek, breaking free from the tight shackles I usually keep on my emotions.
They burn trails down my face, each drop a betrayal of the careful control I’ve maintained.
My vision blurs, the world around me swimming as if I’m looking through a dismal spyglass of what’s to come.
I swipe at them angrily, but my fingers come away wet, the evidence of my weakness glistening on my skin.
A shadow flashes behind her—too fast, too precise—and instinct takes over.
I shove Stormie across the hall, her shoulder cracking against tile as that same sound that will live in my memory tears through the air, missing her skull by inches.
I grip Tiffany’s arm so hard she yelps, dragging her down as another shot explodes above us.