Chapter 5 Carwynn
CARWYNN
Sweating. Like. A. Pig.
I used my most dramatic grunts to fake a stomachache. My foster mom immediately rasped out, “You’re going to school.”
Ugh. I hated it here. Middle school sucked.
Another humid day, but I was wearing my sweatshirt like a suit of armor. Last week’s battle—having to line up in the nurse’s office for physicals, getting weighed like cattle in front of the whole class. Kids took bets on who the highest prized cow would be. I took first place.
Absolute humiliation.
Wanna know something even more humiliating? Having gym first period. With a brute of a gym teacher, Ms. Pearl, who was anything but. She was a bodybuilding, military crew-cut wearing, sadist. She’d make us run a half mile at the beginning of class as a warmup.
“Run faster, Fadas!” she’d scream. And yes, that really was the last name they assigned me as an orphan. The universe took a huge steamy dump on me with that one.
Hurrying through the hall, I flapped my sweatshirt in and out like a fan.
After gym, I changed at the speed of light in the bathroom stall. A trick I learned after Crysta and her nasty friends stole my clothes the first day.
I pulled my auburn hair into a neatly tucked ponytail, but there was no hiding the bright-red flush to my face. What a wonderful way to start the day.
Darting into the classroom, I scooted into a seat, glancing around.
Crysta was clicked up with her minions, Rhett being one of them. I couldn’t help but stare.
Why did he have to be so darn cute?
The popular kids always laughed the loudest.
One of them drawled a terrible southern accent, “Life is like a box of chocolates!”
I rolled my eyes.
Crysta caught me staring.
I looked down, studying the wood on my desk like it was the most fascinating thing in the room.
Please, please . . . Leave me alone. Just a break for one day!
“Speaking of knowing your way around a box of chocolates—we should ask Carwynn!” Crysta nodded her head in my direction, face pinched. “She’s obviously an expert!”
Rhett and all the other Crysta-followers spun around, laughing.
Leave me alone. Leave me alone.
Crysta’s face twisted with a malicious smirk. “Right fatass?”
More cackling erupted, shooting like bullets through the air.
“Good morning, class! Sit, sit! Let’s get started!” Mr. Morris loudly announced, pulling the projector down.
A waste of space, my mind assaulted me.
Anger—there was so much anger in me. And hurt. Humiliation.
The heat in my cheeks became a full-blown rash.
Stop. Calm down. Ignore her. Ignore them.
I tried to fight the stinging behind my eyes.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” My foster mom’s words repeated in my head. Useless.
I tried to will the bullets to deteriorate before finding their mark in me, but it was a struggle.
Only then—something stirred. Deep within me, I felt it. Not anger. Ten shades deeper, darker.
Crysta playfully tapped the end of her pencil to her mouth. Her face scrunched in disgust, glaring at me.
“Gross,” she whispered.
I hated her. I hated her so much.
I sensed it again. That strange, unsettling feeling, like an ancient creature stretching awake. It cracked its neck to the left, then right.
Hope she gets what she deserves, my intrusive thought murmured.
My chest suddenly tightened with a foreign sensation.
Movement in the corner of the classroom caught my attention. A faint inky shadow swept across the floor. No one else seemed to notice as it slid to the heel of Crysta’s foot, disappearing.
Was my vision playing tricks?
Crysta’s hand suddenly halted midair. The other laid flat on the desk, fingers splayed open.
Whack!
With emotionless eyes, she forcefully slammed the pencil down, impaling her hand.
Everyone turned.
Her eyes shifted, spotting the protruding piece of wood. An agonizing scream tore from her throat.
Chaos erupted.
“What the hell!” one student cried.
“Holy shit!” Rhett leapt out of his desk, eyes wide. “What did you do, Crysta?”
“I—I—I don’t know!” Crysta stuttered through a sob.
Mr. Morris looked horrified as he rushed to a phone on the wall, dialing.
“Okay! Calm down! Calm down!” he said, voice shaky.
In a matter of moments, her bag was scooped up, and she was escorted out the door, cradling her bloodied hand.
Girls like that aren’t used to getting scars, a voice echoed in my head.
Was that my voice? What the heck just happened?
Inside, a small, wicked part of me smiled, replaying the look on Crysta’s face. The sound of the pencil hitting its mark echoed.
Guilt compressed my lungs.
But—but I didn’t do anything. Right? That’d be insane. It couldn’t have been my fault.
Yeah, definitely not my fault.