F-Failed
Chapter 43
Sophia
So, apparently, I have a deal with the devil.
And his name is Lorenzo Calloway.
The terms are simple: we work together to finish planning his family's centenary event, and after that, we never exchange another word. I can live with that. It's a clean break, assuming he actually keeps his end of the bargain. But looking at his track record I highly doubt it.
There are only about five minutes left of lunch break. Maria and James have already said their goodbyes to head off to their committee meeting, leaving me standing here entirely alone. Overwhelmed. I hover by my locker, staring blankly down at the glowing screen of my phone.
So accept my follower request
His words echo in my mind, dark, heavy, and demanding.
Why did he storm into the bathroom in the first place?
And why did it have to be at the exact moment I was having a full-blown panic attack?
It is humiliating enough to lock yourself in a bathroom stall to cry, but why on earth did he have to be the one to witness it?
Especially since he carries a massive share of the blame for why I was crying at all.
This morning started out as a living nightmare.
First period, Algebra.
I walked in to find my desk entirely covered in printed photos of the exact moment I got knocked out by that football on the field.
The only difference was that someone had defaced the pictures, ruining my face with crude drawings and mocking stickers.
Maria immediately demanded answers from the room and issued furious warnings, but of course, nobody admitted to doing it.
Then came Physics.
Someone slit the back of my lab coat with a blade. Laughter erupted across the room the second the teacher noticed, instantly blaming me for the damage. When I tried to defend myself, he just grew angrier and gave me an official write-up.
By the time lunch arrived, I couldn't fake a smile anymore.
I tried to fit in with Maria's other friends, desperately trying to bring up topics they might actually care about, but every single time Maria glanced down at her phone, the entire mood shifted within seconds. The whispers started all over again.
So, I excused myself and retreated.
Come on, Sophia.
Just accept his follower request and stuff your phone in the locker.
I try to force myself to do it, but it's easier said than done.
The moment I hit accept, everyone at Weststarr Academy is going to see that Lorenzo Calloway is following me.
And if he follows me, doesn't that mean I have to follow him back?
My chest tightens. I take a deep breath and tap the screen, accepting the request.
The very next second, I drop the phone into my locker as if the plastic just burned my hand. I slam the metal door shut with a loud clang and violently twist the lock. It's only when the echo fades that I notice the hallway is completely empty. I am the last one left.
Shit.
Not again.
Hastily, I throw my heavy bag over my shoulder and sprint up to the third floor for the final period of the day. English. After mumbling a breathless, burning apology to the teacher, I rush toward my seat in the back.
I freeze the moment my eyes hit my chair.
Resting flat on the plastic seat is a single page, ripped violently out of my sketchbook.
Panic clutes my throat. My eyes dart wildly around the classroom, searching for the culprit. But none of my classmates will even look at me. They are all staring fixedly at their desks, completely ignoring my existence. I am completely, utterly ruined.
"Please take your seat, Miss Miller, and open your books to page 312," the teacher commands from the front of the room, oblivious to the execution happening in the back row.
With trembling hands, I snatch the drawing off the chair and shove it deep into the dark safety of my bag. I slide into my seat, my heart hammering a terrifying rhythm against my ribs, my lungs starved of oxygen.
This is bad.
It is a total disaster.
Because as I shoved the paper away, I caught a glimpse of the page. It wasn't the drawing of Lorenzo. It was a completely different page. And whoever took it didn't just rip it out—they left a handwritten note scrawled across my art in black ink.
This is so incredibly bad. Someone out there actually has my sketchbook.
Is it Vivienne? And if it is, what the hell am I supposed to do?
How am I supposed to fight back against someone like her in a school like this?
For the rest of the period, I can't focus on a single word the teacher says.
My mind just spins endlessly around that one terrifying question.
The exact instant the heavy bell rings to end the class, I bolt out of my seat and shoulder my bag.
"Miss Miller, a word please."
Shit.
Nervous and deeply embarrassed that he is calling me out in front of the entire room, I drag my heavy feet toward the front of the classroom.
The worst part is the excruciating waiting.
My teacher remains completely silent, letting the rest of the students filter out into the hallway before he finally looks up from his computer screen and slides off his round reading glasses.
"I am so sorry, Sir, I know I wasn't paying attention today, I..." The words pour out of me in a desperate, frantic rush before he can even start his lecture.
"It's not just about today, Miss Miller," he says, his voice carrying a heavy, worrying undertone.
I watch in absolute dread as his hand reaches for a thick stack of papers on his desk. He pulls one out, sliding it toward me. My name is written across the top in bold, black letters. Right next to a glaring, bright red F.
"This is your latest assignment, Miss Miller."
I swallow hard, the numbers blurring before my eyes.
Dammit.
I failed again.
"Mr. Henig, I promise you I will try harder," I plead, my grip tightening on the strap of my bag until my knuckles turn pure white. "But please, please don't say anything to my aunt."
He studies my face for a long, agonizing moment. "Is there something troubling you, Sophia?"
I swallow the massive lump forming in my throat.
Does he actually care?
Or is this just a routine question a teacher is obligated to ask when a student is visibly drowning?
"I... I just have a lot on my plate right now," I stammer, praying my voice doesn't betray me.
"I see," he says quietly, sliding the failed test back into the stack. "Miss Miller, you know that I am not just your English teacher, but also the school counselor." He looks at me intently, waiting for the weight of his words to sink in.
I nod numbly. "Yes, I know."
"So if anything is going on, anything at all you can always come to me."
"Yes. Thank you. I will."
"All right then. Don't forget your homework, and I will see you in two days."
"Thank you, Sir."
I practically sprint out of the room. It's only when I push through the heavy double doors of the building and step into the outside air that I realize how dangerously fast my heart is beating. Clutching my books tightly against my chest like a shield, a single, burning question consumes my mind.
Who has my sketchbook?
With my stomach turning to absolute ice, I walk down the concrete steps toward the school bus stop.