29. Praying
PRAYING
I’m sure Family and Consumer Sciences (a.k.a.
the rebranded name for Home Ec) has its purpose in the real world, but here?
It’s officially the most useless class taught at Winterborn Prep.
You need to prepare a meal? Hire a cook.
You need your house and laundry cleaned?
Hire a maid. You need childhood development skills to raise your eventual rugrats?
Hire a nanny. Ninety percent of the people in Ravenswood would never have to wash a dish in their lives, let alone have to know how to hem a pair of pants, but Home Ec had always been part of the curriculum at Winterborn for as long as Mrs. Kitzmiller had been teaching it…
which I’m pretty sure goes back to the school’s inception.
As lame as everyone else thinks it is, this is my favorite class.
Well, it was , anyway. For the first two weeks of the semester, FCS was the only subject I didn’t share with one of the Untouchables.
Sure, several cheer squad members are here, but without Sienna or Trent having to egg them on, I may as well be invisible.
For two weeks, I was blissfully left alone—
Until the Wicked Bitch herself comes to ruin everything.
Mrs. Kitzmiller begins handing out carpet swatches so we can practice removing stains when Sienna flounces into the room. Apparently, she was having issues with Mrs. Lutz, the art teacher, and dropped the class in favor of transferring to FCS.
I’ve only had to share forty minutes with her thus far, and it’s safe to say this is officially my most hated class now.
Despite our workstations being on opposite sides of the room, Sienna somehow keeps finding her way over near me.
I’ve been tripped, elbowed in the kidney, and called “a waste of oxygen,” all conveniently when Mrs. Kitzmiller has been preoccupied.
Granted, that’s nothing new in Sienna’s playbook, but when she not-so-discreetly comes up behind me with a pair of scissors, and I feel a soft tug on my hair, I reel sideways out of her reach just as she’s about to snip off a healthy section of my black locks at least eight inches long.
What the fuck?
Never has she been that brazen before, and in my panicked state, I operate on autopilot, whirling around and throwing my arms out in front of me.
“Watch it, spaz,” Sienna snorts, but there’s a gleam to her eyes and a smile far too nefarious for my liking as she looks over my shoulder.
I already know another attack is coming, but I don’t have enough time to react.
I’m barely able to turn back around when Marissa smacks an open plastic container into my stomach.
Warm liquid oh so conveniently spills out all over the front of my uniform, and by the pungent chemical fumes that immediately assault my nose, it’s obviously not water.
Likely bleach. Considering Marissa’s work table is next to Sienna’s on the other side of the room and the entire aisle behind me is empty, there’s no way Marissa did this on accident.
What makes this worse is that she didn’t want to do it at all—that much is clear. Marissa has a wad of napkins at the ready and apologizes profusely, sounding sincere as she hands them over. Like everybody else here, Sienna told her to jump, and Marissa was too scared to tell her no.
Doing so would only incite the Wicked Bitch’s wrath, likely resulting in an ugly rumor circulating about Marissa or, worse, getting her kicked off the cheer squad.
And since the three of us are in the far back of the room with no one else paying attention, Sienna happily supplies her own version of events, telling Mrs. Kitzmiller that I freaked out for no reason and ran right into Marissa.
The teacher doesn’t look particularly convinced, but Marissa has no choice but to agree with the narrative.
Since the science lab is the only room equipped with an emergency shower station, I’m excused from the remainder of class to clean myself off in the locker room.
The liquid thankfully didn’t splash more than the very ends of my hair, but the front of my blouse and skirt is sopping wet, and I can feel it soaking into the top of my underwear.
Since I’d rather not risk it spreading lower and burning a certain area, I hurry down the hall and into the locker room.
The bell for the next hour sounds off before I even disrobe, and I couldn’t be more grateful that there’s a pep rally taking place, because the locker room remains blissfully empty as I wash off.
Despite the healthy donations made to the school, no one ever bothered to invest some of that money into developing single-stall wash areas, leaving one large communal shower, like a prison.
Since P.E. is supposed to be my final class of the day, I haven’t had to use it yet this year, opting to wait until I’m home to shower there. Now? I don’t have much of a choice, unless I’d like to develop some pretty nasty chemical burns.
Music thrums through the wall as the school band plays a rendition of “Seven Nation Army,” loud enough that I’m not sure if I’m hearing things at first. A small squeal resonates from the farthest end of the locker room, sounding an awful lot like the rusty hinges of the hallway entrance.
I keep an ear out, and another squeal cuts through the air, definitive this time as I finish up and shut off the water.
I poke my head around the corner, peering into the rest of the locker room to see it’s still empty.
Too empty.
No one is visible between the rows of lockers, and the towel rack beside the shower bay entrance is now bare, despite being freshly stocked when I arrived.
And my uniform is gone.
When I had stripped down, I set my clothes on the bench next to the towel rack, but all I find now is one of my socks lying on the floor in front of it. Even my shoes are missing.
All at once, I have the inconsolable urge to scream and cry, because it takes about half a brain cell to figure out who’s behind this.
Since it’s still doused in bleach, I hadn’t planned to put my uniform back on, but I still planned to salvage what I could.
The blouse is already white, but the skirt will be ruined for good if I don’t get the chance to treat the stain.
Your parents or guardian can always purchase new uniforms, but that would also mean explaining what happened to Blythe, who would most likely make me pay for its replacement.
It’s recommended that you buy at least six uniforms at the start of the school year, but it was like pulling teeth to get my stepmom to purchase five.
And since Winterborn Prep doesn’t like to skimp out on anything, their skirts aren’t made of the much more affordable nylon or polyester.
I’d either have to flush a good two hundred dollars down the drain or pray like hell that my stepmom doesn’t notice the absent skirt during her regular inventory of my closet.
Now, without so much as a towel, I’m forced to tiptoe out of the shower as naked as the day I was born.
The air in here is already cool, and the ventilation system kicking on overhead only sends a bitter draft to pierce my soaking wet frame.
I head over to my assigned gym locker and dial in the combination when I hear an unmistakable click behind me.
I scramble to pull out the largest article of clothing I have stored in my locker, an oversized workout sweater, but it’s promptly ripped from my hands.
Even without seeing her face, I would recognize Sienna’s diamond bracelet anywhere.
She shoves me aside, and with my soaking wet skin and the trail of water I’ve left behind me, I slip and hit the floor, hard.
My elbows and forearms take the worst of it, but I still catch my chin on the mosaic tile, the reverberations from my teeth sending a wave of nausea throughout my head.
Still, I pry myself back up to my feet as fast as I can and scurry around the row of lockers.
I may be out of view from Sienna, but I crash to a halt at the realization that she’s not alone.
Trent stands at the end of the locker bay, his cell in hand, the camera directed at me. My sopping wet hair may be plastered across my chest, but that doesn’t stop the instinct of using one arm to shield my breasts as my other hand covers my pubic area.
For as much of a cruel bitch as Sienna may be, my odds of getting past her are infinitely better than trying with Trent, so I whirl back around, only to find Olivia there too. She pulls the rest of the clothes from my locker as Sienna holds up her own phone, no doubt recording me as well.
When Olivia sees this, something in her expression shifts, any trace of humor collapsing. She tugs on Sienna’s arm, attempting to coax her back towards the hallway entrance. “Come on. We’ve got all of her clothes. Let’s just go.”
Her eyes shift behind me, and the color drains from her face altogether just as a meaty fist grabs hold of my hair.
I hadn’t heard so much as a footstep coming from the other aisle, and yet Trent’s right behind me, wrenching my head back with enough force that I’m surprised he doesn’t tear the hair clean from my scalp.
I collide with his chest, and before I regain my bearings, an arm hooks around my middle as I begin screaming.
The hand Trent had in my hair suddenly clamps over my mouth, reducing the sound to pitiful muffles against his palm.
I claw and thrash and kick out, but it’s not enough to deter him.
If anything, it encourages the asshole. I reach behind me to slash my nails at Trent’s face, only to be whirled around and all-out thrown into the wall.
The entire front of my body takes the impact, driving the air out of my lungs as Trent grabs hold of both my wrists.
He forces them up over my head, and the pathetic twigs masquerading as my arms don’t stand a chance of pulling free from his grip.
Trent doesn’t even need both his hands to keep me pinned.
I struggle to drag in enough of a breath to scream again, but before I can, his hand is back over my mouth as the other easily holds my wrists in place overhead.
He practically lays his entire body against my back, and like the rest of him, his muscled legs have no problem pinning my thighs down enough to restrict any decent movement.
I can’t help it. I begin to sob, feeling the bulge in his jeans rub against my ass as he lowers himself to hiss into my ear.
“Does that feel ‘micro’ to you?” His laugh is nearly breathless. “I warned you, Birdie. We don’t have enemies. We have victims.”
The harder I struggle, the harder he becomes, and he’s right. Nothing about him is small.
I can hear Olivia, her voice distant, likely near the door, pleading for them to leave, but Trent just barks at her to shut the fuck up.
And like a switch being flipped, his voice turns eerily cheerful as he asks, “Would you mind doing the honors, dear? My hands are a little full.”
Footsteps come up behind us, and Trent draws his hips back from my ass as I hear a zipper draw down and rough fabric being tugged.
His jeans.
The unmistakable sound of a foil wrapper follows, and I try for the hundredth time to scream, wrenching my jaw as far apart as I can. The effort does little good, save for amusing Sienna.
Her hot breath hits my ear as she whispers, “Still feel like Jase’s unique and beautiful snowflake?” The bitch’s laugh comes out more like a hiss.
If it were possible for my blood to turn cold, it would be arctic right about now, because what the fuck?
Is that why she’s still tormenting me? Not simply because I’m an easy target, but because of Jase ?
He’s been gone for two years.
She has to be kidding.
This has to be some sick joke—
But it’s not. That much is clear when she quite literally spits in my face. “Hate to break it to you, Birdie, but you’re damaged goods now. He’ll never want Trent’s sloppy seconds.”
She holds her phone up in front of me, and I’m finally able to process the fact that it’s not actually hers . It’s missing the signature Prada leather case.
“You want it rough, baby?” Trent taunts, leaning in to whisper against my ear. The way he says it, he sounds mischievous. Playful. Like I’m actually a willful participant. Even without being able to see his face, I can tell he’s grinning.
Fuck that, and fuck him.
The water seeping down from my hair has coated enough of my face and even his hand that when I flex my jaw, Trent’s fingers slip ever so slightly. I don’t know if it’ll do any good, but I don’t allow myself to think through the repercussions.
I manage to catch my teeth on the flesh of his middle finger near its base, and I bite down with everything I have.
Warm, coppery liquid hits my tongue, and I feel the skin break as Trent instinctively tries to rip his hand free.
The act only tears it further, leaving him with a thick, loose flap of skin dangling from his finger.
“Fucking cunt!” His whole body rears back, but I don’t get to celebrate my victory as his other hand grips the back of my neck, throttling the side of my head into the wall.
The pain sends black to invade my vision, and my legs collapse from under me, but I have air. I have air in my lungs and a mouth to expel it.
And I do.
Even as my world goes dark, I scream! The sound that tears out of me is feral and loud.
Loud enough that the ruckus outside in the gym peters out until there’s silence.
And I don’t stop screaming. I don’t stop even as I crumple to the floor and hear the frantic pairs of footsteps racing out of the locker room.
I don’t stop when I feel the strain in my vocal cords and hear them crack under the pressure.
I just shield my head with my arms and keep screaming.