Lights #3
Letting my eyes settle on the backs of the Heathers’ heads for a second, I’m tempted to doodle devil horns on them in my notes.
Instead, I watch the way they move in perfect synchronization.
The identical tilt of their hands as they rest on the table, their ridiculous matching clothes with ribbons in their hair that flutter, and even the way their shoulders square.
There’s a dark choreography to it—art built not on expression but on the suppression of everything that makes you unique.
In the reflection in the window, I see myself.
Dance hair no longer tamed, makeup that needs a little refreshing, and the nose that Lucille always said was the ‘Drew family curse’.
Yet none of it makes me unattractive, nor does it make me lesser.
They didn’t have a reason to turn on me, but for the prey thing, which turned out to be incorrect.
Even after Apex went boom, they didn’t stop their campaign of terror.
Suddenly, I understand with diamond clarity that none of this was ever about me, or them, or even the petty cruelties of pred society.
It’s about the patriarchal rules that get passed down from older generations like shitty heirlooms—who you’re supposed to hate, who you’re allowed to like, and who’s worth chasing for a ring.
These girls were trained for that, and so was I, but after I emerged as a bunny and they abandoned me, I grew tired of pretending that any of that bullshit matters.
While the rest of the class trickles in, I keep the Heathers in my peripheral vision.
I catalog every microaggression they commit against the other women in the room.
I watch the sidelong glances, the murmurs behind a hand, and the tiny flare of nostrils when a new student dares to sit near them.
It’s a masterclass in how to rule a kingdom with nothing but a look.
I wonder for a moment if they know how obvious it is—or if they’ve convinced themselves they’re so far above everyone else that it doesn’t matter.
I drop my gaze back to the page, waiting for the professor to enter.
I know it’s a Faust, and we’ve had issues with that family in the past. Roswitha and I have gotten ugly on the Pred Games field, and I know her mother is a famous mystery writer.
I don’t need someone nursing a grudge over sports punishing me this year, so I hope to shit it’s just another talented family member.
The door at the front of the room swings open, and the professor enters, all six feet five of her.
Even in human form, grizzly shifters are intimidating, and this one is no different.
The effect of her arrival is immediate; every conversation dies, and the students all snap to attention as she lumbers to the front of the room.
She clears her throat, and the sound alone is enough to make the first three rows flinch.
“Good afternoon,” she says, her voice flat and final as a judge’s gavel.
“This is Creative Writing, but for this semester, you may also consider it a crash course in suffering. I don’t do hand-holding, and I don’t tolerate melodrama unless it’s on the syllabus.
If you’re not prepared to write an entire novel this year, leave now.
Otherwise, open your notebooks—never a tablet or laptop—and get ready to show me what you’ve got. ”
There’s a muted shuffle as everyone tries not to panic as they get their supplies out.
Faust paces the front of the room, her steps echoing off the tile, as she launches into a lecture about the three-act structure.
I take notes because it’s impossible not to, especially if this woman isn’t handing out a syllabus or even telling us more than her last name on the schedule.
This feels both serious and possibly a great class to learn in, and also one that might kill me by the end of the year.
As the hours pass, the Heathers occasionally exchange glances, but their focus is locked on the professor. The power struggle with me they probably expected never materializes, and by the end of the class, it’s clear Faust will not put up with anyone but her droning on about their opinions.
When it’s finally over, I pack up slowly, waiting for the room to empty.
I catch Barrington and Erickson whispering furiously, their faces flushed with annoyance as I walk into the hallway to see triplet number three, Kirby.
I can tell they’re not happy with being ignored, not by professors and certainly not by me.
But I don’t give them the satisfaction of a reaction—I just walk past with my friend, chin up, as I get as far from them as fast as I can.
It makes me think about something Bisonette told us earlier when she was on a tangent about ‘new theater’ and its harm to the entire art form: “Real power is not in the performance, but in who decides when the curtain rises.”
As Kirby and I walk out into the impending nightfall, I realize that it’s less about hating nouveau directors and more about who is controlling the stage.
Since my first year at Apex, I’ve slowly regained control of my life, and this brief scene showed me that some of my past trauma has become just that… the past.
And now I know for sure that I get to write my own script from here.