“Thanks.” I frown.
“No, I mean—that’s what people think. You need to lean into it. That’s the type of boy you gotta be.”
“Great. Exactly what I was going for.”
“Was it not?”
I shoot him a look from where I’m grabbing a metal tray at the head of the serving line. “What do you think?”
“Ah well … tough titties, little bean. Hey!” he snaps, smacking my wrist as I reach for a sausage. It falls out of my hand and onto the floor. My stomach rumbles sadly. “You know what you’ve got to do, right? You can’t go growing boobs on me if this is going to work.” He grabs an apple instead and sets it on my tray. I think he picked the bruised one on purpose.
I look longingly at the hot dog on the floor while Rafael puts a few other low-calorie snacks on my plate—then makes a big show of stacking his own tray high with more sausages than I can count. I can feel the saliva building behind my teeth at the smell. This, this is torture.
If Bleakwood wasn’t my only shot at some sort of future, then I’d have given this charade up long ago.
But as it is … I just have to be content to munch on carrots. Lots and lots of carrots. Maybe, if I’m lucky, my skin and nails will turn so bright orange that no one will even think to look at anything else.
Our spot at the table, the same seats carefully curated by Rafael on that first day, are thankfully empty. I slide into my seat and stick a carrot between my teeth as Rafael plops down across from me.
“You’re not going to like my idea, Alex. But I think it’s the only way.”
“Just tell me already.”
We keep our voices low. Sound likes the carry down the wooden tables, but fortunately the hall is filled with enough voices to drown out our own today.
He sighs and sets down his second sausage. “You’re going to need to throw yourself down some stairs.”
Though, after what Rafael just said, part of me hopes we’ve been overheard … because I’m really hoping someone is going to try to stop me. Unluckily for me, when I glance over my shoulder to either side, that doesn’t seem to be the case.
I settle my glare back on Rafael.
“Really? That’s your idea?”
He just shrugs as I shake my head, my eyes glazing over as I stare off at the opposite wall.
“There’s got to be another way.”
Chapter Eight
Thankfully, it seems there is.
Not to say that Rafael’s idea isn’t actually brilliant. If I injure myself so that I need to keep my chest bandaged, voila … no one need see me naked. It wouldn’t last forever of course, but then my newfound reputation could come in handy—lean into the weirdo thing so I can claim that
I ended up liking the bandages or something.
Because no matter how thin I am, how much I smoke, how I change my walk, my hair, how often I perform my now-perfected ball shuffle, even the steamiest of shower rooms isn’t going to hide the fact that underneath it all, I’m actually a girl wearing two sports bras even though one would probably do.
So though I don’t have to throw myself down a flight of stairs, I am going to have to inflict a certain amount of bodily harm on myself in order to make this whole scheme work.
Maybe, even, if I’m really lucky I’ll find a way to injure myself so that I don’t have to play.
What kind of person have I become? Just a few weeks at Bleakwood, and I barely recognize myself.
But I don’t have time to really wonder. I have a task at hand, and it has to be done without delay. It has to be done now.
It’s a strange way to spend a Friday afternoon, wandering the school looking for ways to hurt myself. The more I wander, the more attractive Rafael’s suggestion sounds. Sure, I could throw myself out a window, but I’m not looking to paralyze myself. I could slip and fall in the kitchen … if I knew where the kitchen was.
If all I had to do was break a finger, a toe, sprain an ankle … those things I could do. But my chest … a chest injury … that’s harder to force. People don’t just sprain a rib by running into a doorway too hard. Not without questions, anyway. And that’s the last thing I want.