Yeah, me neither. Dad and Mum are into classical music – they met at a concerto. Shocker. I prefer punk and alternative rock. Thank you very much.
Anyway, I fill my mind with my favourite songs instead of the sound of heaving. You never get used to it, not the sticking your finger in your throat part and not the vomiting part; it’s always disgusting. Every time I do this, I feel as if spiders are crawling over my skin with their hairy legs, leaving trails of rubbish in their wake.
Once my stomach makes the hollow sound, announcing there’s nothing left, I step out of the stool. No one is here, as they shouldn’t be.
I only do this right before class, after I make sure everyone is in there. That’s why I sometimes arrive late, then pretend it’s because of a headache.
Being invisible is easy, but being completely non-existent is a bit difficult. If I were a ghost, I wouldn’t have to go through this trouble every day.
You know, the part about making sure no one is inside a public girls’ toilet. If anyone is around, I just vomit in RES’s back garden in the rubbish bin and only return here to brush my teeth.
As soon as I finish washing my mouth, I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
That face is also a nightmare.
In fact, it’s the worst nightmare. Those cheeks that I thought would no longer be shabby, those breasts that appear too small against my blouse. My saggy arms with stretch marks galore. They’re everywhere – stretch marks, I mean – at the underside of my arms, my stomach, and my thighs.
Everywhere.
I hate them and I hate this fucking body. I hate myself in it. I wish there was a way to detonate it from the inside out, aside from vomiting my lunch.
A thought assaults my subconscious.
I want to slam my fist into that mirror, break it into pieces, then take a shard of glass and –
No.
No, no!
I shake my head frantically and slap both my cheeks, resisting the urge to touch my wrist.
For Kir, you’re here for Kir.
My steps are hard and determined as I exit the toilet while closing my bag.
I’m late for my next class. Or more like, I’ll be late in about a minute.
That’s the downside of being in the girls’ room after everyone’s settled in.
I’m running down the hall when an arm wraps around my shoulder. For a second, I freeze, thinking Xander has returned for revenge.
He’s been ignoring me since the morning, but I know more than anyone that if Xander Knight ignores you, it’s a disaster disguised as a blessing.
I release a breath when I inhale and realise it’s not him. He doesn’t smell this strong or feel this hard – not that I know how he feels.
And yes, I know how Xander smells. It’s only because of my ability to connect to my surroundings, remember?
“You’re also late, Kimmy?”
I smile up at Ronan, my first real smile since the one I gave Kir this morning.
Ronan Astor, also one of the horsemen and possibly the closest person I have to an ally in this school – aside from Elsa.
He has boyish charm, his brown hair is slightly curly, and his deep, rich brown eyes hint at a playboy in the making. Scratch that, he’s already a playboy. Oh, and he happens to be a true aristocrat. His proud nose is clear proof of that.
I don’t think he notices it, but his nose screams nobility from a continent away.
“Speak for yourself.” I poke his side. “You didn’t come in the morning.”