I try to ignore the sinking feeling that I like him far more than I should because I know what I should do if that’s the case.
I should delete his number.
Block it, even.
I should stay far, far away from him.
Even if he didn’t belong to the worst girl in the world. I don’t even have time to like a normal guy; I certainly do not have time to like Chase Darington.
Chapter thirteen
Aubrey
I’m exhausted by the time I fall into bed, and I haven’t even touched my homework yet. I tell myself I’m just going to rest my eyes, but when I jerk awake to a pitch black bedroom, I grab my phone on the bed beside me and see it’s 3 am.
Shit.
I also see I missed a text from Dare just after twelve.
“It’s midnight, Cinderella. Where’s my picture?”
Smiling faintly, I text back, “You are the most depraved fairy godmother ever.”
The brain fog is too thick for me to realize he’s probably asleep by now.
I’m still so tired, but unfortunately, I have to wake up.
By the time I’m finished with my homework, the sun is up and I have to be at school in a half hour.
“Perfect,” I mutter to myself.
My phone vibrates. I look down, expecting it to be Dare, but it’s just Mom asking me to add something to the grocery list.
Ugh, that’s right. I need to make a grocery order again.
All the light, happy feelings I got talking to Dare evaporate. I don’t even have time to shower. I’m so mad at myself for falling asleep, but it is what it is, I guess.
I run to the bathroom and splash my face with cool water to wake me up. I make quick work of getting ready, then I rush back to my bedroom and start cramming books into my bag.
I’m going to be late to school.
I pop into Mom’s room to tell her goodbye and to remind her Josie will pop over and bring her dinner because I have to work tonight.
I wish I could just come home after school, maybe take a nap. I wish I could curl up on the couch with Mom and watch a movie, have no worries for at least a few hours.
I’m overwhelmed and feel like crying when I head out to my car, but I have to shake it off.
Since I’m not riding to school with Dare anymore and I don’t have my own reserved parking up front, I end up parked at the back of the lot, hustling my ass off to get to homeroom.
The teacher shoots me a dirty look when I run in late, making apologies as I head to my desk. My tummy rumbles as I fall into my seat and drop my things so loudly, everyone in the quiet room stares.
Behind me, I hear someone whisper, “How tragic.”
I look back at one of the rich girls Anae is friends with, her perfectly blended and glossed lips pouty as she feigns sympathy—whether at my raggedy appearance this morning, or my audible hunger, I’m not sure.
I shoot her a dirty look right back. Ordinarily, I would just ignore something like that, but I’m caught off guard by it. I don’t know why this random girl is being mean to me. Sure, she’s Anae’s friend, but she wasn’t there that day at the shop, and last I heard, Anae hadn’t put any kind of social hit out on me.
Whatever. I don’t care.
I turn back to face the front and try to get my things unpacked as quietly as I can. There was no time to stop at my locker, so my backpack is so freaking heavy.
It feels like people are staring when I walk out of class. I keep my head down, confused, as I hurry to my next class.
People keep staring.
Since that’s highly unusual, it freaks me out a little.
Then, on my way to English class, I hear someone laugh and say, “Isn’t that the girl from the video?”
The girl she’s talking to chuckles and says, “Yeah. That sound was perfect.”
“I love when they’re top notch,” the girl says, tossing her blonde hair and smirking at me as she walks past.
Video? Sound?
I stop outside English class when I feel my phone vibrate.
My heart practically stops when I see a link and a screenshot from Anae’s phone number.
The screenshot shows a story someone posted on social media. It’s an old, dorky picture of me from environment club—back when I had time to be in school clubs—added to a background with text that reads, “Doing her part for the environment by giving up showering apparently.”
My stomach pitches as I swipe it away and click the link.
Clearly, it’s the video those girls were talking about. It was shot by the girl in class who called me tragic. She must have taken the video after I turned around. I’m hunched over, digging through my backpack, face flushed and hair a little frizzy. She added stench lines and animated flies buzzing around to indicate I stink, and then turned the camera around to show her face “prettily” cringing and lip syncing “ew” to the tone of a late night show host’s bit on SNL.