On Tuesday, I walk into the café, and his posse starts drumming and chanting, “There’s a whore in this house, there’s a whore in this house.” And then everyone else starts chanting it, too, until the whole room is deafening.
That day turns out to be more of a weed-and-cigarette under the bleachers kinda lunch.
Wednesday, the Waltons take my clothes in PE, and I have to walk around for the rest of the day in the gym uniform. It’s a little annoying that the girls take every opportunity to point and snicker at me every time we pass in the hall or they see me in class, but their prank is too juvenile to really bother me. The gym shorts and T-shirt they gave us at the start of the year were new, so they’re better than my regular clothes, anyway.
Thursday, someone has written on my desk in every single class when I get there.
White Trash.
Go back to the trailer park.
BJ $20 Creampie $50 Gangbang $100
And on throughout the day. I start wondering why they haven’t released the picture, and I come to the conclusion that they must not really have it. It’s probably just a reflection on the glass of Mr. Behr’s car, or a blurry head in a guy’s lap. If they could tell it was me, they would have spread it around already.
By Friday, I skip even the pretense of getting food and head outside right away, even though it looks like it might rain at any moment. Colt doesn’t care if everyone calls me a whore. He sits with me in the one class we have together, and at lunch, he’s always willing to share a joint and some easy conversation. Even though he’s rich, I feel comfortable with him. Maybe it’s because we share the same social position at this school.
I’m almost to the bleachers when I hear a girlish giggle from the shadows underneath, and I pause. Damn it. I’ve come to rely on our lunches as my refuge from the school drama, but I’ve also made it clear to Colt that I don’t think of him that way. I’m not jealous of whatever girl wants a piece of bad boy, but she’s taking the one moment of solace I have in my whole day.
I hover for a minute, feeling like a creeper, and then I hear Colt say my name. I freeze, shifting between feet, trying to decide if I should hide or go back inside or try to sneak closer and eavesdrop. I hear Colt’s murmuring deep voice, and then the unmistakable sound of a slap. I tense, but the girl yelps and then giggles, squealing something unintelligible. Before I can decide what to do, Dixie emerges from the shadows.
Okay then. I suspected something was going on the last time, but now I’m sure. I remember Royal saying something about Colt getting all the skanks, but he’s obviously getting at least one 24-karat girl, too. Dixie may not be a Dolce girl, but she’s about as popular as a girl can be without being one. She’s on student council, she’s pretty—if a bit eccentric in the fashion choices—she has money, and she’s got loads of friends. Literally everyone in school talks about her blog the day after she posts.
I still haven’t logged on, for obvious reasons, but a few people actually said I was brave after the roach incident went on the blog.
“Hey, Dixie,” I say, giving her a smile that I hope is the equivalent of a high-five. Just because I don’t want to bone Colt, that doesn’t mean he’s not obviously hot. If she wants to slum it with the tatted bad boy, more power to her.
Her face goes beet red, and she shuffles her feet and glances at the building. “I should go…”
“Right,” I say, nodding. “Student council meeting.”
“Yeah,” she says with a relieved little laugh.
“I’m just out here to escape the mob,” I say. “You know there’s nothing going on with me and Colt. We’re just friends.”
“Oh—me, too,” she says. “I mean, we’re just friends, too. Nothing going on.”
I shake my head. “I’m not going to tell anyone, Dixie. It’s none of my business. You’re the one with the gossip blog.”
She swallows and nods. “Right. Hey, I’m sorry about that. If it made it worse. It’s just, everyone was there, so I kinda had to do a blog about it.”
“I know.”
“Just… Be careful, okay?” she says, genuinely imploring me. “There are rumors that the Dolces are in with the mafia. They’re not the kind of high school boys you’re used to at Faulkner.”
I quirk a brow. “Faulkner has gangs. I’m pretty used to that type.”
“And were you in a rival gang?”
“No,” I say, frowning.
“Exactly,” she says. “Don’t piss them off. They’re the only gangsters here, and they run this place. And you’re like a member of a rival gang moving in—the only member.”
“Damn,” I say. “And here I was, waving my colors in their faces and flaunting it.”
“Right,” Dixie says, sounding relieved. “If you can’t fit in, keep your head down and stay off their radar. What you did last week, sitting at their table, that was really stupid. I know that sounds mean, but I’m saying this for your own good, okay? You need to understand how things are here, or it will only get worse.”
After she leaves, we eat and smoke, but too soon, it’s time to head back inside. The moment I step back into the little side hallway that leads past the cafeteria and into the main halls, Royal grabs me and slams me up against the wall.