1:35 AM: BadApple: thank u. I’m sorry.
2:15 AM: BadApple: Wow ur fast. Just leaving now. U didn’t have to get up and take care of it now. Thank u SO MUCH tho. How can I get the cash 4 bail 2 U???
*
I don’t know what to expect when I walk into school on Monday. It’s a small town, which means news travels fast. While news of my arrest wouldn’t be any big deal at Faulkner, where kids were picked up for little shit all the time, Willow Heights is different.
A few people whisper when I walk down the hall, but it’s not too bad. I’m barely at my locker two minutes when Dixie comes rushing up. “Oh my god,” she says. “When you said you wanted to get into something, I didn’t know you meant somethingillegal.”
“Um, yeah, Dixie,” I say. “I thought that was implied.”
“Can I have a quote for the blog?” she asks, waving her phone at me. “I mean, I know you’re probably not proud of it, but everyone’s going to find out, so you might as well control the narrative, you know? If you put it out there, with your spin, before they hear it from someone else…”
“What kind of quote do you want?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “Something badass. What’d you do?”
“I got arrested for graffiti down at the railyard,” I say. “That’s not very badass. It’s not like I killed someone.”
“Oh my god, that’s perfect,” she squeals. “Sobadass.”
I can’t help but smile as I close my locker. It doesn’t take much to impress the girls here. One fight in the hall with their queen bee and a little arrest—which turned into nothing after Mr. D talked to them and had them drop the charges—and suddenly I’m a badass? By the end of the day, people are actually shying away from me like I might cut a bitch just for looking at me wrong.
I mean, I’ll take it over the comments about my sluttiness. I decide to just roll with it. In fact, on Wednesday I realize that no one has even called me trash, put anything weird in my locker, or “accidentally” dropped their garbage on my plate at lunch. And the Dolce boys don’t talk to me a single time, not even in the class where I sit with Royal. He even does his part of our assignment, seemingly content to pretend he doesn’t know me.
After the first couple days, the fuss about my arrest dies down, too. My new girl status seems to be wearing off, like the girls told me would happen. It probably has more to do with it being Willow Heights’ Homecoming week than anything else, but I appreciate the lack of attention however it came to pass.
Homecoming is apparently an even bigger deal here than at Faulkner. Student council decorates the whole school, there are pep rallies, dress up days for spirit week, all that shit. There’s a mummers day parade with mums to the floor, girls campaigning to be queen, and more assemblies to pep us up. And even though I’m not into the whole crowning thing—I skipped the dance last year and walked to the gas station to steal sodas and candy with Blue and Mav—I actually pay attention to the nominees this year.
All three Walton girls are nominated, as well as a handful of cheerleader Dolce girls, and Dixie. If it weren’t for her, I probably wouldn’t care. She tries to explain it away, blushing and saying it’s just so there will be a candidate who everyone can relate to, but she’s obviously happy about it.
“You have to come to the dance,” she tells me on Friday.
I assure her that I don’t, but I wish her luck as I head out. I’ve made it an entire week without being singled out by the Dolce boys. Maybe my arrest accomplished something after all.
Frustrating as it is, though, I know I can’t just avoid the drama and go on with my life. I owe it to Mr. D now more than ever. Sad, but my confidante and closest friend is apparently a pervy old dude. Because when push came to shove, when I had no one else, he was the one I turned to. He’s the one I tell about the bullying at school, at least when it comes from the Dolces.
I make it to the bike rack before I have to eat my words. Duke is standing there, leaning on the rack with his feet crossed in front of him, his hands resting by his hips, looking so fucking sexy it’s no wonder the girls all drop their panties for him.
I’m not sure who grabbed my bike and brought it home, but I’m assuming it had to be Mr. D or one of the guys, though I’m sure they wouldn’t put a bike rack on that ridiculously fancy car of theirs.
“Thought you had a car,” I say, pulling at the tangle of bikes to find the one without proper pedals.
“I do,” Duke says.
A guy shoves in front of me to get his bike, but Duke grabs him and drags him back. “Dude,” he says. “Show some fucking respect. Harper’s getting her bike.”
I narrow my eyes at Duke, then pull my bike out and step aside for the other guy to get his. “That wasn’t necessary,” I say. “I’m not in a hurry.”
“He was being a dick,” he says.
I raise a brow at him.
“Right,” he says. “I heard I was a colossal dick to you the other night, so… I’m sorry.”
“Wow,” I say. “I wouldn’t think you Dolces were capable of apologizing, seeing as how that implies admitting you were wrong.”
He flashes me a grin. “I don’t remember anything, so I can’t admit I was wrong,” he says. “But if my brothers tell me I owe someone an apology, I figure I got pretty out of hand.”