“You too?” I ask.
“Oh, I could never join,” she says. “I’m not tough like those girls.”
We climb onto the bus, and I spend the day at Faulkner High, going to the classes I want and sitting there like I belong. This isn’t WHPA. The teachers are too frazzled to fight with me for more than a minute. I just tell them I’m new, so I’m not on their rosters, and they give up. Who would come to a place like this voluntarily? Ninety percent of the kids don’t want to be here. They’re not going to kick out someone who does.
After school, I head through the choking blanket of diesel exhaust toward the buses. I’m halfway there when I hear squeals of excitement from a group of girls I’ve never seen, either freshman or sophomores who started last year, when I wasn’t a student here. They’re shrieking and clutching each other, gaping at something behind me. My stomach clenches with dread, but I turn to look.
Royal Dolce is standing there, surrounded by fangirls and fans. He has that expression on his face that I’ve seen at parties, halfway between irritation and indulgence, like he’s trained himself to grin and bear it, but he fucking hates it. His gaze locks on mine, but I tear my eyes away and turn, hurrying to the bus.
“Harper,” he calls behind me.
I ignore him and plow up the steps of the bus and down the aisle. I drop into a seat and try to get a breath.
What the fuck is he doing here?
I mean, I’m not stupid. I know he’s here for me. But why? Why can’t he leave me the fuck alone? I have nothing, absolutely nothing, he could possibly want, because I have nothing left. He took everything, even my voice, my ability to submit, my ability to fight. I want to scream with frustration that after all that, somehow, it still wasn’t enough to satisfy him.
I slouch down in my seat, my heart hammering. I hate that I only feel this way for him, that I only feel anything when he makes me.
But no. I also felt something when I cut my arm.
I slide my thumb under the cuff of my long-sleeve T, finding one of the cuts, now scabbed over. Closing my eyes, I run the pad of my thumb over it, searching for calm. My heart does a little flip as I dig my thumbnail in, breaking the scab.
“Hey,” the bus driver protests. “You can’t be on here.”
“It’ll only take a minute,” Royal’s voice responds. I can feel him moving closer, the bus sinking under his heavy footsteps, the hair on my arms rising as if to greet him. I press my thumbnail deeper into the cut, into the pain.
“Harper,” he says.
I open my eyes. My heart doesn’t even race when I see him.
“Why are you running away from me?” he asks.
“Gee, I wonder,” I say, rolling my eyes.
Normal. I sound normal.
It’s everyone else on the bus who isn’t. It’s usually deafening, but today, it’s dead silent. Like one boy has that much power over them. It’s sick. They’re all sick. Why can’t they see it?
I inch my thumb up to the next cut and scratch the scab open. I’m sick, too, just in a different way.
Royal crouches between the seats, his big body barely squeezing into the space, so he’s on my eye level, a little lower. “Talk to me, Harper.”
“Or what?” I ask, jabbing viciously at the cut with my nail. “You’re going to toss me over your shoulder like a caveman and carry me out of here kicking and screaming?”
“You know what happens when I don’t get what I want,” he says with a little smirk, like I’m supposed to find that funny.
“And you know someone will call the cops if you do that.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” I say. “This isn’t Willow Heights. Everyone here may know you, but they’re not employed by your family.”
“No one here knows me,” he says quietly, sliding onto the seat next to me. “Except you.”
For a moment, my gaze is caught by that black hole inside him, and I have to swallow hard and force my eyes away so I don’t get sucked in. I watch the crowd that bottlenecked behind him stream to their seats, everyone craning around to see him, to see us, to see what the unpredictable, untouchable Royal Dolce will do next.
I remember how much he hated that.