*
I drag myself into school the next day, groggy from lack of sleep and the weather. It stormed most of the night, and the morning is still cloudy with occasional sprinkles. As soon as I step inside Willow Heights, though, it’s like the world outside doesn’t exist. It’s cool and sparkling with energy and excitement. Girls in tiny black and gold jerseys with different players’ numbers gather in groups in the hall, fangirling over the football players when they walk by, giggling and planning for the post-game party.
At FHS, the team had to wear shirts and ties on Friday, but since that’s the usual dress code here, they let the guys join us in casual Friday, the only day we can wear jeans. But this year, the guys are all wearing their jerseys on game days, so it’s easy to spot the football players and fawn over them.
Guys who aren’t on the team are high-fiving and betting on the game, pumped up with adrenaline for tonight as well. I spot pretty little Magnolia and her friends in their usual spot across the hall from my locker, but I don’t say anything. I’ve decided to keep an eye on her, but I’m not going to interfere in her life for now. Even though I don’t believe what Baron said, somehow I feel like we’re cousins, anyway, even if she doesn’t know I exist. I feel some obligation to look out for her, as if we really are family.
I open my locker and start getting my books before a sense ofdéjà vousruns down my spine like a shiver. It takes me a second to realize it’s the reaction around me, the simultaneous rise in excitement and quieting of voices.
“Hey.”
I look up to see the Dolce twins standing behind me.
“Hey,” I say, grabbing out my last few books.
Baron grabs the door of my locker when I start to close it. He holds it halfway open, creating a shield from prying eyes on one side.
“Why aren’t you wearing our jerseys?” Baron asks quietly, pulling his sucker out of his mouth to talk.
“Because I’m not a Dolce girl.”
“Bullshit,” he says, frowning. “You sit at our table. You’re the head Dolce girl.”
I shrug. “Sorry, but no.”
“We can let you sit at our table every day, but if you don’t play the part, no one will believe it. They won’t respect you no matter what title you try to give yourself. They didn’t give you the crown, Harper. You didn’t earn it. You claimed it, and you sure as fuck better do what the top girl does if you want to keep it.”
“And what exactly is that?” I ask, cocking a brow.
“Rule,” Baron says simply. “Ask Gloria if you can’t figure it out. She’s fucking flawless. You’re… A mess.”
I try not to let his words sting. They’re flat, not derisive, but that makes it worse. He’s stating it like a fact, rampaging through the territory I’ve gained, dropping seeds of doubt as he goes. Because he’s right. I have no fucking clue what I’m doing. I can wear all the right clothes, but I don’t know how to be popular or rich, don’t know how to be the queen bee. I’m not even sure how to be me anymore.
Maybe this is a terrible idea. I should have let Gloria have her spot as close to the top as a girl can get instead of trying to be their equal. She knows how to play the game. She’s mean and bitchy to anyone who doesn’t worship her, but she’s kind and sweet and loyal to her friends. She’s on scholarship, but no one would know it, and it’s not just because she lives in the right neighborhood and drives a nice car. Like everything, she fakes it, though. She makes sure her car gleams, works after school to afford the clothes to fool everyone and the one party her station dictates she host each year.
“So, you want me to be fake?” I ask.
Baron sighs. “If you want to be a queen at this school, you have tobea queen. That doesn’t mean making up rules and doing whatever the fuck you want. It’s not an empty title. It’s a job. There are expectations for you, just like there are for us. Show up at the parties. Show up at the games. And wear our jerseys.”
“You can wear Royal’s,” Duke offers. “From last year. If you don’t have it, I’m sure Lo can give you hers.”
I screw my lips to one side and shrug. “Again, no.”
“You should wearmyjersey,” Baron growls, his intense eyes pinning me to the spot. “I’m the top guy. You’re the top girl. People already think we’re fucking.”
“They do?” I ask, swallowing hard. I sway back against the lockers, gripping my books in front of me, trying not to show fear. I force down the rush of memory that slams into me—the way he felt inside me when he did fuck me, his brutality, how he made it hurt as much as he could, because the more it hurt me, the more it turned him on.
“Sure,” he says, a little smirk tugging at his lips, his eyes alert and vicious.He knows. He saw something in my eyes or heard something in my voice, and he fucking knows. He’s caught the scent of fear like a shark detects the faintest trace of blood in the water, and he’s going in for the kill.
I can feel it coming.
“After all, we already fucked.” He pushes his sucker slowly back into his mouth before reaching out and rubbing his knuckle gently along the top of my jeans. The heat of his touch claws through my shirt, and my skin crawls with sheer, primal revulsion. “Didn’t we, Darling?”
“No,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady, my gaze to hold his. “We didn’t fuck, Baron. You raped me.”
“Oh, but you wanted it,” he says, his finger becoming more assertive, hooking into my jeans and tugging me away from the locker where I’m backed into a corner with nowhere to go, no way out—
I squeeze my eyes closed.