I grab Gloria’s hair so no one will notice we’ve stopped fighting. “What the fuck is going on?” I demand, slapping her cheek hard enough to send tingles of pain and pleasure searing across my skin and down my arm.
“Ow,” she yelps. “You fucking hit me!”
“Yeah, I fucking hit you,” I say. “We’re fighting.”
She reaches up and grabs a handful of my hair, yanking my head down toward hers. “I didn’t want you to get hurt,” she says. “But you couldn’t just skip out on the fight. It’ll all fall apart without you.”
“What will?” I ask, letting her get in a good slap from her position under me.
“Your little rebellion,” she says.
“You’re not part of the rebellion, though.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I don’t agree,” she says. “Who do you think sent Quinn and the former serving girls to your table to bring you food every day?”
So it was her. I remember seeing her drag Quinn into the bathroom on Monday morning, but I was quick to dismiss Gloria and think she was doing something bitchy.
“You’re helping us?” I ask, wrapping my hand around her throat.
“Babe, I’m always on your side,” she says. “Even when I can’t risk doing it publicly.”
I slam a fist into her gut, and her eyes widen with shock, her body curling in on itself. “What the fuck?” she gasps through the pain.
“That’s for fucking Royal over spring break,” I say. “Don’t ever touch him again.”
“Y-you said you didn’t care,” she groans, wrapping her arms around her middle, her eyes filling with tears.
“That free pass was for last Friday only,” I say, leaning down and pressing my lips to hers. “Now we’re even.”
I sit back and see some teachers heading our way, so I hold out a hand to Lo. She slaps it away and stands, smoothing her skirt.
“If you pulled out any of my hair, I’ll have my daddy sue the pants off you and your no-account mother, too,” she screams at me, dialing it up to a ten. “I just got a blowout!”
I have to hold back a laugh at her antics. Now that I know the girl a little, I can’t help but admire the whole Jekyll and Hyde vibe she’s got going. She’s like two completely different people, and she can switch it off and on in two seconds flat.
The teachers rush over and shush her, separating us while she continues to hurl insults and threats my way. I remember when she did that last year, what a bitch she was when we fought. But her parents didn’t press charges—was that because she told them not to? That line of thought brings me back to my own situation then. They called someone they said was my dad, who was actually the anonymous donor of my scholarship. Baron or maybe Mr. Dolce talked to them and said I wouldn’t press charges against Gloria. Of course they did. They love the Waltons.
At least, they did last year. Royal kept his dad from renewing Lo’s scholarship this year, though. Preston’s the one who gave her one.
“That was crazy,” Dixie gushes, interrupting my thoughts and pulling me over to the crowd of onlookers. “Want to give me a quote for the blog?”
“I’m good,” I say, shaking out my hands and bouncing on my toes, trying to dispel the unspent adrenaline. I wish Gloria had let me really fight someone. Now I’m all itchy and unfulfilled, like when you get close to a really good orgasm and then lose it at the last moment.
I spot Magnolia sprawled in a chair, looking dazed. She’s got mashed potatoes in her hair, which is sticking up in weird tufts, and ketchup on her cheek. I circle the table and crouch next to her. “You okay?”
She turns her baby blue eyes my way and blinks a couple times. Her false lashes have come askew on one side, and they flutter at me as she tries to focus. “I… My phone,” she mumbles.
“Come on,” I say, taking her hand. “We’re going to go to the bathroom and get you cleaned up. Okay?”
She nods mutely, letting me pull her up and into the bathroom off the café. The nurse is tending to Rylan, who seems to be the only one who got seriously hurt, though a couple other teachers are talking to kids on the floor and handing out gauze for split lips and ice packs for bruises.
At least a dozen girls are crowded into the bathroom. Ignoring their stares and whispers, I grab a handful of paper towels, wet them in the sink, and start cleaning Magnolia’s face. She has a red mark on one cheekbone, but otherwise doesn’t look banged up, just messy.
She doesn’t say anything while I dab away the ketchup and order her to lean over the sink so I can get the potato glue out of her hair. The bell rings, and half the girls leave. A teacher sticks her head in and orders us to class, and everyone else leaves. I crouch in front of Magnolia. “Did Baron hurt you?” I ask. “Or touch you?”
She shakes her head, her eyes welling with tears. “No,” she whispers. “But he said—he said—” She breaks off, a sob stealing her words, and throws her arms around my neck. I try to keep my balance but eventually give in and just sit on the bathroom floor holding her while she sobs into my shirt.
I can imagine what sick things Baron said to her.