Seeing my aunt was all I needed to clear my mind. Because after a deep thought, I realize The Misfits are not the killers, after all. It would be too obvious. But there is a killer on campus, and they’re obsessed with The Misfits. To catch them, I need them to become obsessed with me too.
13
Brixley
Algebra.As if my life isn’t complex enough, I have algebra first thing Tuesday mornings. You’re either great at algebra or geometry. That’s what they say. I’ve heard it a million times, but the thing is, I suck at both. Math and I are not friends, we don’t even hang in the same circle. Equations. Simplification. Factorization. Domains. Fucking shoot me. But not really, since there is a legit killer out there. A hand taps on my shoulder and it would be a lie to say I’m not relieved for the distraction.
It's Kate, the girl who has sat next to me since class begin. She has shoulder-length brown hair. Eyes a dark blue. This is the first time I’ve seen them because she usually never looks up. She’s small… everywhere. From the size of her nose to the tiny hands that now rest in her lap. “May I borrow a pencil?”
Her voice is also small. So quiet, I almost can’t make out what she says. “Sure thing, but you can keep it. My aunt made me buy an unholy amount. I probably won’t run out until I’m thirty-five.” She gives me a tight smile, trying to hide her annoyance. And okay, maybe I did overshare. I was just trying to be nice. I hand her the pencil, not liking that she has already written me off so quickly. “I’m Brixley,” I offer.
“I know.” She looks back to her page, officially ignoring me.
For someone I could pick up and throw across the room, she is rude. Or maybe I’m judging. I don’t usually do that. I don’t usually do a lot of things like suck someone off on a Ferris wheel or end up almost dead in a game of hide-and-seek. But just look at me now, I’ve done them both.
I look back at my paper, internally cursing the radical, the rational, and the absolute value. Who even uses this in real life? And if they do, why? Why pick constant problem solving? But this is a small step toward me getting to my dream. Which I haven’t figured out yet. All I know is dancing, and I definitely don’t want to follow down the path I have been going. But maybe I could open a studio. Teach women to feel confident about their bodies. Because being a stripper is frowned upon, but to us, we feel bigger than the world. Empowered by the hunger we cause. It changes how you view yourself, and I’d love to offer that confidence to anyone and everyone—to help them feel sexy. And you know, that may not seem like a big enough dream to some. But to me, it’s everything.
The class door swings open with a bang, Vance’s big, tatted body walking through as if he didn’t just interrupt a class. The professor says nothing as he strolls inside the room, stopping at Kate’s desk. “Move,” he barks.
Her small eyes widen as she fumbles to grab her things, taking off in the opposite direction. I frown. “That was rude, she already doesn’t like me.”
Vance shrugs, folding his body into the seat beside me. “Her loss, Soulless.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Why are you here?”
He taps his head. “Refreshing the brain on algebra. I may need it someday.”
“Doubtful. Why are you really here?”
He looks over, grinning. “Babysitting duty.”
I groan. “I don’t need a babysitter. You guys realize I’ve worked at some of the seediest clubs in the country? I can take care of myself.”
Vance’s jaw tics, eyes darkening. “Yeah. I know, but I also saw you bleeding on a floor last weekend, so maybe take the help.”
“Why are you helping me?”
“You are a pledge, a future member of The Misfits, we protect what’s ours.”
I smile. “Just say you think I’m cool, Vance.”
He chuckles. “Fucking never, Soulless.”
* * *
Vance throwsan arm around my shoulders as we walk across campus. It’s platonic, nothing intimate about it, but his scent… it’s familiar. Tickling my brain with recognition. Why is it familiar? I peer up at him, catching his eyes. My brain nags at me, trying to tell me something, but the information is fuzzy, diluted. I shake my head, looking away. “Are you coming to my next class?”
He shakes his head. “Nah, passing you off to Madden.”
Madden, I know the least about him. He doesn’t speak much, and it feels as if he and Devlin are never around. But Madden doesn’t frighten me. None of them truly do anymore, but I still have this dreadful feeling that they may be behind the murders. But that’s based on the facts. Fact: they have a connection to the victims. Fact: I saw the cops question them. Fact: I was almost killed in one of their games. Is that it, though?
I’m shook out of my thoughts when Vance comes to an abrupt stop. “What is it?” I follow his line of sight to the administration office. I cover my mouth, hit with nausea and the need to vomit.
Who’s next?is written in a thick red paint. A pig, gutted, intestines thrown about, the head resting on the steps of the building. A bandana tied around its face.
“Are you Vance De Luca?” a voice says from behind us.
Vance slowly lowers his arm from around me, tucking me behind him as he spins around. “Who’s asking?”