“Hey, don’t sweat it,” Georgia says, tucking a piece of long red hair behind her ear. “I’ve been sitting around all day, bored out of my mind, waiting for everyone to get back. It was good to have something to do.”
She pulled up in a light blue convertible. It’s January, so the top is up. The smell of leather is still strong, making me think the car is pretty new. Of course, every car seems new compared to my big rusted pile of metal and sorrow. I knew the kids at Preston Prep had money, but when Georgia drives under the archway leading to the academy, I’m pretty sure that the Mustang breaking down may have been more of a blessing than a curse. It would have stuck out like a sore thumb in this place.
“Have you… been at Preston long?” I ask in a feeble attempt at small-talk. This girl and I have fuck-all in common. She looks sweet and put-together. Normal. Easy. Her clothes are nice and feminine, and she’s wearing jewelry—delicate golden necklace, silver hoop earrings. Her fingernails are painted pink. Back home in The Cliffs, we make fun of girls like her.
I’m wearing some ratty jeans and an old band tee, hidden beneath a denim jacket that people around here would probably refer to as ‘vintage chic’. I just refer to it as ‘the only jacket my mom had in the back of her closet’. The only thing close to jewelry I own are the pair of dog tags hanging around my neck. My nails are chipped and bitten down, cuticles rough. Here at Preston, girls like her probably make fun of girls like me.
“Since middle school,” she says. “Before that, I was at the primary school, which isn’t technically the same school but it’s not much different. Uh, a few years ago I spent a semester abroad, too. But, basically, I’ve been in this same circle of hell my whole damn life.”
She screeches into a parking spot between a BMW and a Tesla and pops the trunk. I get out and walk around to the back of the car, grabbing my suitcase. I’m pulling out the handle when I notice a shiny, royal blue muscle car across the lot. It’s a Ford, way nicer than mine, and I can’t help but think I’ve seen it before. “Is that a play on the whole Devil thing, or is this place really a hellhole?”
She laughs and points me toward a brick walkway. “A little of both, I guess. I don’t hate it here, but I’ve got a better group of friends now. For a while there, things were rocky.”
I give her a look out of the corner of my eye, doubtful. Nothing about the way Georgia holds herself signals a lack of confidence. If anything, she looks like she belongs here. Even the other few students milling around barely spare her a glance.
Me, on the other hand…
“You’re going to want to cover that up tomorrow,” Georgia says, pointing to my wrist. “Visible tats are against Preston’s code of dress. Totally lame.”
I look down at the tattoo on my wrist. It’s just a small thing—something I’d gotten to honor my dad. Two raven wings and a date. It’d been last year, back when the thought of being touched was distasteful, but not quite this fucking horrible, heart-stopping thing it’s become. A part of me always feared this would happen—that the skin-crawling whirr of anxiety that came from being touched would someday graduate to a Full-Blown Issue.
Well.
Here it fucking is.
I’d done a lot stupider things than the tattoo back then, but none as permanent. I don’t regret it, but the dark ink on my wrist serves as more than one reminder.
Firstly, there’s no one left to protect me. No one is going to stand between me and the Dougs of this world. I’m all I’ve got, so I better be real fucking good at it.
Secondly, there’s no making this thing—the way I feel when people touch me—any better. I tried. I did the work, I played at being normal, and it just got made worse. It’s easier now, just accepting it for what it is, seeing it as a part of me, as much as the color of my hair or the freckle on my collarbone. Everyone has problems. We’re supposed to be able to cope with them, but sometimes we just can’t. Sometimes we have to learn to avoid. It’s not cowardice. It’s just survival.
We cross the campus, and there’s no doubt that, even in the dead of winter, it’s beautiful here. The Briar Cliffs have their own beauty, but it’s not timeless. You need to be awake to watch the sunrise over the river, but if you are, it’s real pretty. Quiet. Tranquil. Sometimes, going to the cliffs at six in the morning with nothing but my camera and a big cup of coffee was the only thing that got me through. All of that pretty tranquility only lasts for a blink before time steals it away, the Cliffs morphing back into gloom and bad odors.
But that’s what the camera was for.
Here, even at noon, it’s like something out of a movie. I have a clear view of the bell tower, something I’ve only seen online or in the brochure that came in the mail. Thinking it might be a good place to snap some shots, I nod at the tower, wondering, “Can you go up in that?”
A small, secretive smile lurks on her lips. “Technically, yes, but like everything else in this place, it’s not that easy. That tower belongs to the Devils and no one goes up but them.” She cuts her eyes at me. “Or an invited guest.”
Whatever the hell that means.
“The Devils?” My suitcase has been rolling behind me, thumping on the uneven bricks, but stops suddenly. I look back and see that the wheel’s stuck. I wiggle to get it out and her hand reaches out, grazing mine.
I flinch away.
“I think it’s wedged between those bricks…” She meets my gaze and I do everything I can to keep my expression neutral. The wheel gives, popping out of the crevice, and she grins. “See?”
She holds out the handle and slowly I reach down and grip the side of the bar. This is easier back home. Most people already avoided me, anyway. And the ones who don’t? Well, let’s just say the Briar Cliff motto has a lot to do with minding your own damn business and not asking too many questions. It’s a whole culture. This girl is looking at me like she’s dying to know why my face is white as a sheet.
“Thanks.” My heartbeat pounds in my ears,
lungs feeling constricted. I search for something, anything, to redirect. I shouldn’t be surprised. This ridiculous plan to masquerade as someone whole and normal was always a feeble hope. “So, uh, the Devils? What’s that all about.”
“Oh, right,” she says as though nothing has happened. Outwardly, nothing has. It’s just me, being a freak. I take a deep breath with every footstep. “It used to be a douchey group of guys that ruled this place with a special brand of bullying.”
“Basic assholes,” I say.
“Pretty much.” She leads us in the direction of two large, red brick buildings. There’s one on each side of a grassy courtyard. “They actually got disbanded last year. Total drama.” She rolls her eyes. “But a few months ago, there was this like, reemergence. Seems like maybe they’re back.”