And there’s the way he keeps saying that I’m his. For some reason, every time he says those words, I believe it. Deep down in my bones, I believe it… and that almost scares me.* * *I wake up at my usual time the next morning, feeling refreshed and happy. I don’t know why, but for the first time in a few days, the prospect of getting out of bed doesn’t seem daunting.
I shower off, grab something to eat, throw on some clothes, and head to campus. I have a tutoring gig in a half hour, so I have to hurry. I cross at the main intersection, my backpack bounding against my back as I head onto the main walkway through campus. Kids move in groups past each other, the sun already beginning to shine through the shade trees. I skirt around the weird cherub fountain, the water bubbling steadily, and cut down a side path along the English building.
I spot the athletics department up ahead and push through the glass doors. I’m running a little behind, so instead of moving through the airy lobby to the elevators, I cut right and take the stairs. I have to hustle up three flights, but I push my way out into a carpeted hallway, the walls painted a textured brown. Everything seems so hushed as the carpet sucks up all energy and sound vibration. I hustle, my flats silent as I hurry, and finally reach the double doors that lead to the tutoring room. I push them open and step inside, my eyes scanning the space.
There are three groups already in session. All eyes come to me, and they stare at me. One of the other tutors, a girl named Melody, halfway stands up. She’s very thin, with dark eyeliner, a blue peasant top, and jeans. Her thick curly brown hair falls in a frizz to her shoulders, and she opens her mouth, but just some kind of groan comes out.
I frown at her. “Hey, Mel,” I say. “Uh, what’s up?”
“Shit,” she says. “Chloe. We were going to take it down. But nobody was tall enough, and I didn’t realize—”
I follow her gaze.
Plastered on the far wall, just above the bookshelf, is a banner that reads, in all caps, “CHLOE IS A SLUT” in black lettering on a white paper background. It looks like it was printed on multiple pages, and each page was taped together, then the whole thing hung up high.
I stare at the banner and I feel my cheeks beginning to flush in embarrassment. I don’t know the other two tutors, and I don’t recognize any of the athletes sitting with them. I take a step back and stumble into one of the empty round tables. One of the chairs skitters back, making a screeching noise on the polished linoleum floor.
“Who did that?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” one of the other tutors says, a boy with light brown skin and a shaved head. He’s wearing a black tank top and has colorful tattoos on both arms. “It was here when I got here earlier.”
“We wanted to get it, but nobody was tall enough,” Melody repeated. “And I didn’t think you were coming in today. I would’ve climbed up if I knew.” She steps toward me. “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
“Help me,” I say, walking toward it.
“Wait, hold on,” she says.
I march over to the bookshelves and start ripping books off it. I throw them on the floor until the whole thing’s empty. I hear chairs moving back behind me, then the tutor with the colorful tattoos appears next to me. He has light brown eyes and a sharp chin with just a hint of stubble growing in. “Careful,” he says.
I ignore him and climb up the bookshelf. It rocks a little, unsteady without the weight of the books to keep it in place, but my heart’s beating so hard I just don’t care. I reach the top of it, the wooden shelf under my feet flexing a bit, but I’m high enough to reach up and grab the end of the banner. I yank at it, and the thing comes free, fluttering down. I hop off the shelf and stagger a bit, off balance. The other tutor reaches to steady me but I wave him off.
“I’m fine,” I snap as my eyes meet his. “You could’ve done that.”
He looks away and doesn’t say anything as I head over to the banner. I yank it again and the other end comes free. As everyone stares at me, I fold it up until it’s small enough to tuck under my arm. I face the group as my student comes in through the door, a kid named Charles that players on the golf team. He’s a little chubby and pale, and I know he’s having a hard time fitting in. He’s wearing cargo shorts and a light blue polo, and looks around at everyone, confusion flitting across his young, chubby face. “Uh, what happened here?” he asks.