Nightfall (Devil's Night 4)

So much different than how he looked. How they all looked.

Little shits. I let Anderson have his pathetic fun, because it was the only time he had any power. One thing I could be grateful to the Horsemen for.

I hated how this school was their own personal playground, but when they were around, Miles Anderson didn’t pull shit like that. I could bet he was probably counting the days until they graduated so he could take over the basketball team.

And Thunder Bay Prep.

Clenching my jaw, I crouched down and gathered up my books, stuffing everything into my bag.

But a light sweat covered my face all of a sudden, and I felt sick. Pushing myself to my feet, I blew out a breath and hurried for the bathroom, the closest one up the stairs and down the hall.

My stomach filled with something, the burn of the bile rising up my throat growing stronger. Throwing my weight into the door, I pushed through and dove into a stall, leaning over the toilet and heaving.

I lurched, the vomit rising just enough to taste the acid, but it wouldn’t come up any farther. I coughed, my eyes watering as I gasped.

I pushed my glasses up on top of my head, holding the sides of the stall as I drew in breath after breath to calm down.

I rubbed my eyes. Shit.

I fought back sometimes.

When it didn’t matter and when I wasn’t really threatened.

I wiped my brow and flushed the toilet on habit, exiting the stall and walking to the sink. Turning on the water, I dipped my hands underneath the faucet, but then I paused, my energy to even splash water on my face now gone. I just turned it off and left the bathroom, wiping my hands dry on my skirt.

I was too tired, and the day had barely started.

But as soon as I opened the door, someone stood there, and I stopped short, looking at Trevor Crist. He smiled at me as I fisted the strap of my bag, staring at him.

He was only a freshman, two years my junior, but he was already my height and looked absolutely nothing like his brother. Fake, plastic eyes that didn’t match his smile, and dark blond hair that was as perfectly styled as his tie was positioned.

He looked like his name should be Chad. What the hell did he want?

He held out a blue notebook, and I recognized the frayed notes and loose papers inside, highlighted with scribbled yellow marker. I darted my eyes back down the hall toward my locker.

I must’ve left it behind when that jackass knocked everything out of my hands.

I took the notebook, stuffing it into my bag. “Thank you,” I mumbled.

“I got it all, but I can’t be sure it’s in order,” he said. “Some of the papers fell out.”

I barely heard him, noticing the hallways filling with more students, and Mr. Townsend make his way for my first class.

“Trevor Crist.” The kid held out his hand.

“I know.”

And I walked past him, ignoring his hand.

Heading a few yards down the hall, I held open the door, following another student inside, and scanned the classroom for the safest seat. In the corner, at the rear and near the windows, an empty desk sat surrounded by students at every available angle—Roxie Harris next to me, Jack Leister in front of me, and Drew Hannigan kitty-corner.

I ran for it.

I slid into the seat, the legs of the desk skidding across the floor as I dropped my bag to the ground.

“Ugh,” Roxie groaned beside me, but I ignored her as I dug my materials out of my bag.

And she started to pack up her things.