Make You Beg

I read Jamie’s words and feel immediate regret. It sounded good in my head because a sacrifice needed to be made.

I press call on her number, but it rings once and goes to voicemail. She’s going to avoid me.

“Great.” I sigh. I’ve pissed off the one friend I have. “Fuck!”

Jamie: Don’t fucking call me, Hen! I’m done. Might as well go back to New York. No one wants you here!

I don’t even bother responding. Instead, I pocket my cell and walk down the long driveway to meet my Uber at the end, the sound of the roaring party fading behind me.

Thankfully, it arrives quickly. I fall into the back seat, and by the time I’m getting out, I’m crying. I fucked up. Royally.

Entering my house, I drag my drunk ass up the stairs and into my room. But my breath catches in my throat when I look at my bed. Propped up against all of my pillows in the middle sits a doll.

Vanessa—she was a gift from Scout years ago. She has blue eyes and long dark hair. She’s seen better days. I once left her outside overnight, and it rained. Even the washing machine couldn’t get her clean. The red lipstick she once wore has been rubbed off over time. Her black dress has faded to gray, and her hair is matted. She’s tilted to the side a little so her eyes are right on mine. I stare at her nervously, expecting her to wink at me or speak to me. But I quickly shake off that thought. Dolls can’t talk.

My eyes move to her right hand, and I notice a folded piece of paper tucked in it. Forcing my feet to move, I walk over and remove it. Unfolding the paper, I read over the black script.

Little doll, little doll, come out and play.

Little doll, little doll, on your knees, you shall stay.

Little doll, little doll, I will break you in every way.

HENLEY

I didn’t get much sleep over the weekend as I tried to figure out what they plan on doing to me. What do they have up their sleeves? The doll did not sit well with me. One—how the fuck did they get it in my room without being seen? Two—why did they have it? I hadn’t seen it in years. And all of a sudden, it shows up on my bed with a note… no, a threat in its hand. I threw that thing in my closet in my safe and locked it away. I lay in bed and felt like it was mocking me, whispering in my ear. Just the thought makes my body shiver.

The only difference about today is that Jamie is refusing my apologies. She wouldn’t even look my way in third period.

I’m back to being alone.

I walk into the cafeteria to see the guys haven’t arrived yet. I pick an empty table, preparing to sit all alone when a girl by the name of Lacey Crawford sits across from me. I don’t know her personally, but I’ve seen her around. She moved here when we were in middle school, I think.

“Hi.” She smiles softly at me.

“Hey,” I mumble, playing with my strawberry Jell-O. I’m not in the mood to eat. That’s become the norm.

“It’s Henley, right?”

I snort. As if she doesn’t know who I am. Everyone does. The news made sure of that.

“I admire you for standing up for Brenda.”

My head snaps up to look at her. She’s got dirty blond hair and pretty pale blue eyes framed with black-rimmed glasses. Her makeup consists of mascara and pink lip gloss. That’s it. Which is not the norm for Westbrook High. Girls show up at school with hair and makeup runway ready in their designer heels and clothes.

She bows her head, and whispers, “I hate what happened to her, but I hate it more that no one seemed to care where she ended up.”

“Did you know her?” I ask.

She nods. “She was my best friend.”

My eyes widen. I didn’t know much about Brenda because I didn’t hang out with her. My life was consumed with my friends, and that circle was small. But I always found it odd that no one came out to advocate for her. She had friends, right? People who spoke to her and knew her whereabouts? “Were you there with her that night?” I wonder. She wasn’t there by herself, was she? I’m sure she went with someone.

She shakes her head. “No.”

I let out a long sigh. Another dead end.

“Why are you sitting with her?”

I look up to see Natasha Halls has sat down next to the girl. I loathe Natasha. She’s a conniving, lying little slut. She spread some very hateful things about me on social media, and I want nothing more than to grab her hair and slam her face into the corner of the table. But that would just give her what she wants and prove to everyone that I am mentally unstable. I’m not ready to make that move yet. Saving that for later—desperate times sort of thing.