The Secret Girl

by Stunich, C. M.

  “Sergeant-at-arms.” He smirks and swaggers a few steps closer, leaning down to get into my face. “Basically a glorified hall monitor. I see you have successfully managed to get the entire council to hate you. Congratulations on that. You're the least liked boy at school.”

  Anger revs up inside of me, and I have to swallow three times to hold back a fresh rant. I lift up the piece of paper and Spencer plucks it from my hand with two fingers, scanning the words and then shrugging dismissively as he chucks it back at me.

  “What do you want me to do about this?”

  The paper flutters to the floor between us, and I bend down to pick it up.

  “Get me an appointment, you nutjob.” I exhale and squeeze the paper into a crumbled little ball in my fist. “Or maybe I should talk to someone about what I saw in the woods?”

  Spencer's face hardens, and he reaches out to grab me by the tie. I go to smack his hand away, and he grabs my wrist instead. He squeezes a little too hard and a small yelp escapes me. It's a bit feminine sounding, and I get nervous fast. Spencer is narrowing his eyes on me in confusion, although the secretary doesn't seem to care much either way.

  “Let me go,” I grind out, as Spencer's grip on my wrist loosens. I yank back, and he lets go suddenly, sending me sprawling butt first into a potted fern.

  Dirt flies everywhere, and I end up stuck in the damn thing, flailing around as I try to dig myself out. Spencer crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head to one side to study me.

  “You get more flies with honey, you know,” he says, and then he saunters off, pulling a huge iron skeleton key from his pocket, so he can unlock the double doors. He disappears inside while I'm still struggling to free myself from the ceramic butt-coffin I'm now trapped in.

  “Little help here?” I ask, but the secretary simply turns up the classical music streaming from his phone and ignores me. Eventually, I get myself out of the pot, but the fern is now most definitely dead, and my navy blue slacks are covered in dirt. Fantastic.

  It's become quite obvious the Student Council has no intention of seeing me, so I excuse myself with as much dignity as I can muster and then make plans to return later in the week.

  These jerks haven't seen the last of me.

  Even though I know it's a bad idea to bring their attention to me, I can't help myself.

  I don't like being messed with.

  On Friday, I finally get my opportunity.

  As I was making an appointment on the secretary's iPad, I surreptitiously scrolled through to see what days were generally open to students. Mondays and Fridays seemed to give the best options, so at the end of the week, I slip over to hide by the bathroom next to the curving staircase, and I wait.

  When a boy strides by like he knows where he's going, I creep up the stairs behind him, pause just outside the stone archway that leads into the secretary's office, and then I wait. The two boys exchange words, and then the student sits down to wait. Ten minutes later, there's a buzz on the intercom, and the secretary stands up to open the door.

  I dart forward, shoving past them all and stumbling into an ostentatious room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, five throne-like chairs, and a long table meant to intimidate.

  The secretary darts in behind me, panting and sputtering, but it's too late. I'm already standing here.

  I rise to my full height, puff my chest out, and stride forward, slamming my palms onto the surface of the table, right in front of Church Montague and his shiny gold Student Council President sign.

  “I want my locker put back where it was,” I demand, and he just looks at me like I'm not worth the lint on my jacket.

  Speaking of …

  “Untidy uniform,” Church says, frowning at me. “That's worth at least a day of detention.” He glances over at Ranger, the dark-haired dickhead, sitting on his right. His sign says Vice President. How nice. “Don't you think, Ranger?”

  “At least,” he spits out, and I swear, I can see this bundle of dark shadow energy fizzing above the guy's head. “And bursting into the Student Council Room without an appointment?”

  “Janitor duty,” the twins say in unison, sitting on opposite ends of the table. They both grin at me, leaning back in their chairs at the same time, like it's a choreographed routine or something. One has a sign that says Treasurer and one says Secretary. I guess maybe the boy from the front desk is like an assistant then or something?

  “I make a motion to charge Chuck Carson with one day of detention, and a week of after-school janitor duty,” Church says, smiling at me as he leans back in his chair. It's actually a fairly nice looking smile, like either he really is a nice person who just hates me or … maybe he's a psychopath who's really good at imitating human emotion?

  “I second the motion,” Ranger replies, frowning so hard I expect his lips to get stuck in his awful, ugly expression. He reaches up and tugs on the big black plug in his earlobe. He's got one on either side, and a handful of silver hoops on his right. Emo loser asshole, I think as I frown.

  “You can't do that,” I spit, because this whole super powerful Student Council thing is not real. It's just a dumb TV trope that's in too much manga and anime. They can't actually punish me. Back home in California, they could barely manage to get organic vegetables on the school lunch menu.

  “Can't we?” Spencer asks, speaking us as the twins chuckle on either side of the table. “Your father said we could punish you however we saw fit, for failing to help fix Church's project.” My mouth drops open. True, Dad and I have barely spoken a word to each other in the last two weeks, but you think he'd mention this? “I third the motion.”

  “Agreed,” the twins say together, leaning their elbows on the table and grinning at me.

  “The motion passes,” Church says, nodding his chin in Micah's—or Tobias', whatever—direction. “Make a note of it and have the headmaster sign off.”

  The twin on the right, with the Secretary sign, gets to work tapping away on his laptop.

  “Now, get out of the Council Room before I start adding days onto your detention,” Church says, clearly the leader of the group. Makes me wonder because he seems much less alpha than either Spencer or Ranger. “We haven't quite decided on the full terms of your punishment, but the more I look at you, the worse I want it to be.” He lifts up a mug of coffee and takes a long sip, sighing in pleasure.

  “He's so short and puny,” Tobias whines, laying his body across the surface of the table. “Can't we just beat him up?”

  “Yes, please,” Micah groans, pausing his typing for a moment to look me over with no small amount of distaste. “Can we please? I bet he goes down with one punch.”

  My nostrils flare, and my hands curl into fists at my sides.

  “I want my locker moved back to the main building,” I grind out, refusing to be intimidated by these jerkwads. For a brief moment, I forget I'm supposed to be hiding in shadows and making things easy for myself. I should be out of here soon. I just … need to work on Dad some more. I wish my birthday were sooner, I think, already pining for December of senior year. I'll be eighteen then; I can make my own choices.

  “You can repeat yourself however many times you want,” Church says cheerfully, rising to his feet and tossing honeyed hair from his forehead. He's still smiling, but it's honestly a little creepy because it's so damn cheerful. I feel like I might need to shield my eyes or something. “That won't get us to move your locker back. And it won't stop us from making your life a living hell.” He moves around the side of the table to stand in front of me. “Now please excuse yourself before I have Spencer do it for you.”

  My throat burns in memory, and I find my fingers reaching up to touch it without meaning to. Spencer notices and grins like a fox, this cunning, predatory little smile that makes me cringe.

  “Tick-tock, Mr. Carson,” Spencer purrs, and the twins stand up in unison, crossing their arms over their lean, muscular chests. “Now, shoo.”

  Ranger narrows his sapph
ire blue eyes on me, and I grit my teeth in frustration. Do I really think the five of them might beat me up if I stay standing here? Yes, yes, I do. They think I'm a boy. The spoiled, rotten son of the headmaster. I haven't made a very good impression, now have I?

  Spinning on my heel, I take off and storm out the door, heading back to my room to change before I jog down to the girls' dorm again. This time, I set an alarm in case I fall asleep. When I text Monica and Cody, asking for a video chat, they both look at the messages and then ignore me.

  Damn if I don't feel empty and alone that night.

  So empty and so alone …

  The Student Council sends me to detention, after-school janitor duty, and then to put a cherry on top of my crap sundae, they force me to join their student club, so they can needle me every Tuesday and Thursday after class.

  “Oh no,” the twins groan, standing on either side of me. I've been dressed in a white chef's hat and an apron that says Junior Cook. I feel fucking humiliated in it, but it's the 'uniform', and Dad warned me that if he got any reports of my being ornery, he'd cancel my Christmas break trip to California.

  No chance I'm letting that happen.

  “You put mayonnaise in when it calls for sour cream,” Micah says. Truthfully? I literally have no idea who is who, so at the start of the day I just pick one and start calling him Micah; by default the other becomes Tobias. “Are you stupid or something?”

  “Ehh,” the other twin drawls, leaning down to peer into my face. He reaches out and flicks me in the nose with a long finger. “You've ruined the entire dish now. You'll have to stay late and remake it.”

  I slam the mixing bowl on the counter, and turn around to glare at the two of them.

  “You both specifically said mayonnaise,” I grind out, and the twins exchange a look, emerald eyes glittering with mischief. They're some of my least favorite people in the entire world, I swear. They remind me of Fred and George from Harry Potter, but like way less good. Like Fred and George's evil twins, risen from hell to make my life miserable. I want to punch them both in the balls.

  “Did we?” They exchange a look, and then shrug together. “Our bad.”

  “You'll still have to remake it though,” Ranger says, putting strawberries on the top of a whipped-cream covered cake. Apparently, he's a baker. Like, it's a thing he does. He makes sweets, and the boys all sit down and eat them.

  That's literally the only thing the 'Culinary Club' does. Cook and eat. I'm having trouble understanding the merit.

  “Are we ready to sit down?” Church asks, wiping his hands on a nice, crisp black apron that definitely does not say Junior Cook on it. The only members of the club are the Student Council and their annoying little blond-haired assistant, Ross, who goes out of his way to make my life miserable. He's just as bad as the rest of them. Also, I'm pretty sure he's gay or bi or something, and that he's in love with Spencer. He gazes at him with doe eyes that, quite frankly, make me want to roll mine.

  “Ready,” both Spencer and Ranger agree, and the twins nod. Ross sneers at me.

  “We're all ready—except for Chuck. Guess he won't be eating with us again since he has to finish the corn casserole.” Ross sneers, and I flip him off. He tilts his nose up at me, grabs one of the other dishes, and saunters off. He even sways his hips when he walks. Note to self: add him to the list of people at this school who need to be punched in the balls.

  “Happy cooking, Chuck,” Spencer says, smirking as he saunters out of the room with a tray on one outstretched palm.

  “Don't forget to turn the lights and the oven off this time,” Ranger rumbles, his voice giving me chills as he picks up the cake and heads for the dining room I'm most definitely not invited to. I've been in the club for two weeks now, and I haven't been allowed to eat with them. Not once. Jerks.

  Over an hour later, I'm finally pulling the casserole from the oven and setting it on the counter. It's bubbly and it smells amazing, so I figure I've finally nailed it. Using my phone, I take a video that I send to both Church and my dad before I cover the hot dish with some tin foil. The Student Council (and their mousy little lackey) left about fifteen minutes ago. It's just me, a steamy corn casserole, and an empty school.

  I chuck my dirty apron into the laundry hamper, hang my hat up on a hook, and push my glasses up my nose with a single finger. The lenses are gross from hanging out in a greasy kitchen for hours, so I slip my jacket and backpack on, then dig around in my blazer pocket for one of those soft little cleaning cloths.

  I'm a multi-tasker, so I hip bump my way out the door, start off down the hall, and then groan as I realize I left both the lights and the oven on. Jogging back, I turn the oven off, and then slip my glasses off to clean them real quick.

  The grease smears all over the lenses, and when I perch them on my nose to test them, I can't see anything.

  “Damn it.” I head over to the sink and pull them off, squirting a generous amount of soap onto the lenses, and then pause when I hear the door to the kitchen open. I glance over my shoulder, but I can't see without my glasses, so there's nothing to make out.

  An instant later, the lights go off, plunging me into darkness.

  “Hey! Someone's in here,” I shout, but the door is already clicking shut, and I'm groaning in frustration. I'm not exactly afraid of the dark, but still, it's annoying. I do my best to finish washing my glasses and then head toward the exit, pulling my phone out to use as a flashlight.

  The door is locked.

  I curse under my breath, yanking on the handle several times for good measure then try the lights. Even with the switch flipped up, they won't turn on. Maybe the janitor turns off the breaker or something when he goes home for the evening?

  “Crap.” I step back and decide to take a look around before texting Dad for help. He won't let me live it down if I do. I'll have to stand around for a thirty minute lecture when all I want is to slink back to the dorm, shower while everyone is asleep, and flop into bed.

  The kitchen is huge, meant for an entire class plus an instructor. It connects to a dining area through a stone archway, but the door between the two rooms is already locked. I figure the Student Council dicks locked it on their way out.

  The windows are a no-go since we're on the second floor, so I just slump down on the stool next to the casserole, tap a quick text to my dad, and pull a spoon from the drawer. As I wait for a response from him, I eat my food and scroll through social media.

  “I must be a glutton for punishment,” I mumble as I rub my thumb over one of Cody's selfies. He's got this big white smile, skin bronzed from the sun, and brown hair streaked with blond highlights. He looks so … like the total opposite of this place with its ice-cold nights, thick copses of woods, and uptight rich assholes. I mean, there are rich assholes at home, too, but I go to school in Santa Cruz, so most of them are pretty hippy-dippy, even if they have big bank accounts. These guys have that East Coast, old money vibe.

  After a while, I start to wonder if Dad's going to text me back at all. Maybe he went to bed early? Or has a meeting or something?

  My phone's pretty low on battery, too, and I forgot my charger this morning.

  “God, my luck seriously sucks,” I say aloud, my voice echoing around the empty kitchen. I get a bit desperate then and text Church Montague to ask for help. I mean, he is the Student Council President, right? He's supposed to help other students.

  I cover the rest of the casserole up, put it in the fridge, and then wash my spoon. Last week, I forgot to wash a spatula and the Council gave me another day of detention. Such stupid pricks.

  Settling into one of the comfy chairs in the corner, I curl my legs up and wait, only to fall asleep. Seems I have a habit of doing that. When I wake up, I rub at my sleepy eyes and look around. There are candles all over the counters, dozens of them, and they're all lit.

  “What the …” I start, pushing up from the chair. My phone clatters to the floor, and I curse as I pick it up. It's dead. Slipping it int
o my pocket, I walk past the candles warily, going for the door again.

  It's still locked.

  Turning around, I put my back up against it and try to decide if I should be freaked out here. Screw it, I'm freaked out anyway.

  “Hello?” I call out, immediately cringing. That's what every horror movie heroine says just before she gets her throat slit. “Your prank is seriously stupid. Candles? I mean come on, you can do better than that.”

  Movement from the corner startles me, and in an instant, there's a man coming at me from the shadows, holding a glass jar. I push myself against the door as he rushes toward me, unscrewing the top and flinging the contents onto me.

  At first, I think it's just a few twigs and leaves … and then I feel the crawling.

  Spiders.

  There were spiders in that jar.

  I'm so scared that I don't even scream. My breath starts to come in panting gasps, and I end up yanking my blazer over my head and tossing it before I go for the buttons on my shirt. The bindings! They'll see the bindings.

  Silent tears are pouring from my eyes as I brush frantically at my shirt, knocking eight-legged bodies onto the floor as chanting starts up from the opposite end of the room. The man in the black hoodie nearest me just watches as four others rise up from the darkness near the pantry, humming some ominous tune.

  They surround me as I shake and claw at my hair and clothes, trying to rid myself of all the creepy crawlies. I'm a serious arachnophobe, like bad. This is essentially my worst nightmare. The people in hoodies, the candles, that's nothing but fanfare for the horror of the spiders.

  “Chuck Carson,” the person with the jar says, throwing back his hood to reveal Church's blond hair and amber eyes. They're like spun honey, so pretty in the candlelight. I hate myself for even thinking that in such a tense moment, but there it is. “You have been an insufferable asshole from day one. How do you plead?”

  “F-fuck you,” I grind out, shaking and running my fingers obsessively through my hair.