by Eden Beck
I’d never admit it, but Warren got to me.
Chase got to me.
Even Sterling.
He got to me with what he wouldn’t do. The fact that he had to make a show of it … it just drove Warren’s point home further.
Wearing a scarlet letter like this was never the plan. No matter how hard I try to take it on, the idea of being “that girl” still makes my stomach turn.
But why? What is it that I’m so upset about? Being treated like …
Being treated like less than. But what about desire makes me less than?
No one shames the men. No one tells them they’re loose, too easy, too eager, too much.
No, it’s me, and girls like me. We’re too tempting, too flirtatious, deserving of both desire and disdain all at once.
But who decides this? The same men who tell us to be cuter, dress nicer, be sweet but not too sweet. Smile.
I can feel anger rising inside me. I’ve treated myself like I deserve every sideways look, every mean comment, hanging my head as if they’ve truly seen me.
But they haven’t.
Who cares who I kiss? Who I sleep with? Who I like or don’t like? Those things aren’t ME. They’re accessories. So why do I keep letting myself believe that those are the things that define me?
If people can’t see past who I decide to spend an hour with, that’s not my fault. In fact, I should ask them why they’re so concerned. Could it be that they wish they could give in like I did?
I wander back into Mason House and head upstairs to my room. I open the wardrobe like I did on my first day at Ridgecrest and take a long look at myself. My long brown hair is still tied up in a tight ponytail like it was, like it always has been.
I reach up and pull the hair tie out, letting my hair fall around my shoulders and I really look at myself. I look at my shoulders. They’re pulled back, a little straighter than before.
The uniform still hangs off me, stiff and unwelcoming. I begin to peel it off layer by layer until I’m standing in my underwear. My body still feels almost as unwelcoming as the uniform, like this strange house I live in that I didn’t design.
So much of me is judged by it. Who I am, what I do with it. I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t choose it. But I live in it. I inhabit it, whether I like it or not.
I take a deep breath and watch my ribcage expand and contract. Breathing slower and slower, trying to slow my still racing heartbeat.
I gradually feel my heartbeat start to calm down. I pick my uniform up off the floor and re-dress myself. I reach up to pull my hair back again, but I stop. I let it hang down, sweeping across my shoulders and gently framing my face.
I take one more deep breath before glancing up at the ceiling and at the poor attempt at patching the old cracks. Already, new ones are slowly starting to spider their way through the patches, they’re faint, but they’re noticeable.
You can’t hide the cracks forever.
I should know that better than most.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The next day I spend pretty much every class dodging the same snide remarks, the same arrogant teasing. By third period, I’m absolutely exhausted.
Here I was worried about Ridgecrest expelling me or informing the Sisters of Virtue about my secret getting out—but I should have realized they would turn a blind eye.
Just like they keep turning a blind eye to everything else happening in their halls.
And on the quad.
And in the dorms.
And basically, anywhere else I have the misfortune to run into one or more of my classmates.
It isn’t just Bridget and the boys anymore. Even if it were just them, it would be bad enough. Every sidelong glance in my direction, every whispered comment or note left scrawled in fog on the bathroom mirror; it makes me ache to confront Bridget right away.
But I know I have to wait until the time is right.
I have to do this right, or else what makes me any better than her?
I find myself stumbling out onto the quad just so I can take a moment to close my eyes and take in a deep breath, forcing my fantasy of ruining Bridget’s life publicly—and immediately—from my mind. When I open them again, I spot Alaska working on some homework on a bench not far off.
I walk over to her.
“What’s up?” she asks when she suddenly looks up and spots me walking across the grass toward her.
I take another deep breath and sink into the bench. “I’m just tired. It feels like this immature stuff is going to go on forever.”
“I feel that, I wish there was a way to just skip this bullshit,” Alaska says.
“If only,” I reply with a sigh. “Hey, can I ask you something?”
“Depends on what it is.”
I hesitate a moment, one hand absentmindedly reaching up to tug on one of my conspicuously unruly strands of hair.
“How do you feel so comfortable … standing out?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” Alaska says with a pause of her own. She glances down at her uniform with a look of horror, as if she’s worried she forgot to get dressed this morning.
I hasten to elaborate.
“Like, even stuffed into the same uniform and everything you still, I don’t know, set yourself apart somehow without changing anything. How and … why?” I ask.
“I was never really given a choice honestly,” Alaska says, her voice turning wistful for a moment. “When you’re queer, you’re automatically walking around with a target on your back for all of people’s stereotypes and judgment. I figured if they were going to be looking anyway, why not control what they’re seeing?”
“But, isn’t it almost … worse if you’re being judged on what you decide to put out there?” I press.
“It feels better than being judged on what I can’t control. Because how do you respond to people hating you for just … existing? I’d rather them hate me for something I’ve made the choice to do, like getting a tattoo or wearing black lipstick, because at least then I feel like I’m in control of the outcome.”
For a moment, we sit in silence together, watching our classmates hurry by us in their own varying shades of conformity as they rush to get to class or to study for the quickly approaching finals.
“How d’you figure all this out?” I ask.
Alaska barks out a laugh.
“Therapy. The one good thing my parents ever did for me, even though they only did it because they thought it was gonna fix the gay stuff. Thankfully, they picked the wrong therapist for that.”
“Wow, that’s intense.”
Alaska shoots me a sideways glance.
“You doing okay? Like … with everything?”
“I don’t know … I’m just trying to get through the rest of the year to be honest.”
She nods. “I get that. You’re stronger than you think you are Aubrey, you realize that, right? And even if you’re not, Clark and I have your back.”
I smile at her.
At least that’s something.
And that something has a mean right hook.
Finals week has a strange tone to it when it arrives. There’s a stressed heaviness that settles into the campus, as people are huddled in every chair, desk, even floor corner imaginable buried in their books with anxious focus.
Even the most unbothered students seem to be suddenly acutely aware that they’re actually at a school as they attempt to cram an entire semester’s worth of learning into the days leading up to exams.
This little development works for me.
With everyone so busy, they have less time to bully me—leaving me with just enough time to start the next part of my plan to bring Bridget down.
If I can get through studying myself.
As Bridget usually occupies the common room at Mason House, often with Warren tagging along, I’ve decided to sequester myself away into a quiet corner of the library. Especially after finding a study desk nestled between stacks of old books where the heavy wo
od muffles most sounds that carry through the space, most of which are the nervous scratches of pencils and frustrated groans of other students.
One afternoon, I’m neck-deep in some English Literature when I hear two hushed voices enter the library, quietly bickering as they walk between the rows of books. From where I sit behind the high back of the study desk, I can’t see them, but I can hear them getting closer. My stomach drops when they get close enough for me to make out the voices.
Bridget and Warren.
So much for coming to the library to avoid them.
Though … from the sounds of their voices …
Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe I can kill two birds with one stone.
“Seriously, grow up, you can’t keep acting like a kid about this. Did you ever think that maybe I might be a little busy too?” Bridget hisses.
“Busy with what? Batting your eyes at every asshole that makes a pass at you? C’mon Bridget, this has never been an issue before, why is it one now?” Warren’s voice whines, a strange, childlike tone that I’ve never heard before.
“Because this place is nothing like our other school. My last three papers came back with more red ink than black. I’m getting murdered by the professors here, and I can’t keep dragging your dead weight along with my own,” Bridget whispers back.
“I don’t buy that; you’ve always aced every class since we were in grade school. This is about something else. Is it that Aubrey girl?”
I can feel myself leaning forward on the desk trying to hear better, the edge of the table pressing into my stomach.
“What are you talking about idiot?” Bridget asks.
“Admit it, you’ve got a soft spot for her. You’re too busy trying to figure out if you love her or hate her that you’ve let yourself slip,” Warren replies.
Soft spot? Is that what this is? I’d hate to see how Bridget treats someone she doesn’t have a soft spot for.
“As if, I don’t concern myself with nervous little debutants,” Bridget laughs.
“Yes, you do, like, almost exclusively. You remember when Sasha Cohen beat you for homecoming queen sophomore year? You literally spent the rest of the school year trying to convince her that everyone believed she stuffed the ballot box until she literally changed schools.”
Warren scoffs.
“Oh yeah, hah, well, she rubbed it in my face for like a week after homecoming, so … what did she expect, really?” Bridget says. “But I’m still not seeing how any of this has anything to do with me asking you to do your own homework for literally once ever.”
“Because it’s the only explanation for why you won’t help out your brother in his time of need,” Warren teases, but there’s an edge to his voice.
I don’t need to be his literal twin to know he isn’t kidding.
“Oh, give me a break, you’re only in need because despite all my help, it’s you that’s been so obsessed with Aubrey that you’ve let even the most basic of things like attendance slide and now, yet again, you’re on the edge of failure and wanting me to bail you out.”
“Ugh, just fucking do it, Bridget. Or maybe I’ll let your little you-know-what last year slip, ya know, by accident,” Warren suddenly snaps.
“You wouldn’t fucking dare,” Bridget snaps back.
“Try me, sis.”
And with that, Warren walks out of the library, leaving Bridget alone.
If ever I needed proof, this is it.
I hold my breath, hoping to whatever God may be above that she doesn’t notice me as I peek around the desk. She’s a few yards away, facing away from me, hunched over.
Is she crying? No, she’s texting.
Of course, a girl like her would find ways around the school’s no-phones rule. Explains how she was able to text me the night I spent at Alaska’s lake house when she was still supposed to be here on campus.
And how she’s been able to keep up with her fake Instagram life, I suppose.
A few minutes later, much to my delight, Sterling appears.
I shrink back a little to make sure I stay out of sight. I’d have hidden out in the library more often if I’d realized it could get so interesting.
Or so useful.
“You’re gonna get in trouble with that phone,” he says, when he spots her.
“Psssh, like I care,” Bridget scoffs. “You’ve seen how much they actually care.”
He hovers over her for a minute, and I wonder what’s crossing his mind.
“So, what was so important?”
“I need you to get Warren off my back. He’s been an ass lately and the only people he’s been listening to are you and Chase,” Bridget says.
“Uh, what do you want me to do?” Sterling replies. “I thought you explicitly said that you didn’t want me to get between you and your brother. No, you definitely said that like, at least a dozen times.”
Don’t get between me and my brother.
I lean in as close as I dare.
“Okay, but that was before. I just, I need a break,” Bridget says with an exhausted whine.
“And that’s great for you, you let me know how that goes, but I don’t know what I can do for you Bridget. In fact, I don’t even know why I’m here right now, because I also remember you telling me, and I quote, ‘I have so much going on in my life and I don’t really see how you can help me handle that,’” Sterling replies with building frustration.
I glance between the two of them briefly. There’s an awkwardness to the way they’re standing just a little too far apart.
Like people who might have once had something, but don’t anymore.
I briefly feel the slightest flicker of jealousy, but I just as quickly brush it aside. What do I care?
It does, however, explain the equally brief moment in time when Bridget wanted me to make Sterling jealous.
Right before she went and ruined my life anyway.
Just a few yards away, Bridget and Sterling are still sharing their tense, whispered conversation.
“Okay but … there was a lot going on and I just … I didn’t want you to get tangled up in it,” Bridget says, shuffling her feet under the desk.
“In what, Bridget? Because I’ve never gotten a straight answer from you in as long as I can remember,” Sterling says, his voice stern but with an unmistakable hint of pleading.
“Fine, if you don’t want to help, then don’t,” Bridget fires back, her voice getting loud enough to draw a few new glances her way. “This is what I was talking about, Sterling. You’re so obsessed with your damn pride that you can’t just … go with things.”
“Well, takes one to know one,” Sterling says, shaking his head. He glances past Bridget for a moment and our eyes nearly meet as I dive back behind the desk and feel my breath catch in my throat.
Shit, did he see me?
There’s a pause that feels like an hour.
“So, why did you even show up?” Bridget asks.
“I don’t know Bridget, I really don’t,” Sterling says.
With that I hear both sets of footsteps slowly recede from the stacks and I sit quietly, hoping they’re gone for good.
In the silence that follows, I process what I just overheard.
On the surface, both Warren and Sterling said nothing to Bridget that would sound suspicious. But the more I think about it, the more I’m certain that my hunch is correct.
So maybe Bridget isn’t quite as in control as she thinks she is. Seems like the boys are pushing her around nearly as badly as they are with me, but they’re just sneakier about it.
The cracks in her armor are showing. Suddenly, I feel more and more confident that my plan might actually work. But, before I put it into action, I want to see if I can get any more information out of Sterling.
I want to make sure I’m right when I strike, because I won’t get a second chance if I’m not.
Bridget would make sure of that.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cornering Sterling turns
out to be more of a challenge than I anticipated.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to track him down outside of class. It’s like the minute the bell rings he either vanishes or closes ranks with Warren and Chase, making it impossible to get his attention.
He’s not going to talk to me in front of either of them, so I have to figure out a way to get him alone.
I remember Bridget texting him back in the library, which means that Sterling must also have a phone on campus.
Could I just steal Bridget’s? No, he seemed pretty pissed off with her last time, no guarantee he’d even agree to meet up with her.
Besides, I’ve already gotten on Bridget’s bad side—and I heard what Warren said. I’d hate to find out what’d happen if she really hated me.
Sheesh. I thought this place was messed up before.
I decide to get Alaska on board.
“You want me to get you a phone? Seriously?” Alaska replies with both shock and amusement. “This really is a new Aubrey … not just the hair.”
I blush, one hand reaching up to touch the freed locks that somehow leave me feeling more naked than free.
Alaska, meanwhile, leans closer to me across the bed. “What’s the plan?”
I grin at her appreciatively. For someone who only vaguely knows what I’m doing—not even why—she’s been surprisingly supportive. Though, maybe supportive isn’t the right word for “agreeing to break one of Ridgecrest’s cardinal rules” for me without even really knowing why.
“I need to get ahold of Sterling without the other two noticing,” I say. “And I don’t trust throwing rocks at his window at the middle of the night will do the trick.”
Not that I haven’t considered it.
Alaska’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, really now? And for what reason?”
“It’s part of the Bridget plan. He might be useful.”
“Sterling? Have you looked at him lately? I highly doubt he’s going to be useful for anything. Also, even if I do get you a phone, how are you going to get his number?” Alaska asks.
