Hannaford Prep: The Complete Series

by J Bree

  My teacher had pulled me to the front of the class to sing happy birthday to me. I was embarrassed, and I didn’t want to admit it was the first time I’d ever been sung to. What kid wants to admit their mom never remembers the day they were born? I only knew when my birthday was because of my enrollment at school and the teachers adding my name to the class birthday tree each year.

  I hear sirens in the distance as I approach the front steps of our house. It’s barely a step up from sleeping on the streets. It's ancient and decrepit and it belongs to my mom’s dealer. He arrives twice a week to take his payment from her, and she makes me sit outside while she gives it to him. I can still hear them.

  The door is locked, but I don’t need a key. I jiggle the door handle until the lock springs free and the door opens. The room is dark as I enter, but that’s nothing out of the ordinary. I kick my shoes off and sling my bag to the floor, wincing as I feel the straps pull. It's threadbare and ratty, like everything else I own. I've had to use duct tape to fill in a hole, and I know I'm a few short weeks away from having to find a replacement. I have no money and no way of making money. Well, there are ways I could make money, but the thought of getting down onto my knees in the bathroom of the gas station on the corner and doing… that stuff is inconceivable to me. I know girls my age who are doing it to eat at night. I'd rather starve.

  I do starve.

  I start toward the kitchen, and as soon as the door cracks open, the smell hits me. I gag and step back. It smells like vomit and shit and rotting meat. There had been a heatwave happening in Cali for weeks, and the temperature had gone over a hundred degrees every day that week. We didn't have air conditioning or even a fan. I'd learned to just sweat it out. It helped that I was skin and bone.

  I know now that the heat had accelerated my mother’s decomposition.

  She had overdosed. Vomited and shat herself while she convulsed on the dirty kitchen floor. I might have even been home that morning when it happened and not noticed. Her eyes are bloodshot and milky. Her hands are rigid and twisted like claws, and one of her fingernails is ripped out at the nail bed from where she clawed at the floor in her dying moments. Her hair is lank and matted. Her lips are blue and stretched over what is left of her rotting teeth. I can see the burn scars that cover her arms and belly, the gray hue of her skin distorting the look until I'm sure she's made of wax and this is all a nightmare.

  It takes me a while to realize I'm screaming.

  The smell has crawled up through my nose and down into my lungs and I think I'll never be able to get it out of my body again. I'm rooted to the ground. I can't move my arms or my legs, every fiber of my being has turned to stone. I just stand and stare and bear witness to the demise my mother had been crawling toward my entire life.

  I'm only nine years old.

  Eventually, long after the sun has set and the traffic has picked up on the road out front, I shake myself out of the trance I'm in. I need help. I need to call someone to get her and take her away. I just want someone to take her away.

  There's no landline. I don't have a cell phone, but my mom has one. I do a quick check of the house with shaking knees. There’re only really three rooms to check, so I'm quick about it. Then I realize, with a stuttering heart that just won't pump the way it's supposed to, that I can see the outline of the cell in her pocket.

  I have to touch her to get it out.

  I sit and hug my knees. I let myself cry for the first time, but I hate the feel of the fat, hot tears sliding down my cheeks. I think the smell has dissipated, but really, I've just grown accustomed to it. My body has absorbed the unthinkable stench of death, and now I'm immune.

  The feel of my mother's skin slipping from her bones as I wiggle the cell out of her pocket will stay with me forever. If I ever need to vomit on command, that is the memory I recall. I open the back door to vomit on the rickety wooden steps.

  My hands shake as I dial 911.

  I pause before I hit call. I'm a smart kid. I know what will happen if I call emergency services. There are girls in my class being abused by their foster dads. I could just run away. I could leave and let the neighbors call it in when the smell finally hits them. It's tempting, but then I think about the girls kneeling in the gas station restroom, and I finally hit the call button.

  My voice shakes.

  I am only nine years old.

  As the recording of my 911 call plays over the PA system, I have two choices. I can give in to the chaos of my trauma, or I can retreat into the dark and survive. It’s not really a choice. I can never lose myself again. I had climbed out of the pit of Mounts Bay tooth and nail. I would never be forced back into the desperate form I’d once been.

  I let the calm wash over me instead.

  I let everything drop away from me. Everything that is destroying the little scraps that remain of my soul slips away and, instead, I open the box in my mind, and I let my senses out to play. I’d honed these senses for two years under the watchful eye of the Jackal. I’d learned how to walk in and out of a building without a single eye touching me. I’d learned how to endure extreme, bone-shattering pain without screaming out. I’d learned how to kill a man. I’d left all this behind me when I’d arrived at Hannaford, but now I let it all out.

  I’m surrounded. There are two exits, the door I just came through and one on the far side of the room. I see a familiar flash of blond hair, but I put that aside. I don’t need to be distracted by gorgeous, intelligent, ruthless boys. There’re wooden bench seats in neat rows, littered with students gaping at the scene playing out before them. Joey has chosen the spot with careful consideration to maximize the audience and my humiliation. I don’t have any allies in this room, I don’t have my knife, and there isn’t much I can do to stop the recording. The damage is done.

  Joey is smirking at me, and he’s flanked by his usual group of guys. Every last one of them has approached me for sex, every single one has tried to win the bet. I look at each one of them long enough to commit their faces to my memory. I will never forget their willing participation in this. The girls who flock them are all laughing behind sly hands, fanned out. If they try to attack me, I know exactly what to do. I may not have my knife, but I don’t truly need it. As long as my busted leg holds together, I know I have a chance of getting out of the room. I doubt the girls have ever raised a fist in their lives, and the guys… well, I doubt they’ve ever had to fight for their lives. I don’t make the first move. I don’t need to. One of Joey's flunkies grabs my arm, in an attempt to stop me from leaving.

  Big mistake.

  My body is in survival mode. Not private school, I'm-so-sad survival mode, but true life-or-death survival mode. The type of survival you need when your back is against the wall and a guy three times the size of you is coming at you for blood. The type you need to survive your leg being smashed to pieces and someone looming over you with a knife. The type of thing none of these rich kids could ever understand. My eyes lock with Harley. He's standing at the end of the chapel, and he's the only one not laughing. He's the only one who can read the cold, dead calm in my eyes. He doesn't call out to help the girl who has touched me. He just stands witness.

  Good.

  Let him watch.

  I swing the textbook that's in my arms and listen to the satisfying crunch as Harlow Roqueford’s nose breaks, shatters completely under the sheer force of my swing.

  Her blood goes flying, I'm spattered in it, and the room explodes with her screams. She drops to her knees and cradles her face with both of her hands. I get a fist full of her hair, and her hands scramble at me pathetically. I tighten my grip until she squeals, and her hands drop to her side. Her eyes meet mine and they’re wide, petrified. Devon lurches toward us, but he stops when I jerk her body closer to mine. The PA system is still playing the 911 call, it's on repeat, and I can hear the nine-year-old version of me screaming, but the fifteen-year-old me, standing here covered in blood with a fist full of some rich bitch’s hair—she is
hollow. She is carved out until there is nothing but cold, dead calm.

  She is the Wolf.

  “Let her go. You can't take us all.” Devon tries to command, but his voice trembles. Pathetic. My eyes stay on Harley. He's watching me with such a grim satisfaction that I wonder what this group has been doing to him. I wonder what torture Joey had been putting him through. I wonder what he did to the twins today. I answer Devon without bothering to glance at him.

  “Are you sure?” My voice doesn't tremble. It does, however, push them all back. Everyone except Joey takes a step away from me. He holds his arms out and grins at me.

  “Looks like you're out, Mounty. This school is a zero-tolerance establishment. The principal has no choice but to throw you out like the trash you are.” His words should inspire some sort of dread in me, but nothing can penetrate my frozen walls. I pull Harlow up to stand by her auburn hair, and her whimpers fail to incite any sort of remorse on my part. She’s crying. Fat tears are rolling down her face and mixing with the blood pouring from her nose. I think about pushing her, bending her and seeing how quickly she breaks. I doubt it would take much. Her eyes are pleading on mine. Truly pathetic. She would never survive the Jackal. She’s a child playing at a game she has no real place in.

  “Run,” I whisper, and then I let go. Harlow flings herself into Devon's arms and he pulls her out of the chapel. The other students part, and some follow them out. I see that the crowd is dispersing, and then I hear why.

  “Miss Anderson. My office. Now.”

  The principal has arrived.

  Joey looks at me, and the sick pleasure I see in his eyes melts the ice I’ve encased myself in a little. He thinks he’s untouchable. Maybe. Maybe he just hasn’t found the right opponent yet.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mr. Trevelen leaves me in his office to go and check on Harlow.

  He’s not happy with me, but he also hasn’t expelled me yet. Joey didn’t just play the recording in the chapel. I have to face the fact that the entire school has now heard the call. They all know about the worst thing that has happened to me.

  Or so they think.

  I wait for two whole minutes before I reach out and take the phone on Trevelen’s desk. I punch in Matteo’s number and I wait for him to answer. My eyes dance around and focus in on the watercolor painting of lilies over the bookshelf. It’s pretty, but bland. There’s no real passion in the strokes, just like every kid at this school. Pretty, vapid, empty, useless.

  “How did you get access to the principal’s landline?” he answers, and I wonder again if he has eyes in the school.

  “They’re going to expel me. I broke a girl’s nose.” My voice is flat, emotionless. My eyes trace to the blood drying on my hands with detached interest.

  Matteo chuckles, but he stops when I don’t join him. I can hear the chatter in the background. He’s at his house, I can tell by the sounds of the ocean and the low tones of the shitty jazz rap he listens to when he’s plotting. I recognize all the voices as the henchmen he likes to surround himself with. A show of muscle to distract from the fact that Matteo is always the most dangerous man in the room. “What’s happened, my Wolf?”

  I’m not his. I will never be his. I will fight tooth and nail, with everything I have, to not be his girl. It doesn’t matter, though. I can never tell him that; only bide my time until I can make an escape.

  “I need your help. I’m willing to call in a favor.”

  I can hear him moving around and closing a door. His voice is gentle, soothing, but I’m not falling for his games anymore. I’m not the scared little girl on that 911 call anymore. I just need him to fix this for me, I need him to have my back again. “No favor necessary. Tell me what you need.”

  I twirl the phone’s cord around my finger and stare at it with glassy eyes. I need to hold onto this calm apathy as long as I possibly can. “I cannot be expelled. I’m going to destroy the kid who is doing this to me.”

  “What is he doing? I can remove his piece from the board, if you want me to.” The calm offer to kill Joey for me is tempting. I’m definitely going to hell, because it takes me a full minute before I can reply.

  “No. I’m going to destroy him at his own game. It’s not satisfying if I can’t do it myself.”

  “That’s my girl. I’ll fix it for you. No favor required, but I will ask that you make it to the Club meeting in the summer.”

  He’s so intent on getting me to the meeting, so I take note, filing it away for inspection at a later date, when I can think clearly. I hear the principal coming back, so I agree and hang up. By the time I’ve straightened myself back into my chair, Mr. Trevelen strides back into his office. He sits down and begins to fidget with his shirt cuffs. He seems so nervous, and I feel bad for putting him in this situation. He believed in me enough to offer me the scholarship despite my emancipation. He’d had to fight with the school board for them to let me in. Now I’d just proved them all right. I’m just an angry girl from Mounts Bay who can’t fit in with the polished, upper-society teenagers. I’ve failed him. Don’t lose it now, I tell myself as I blink back the hot tears.

  He finally clears his throat and opens his mouth. The phone rings. He frowns but holds up a finger to signal that I must wait. I nod, and he picks up the phone.

  “Yvette, I’m sure I just asked you to hold calls.”

  He pauses, and then he turns ghostly pale.

  “Put him through.”

  Sometimes I’m amazed at the reach Matteo has managed to achieve. I doubt he even knew Hannaford existed before I told him I was applying here. I also know the moment I got my scholarship; he would have started to reach out and find all the secrets he would need to use to manipulate these people. I wondered what Trevelen had done. I wonder what skeletons he was hiding that Matteo threatened to shine a light on. From the look on his face, it wasn’t good. He looked like he wanted to vomit his breakfast all over his lovely oak desk.

  After a terse ‘of course,’ Mr. Trevelen hangs up and then he looks at me like he’s never seen me before. He looks at me like he’s let a monster into his school.

  He has.

  “I’m going to let you off with a warning this time, Miss Anderson, in light of… new information. Harlow will also be receiving a warning for her prank on you. I will not be so lenient on you if you choose to retaliate.” I stare him down. I’m sure he would turn a blind eye on anything I choose to do from here on out, now that he’s been threatened by the Jackal. I nod obediently and stand.

  “I’m going to go get cleaned up. I’ll skip my next class, but I’ll be in my Health Ed.”

  He nods and motions for me to leave as he drags a silk handkerchief over his sweaty forehead. I’m tempted to call Matteo back and ask what his buttons were, but sometimes, ignorance is bliss. I’d rather not find out the depths of evil this man has stooped to.

  Yvette stares at me as I walk out free and clear. Classes have resumed, so I don’t see anyone all the way up to the girls’ dorms. I head into the bathroom to shower and clean Harlow’s blood off me. I take my bag into the stall with me, and I don’t let it out of my sight as I wash down. The shaking starts when I dry off. It takes twice as long as it should to redress, thanks to the trembling. I will finish today with my head held high, and then tomorrow I will let myself crumble.

  As I walk into the classroom, all the eyes in the room turn towards me.

  No one expected me to last the day, and yet here I was, taking my seat in Health Ed and ignoring the lot of them. I would not cry. I wouldn’t let them enjoy my tears. I'd survived my body being put through hell, but this sort of psychological torture grated against me. The Wolf has retreated, and I’m back to the little girl who cries and has crushes and wants to be liked. I kind of hate her. I can’t wait to graduate and leave all this behind. So much for my new start.

  I unpack my bag and set everything out onto my desk in clear lines as the whispers get louder. I can't have any sort of control anywhere else but in my penc
ils right now, so I measure everything out with my fingertips. When that doesn't calm my racing heart, I start to count backwards from a hundred in French, my go-to for panic reduction. The overcomplicated number system keeps enough of my brain occupied that I can usually fight back the panic.

  As the bell begins to toll, Avery, Ash, Harley, and Blaise walk in and sit in their usual spot behind me. It’s the only class we all share, and I’m pissed I have it today of all days. Thankfully, I don’t have to sit next to Harley. I hear Avery snort out a laugh that doesn’t suit her manicured appearance. She’s the epitome of grace and beauty. When you think about the beauty that wealth can create, she’s exactly what you would picture.

  She murmurs, “Stupid Mounties,” and then opens her books. She seems pissed about all of this, but I'm sure it's because she wanted to be the one to break me.

  “Your brother really fucked up everyone’s chances of winning the sweep.” Harley isn’t even trying to be discreet; I think he’s enjoying my downfall more than anyone else. The guy who bore witness to the retribution I wrought isn't in this room at all, so I'm left with the pompous asshole instead. There’s something in his eyes when he looks back at the sound of his voice, a recognition that tells me he’s still trying to figure me out. Well, good luck.

  “She still looks at Blaise like she would enjoy a ride on his dick. Looks like the money is yours, man,” Ash drawls, and I want to kick his perfect face in.

  I turn to give him a scathing look, but they’re all enjoying every second of this torture. Harley is looking at me the same way he was in the chapel. I try not to shiver at the intensity. Blaise looks over at me, and for the first time he actually looks. I squirm in my seat as his eyes trail over my scuffed shoes, nails chewed to the quick, and the mess of black ringlets that is my hair. I know I look nothing like any of the girls at Hannaford, and for the first time since I started here, I feel pissed off about it. I’ve never felt so out of place as in this school with all of these obscenely privileged kids.