by L V Chase
“God, Cinnamon, you ruined our holiday cheer,” she says. “We were having such a good time before you reminded us of our trauma.”
She grabs one of the gift tags off of the floor. She starts writing on it with big calligraphy letters.
“Hey,” she says, abruptly smiling as she looks at Desiree. “Did you check out the place that the holiday dance is going to be held at? The Peninsula Hotel? It’s gorgeous. The rooms are twenty grand a night. I couldn’t even find a price for the penthouse, but it’s amazing. They have TV screens that are bigger than Lauren McGee’s ass and—”
“Damn it, Demi,” I snap. “You’re ruining a man’s life, and all you care about is an overpriced hotel? You’re not the dumbest person I’ve met, but that idiot is real fucking nervous that you’re about to overtake him.”
Demi tosses down her marker. She steps onto the table. At first, I don’t believe she’s actually going to try to fight me. I change my mind as she hurls herself at me.
I turn enough that she stumbles to the floor, her ankle bending at a strange angle. She doesn’t seem to notice, twisting around to grab me by the hair.
If she thinks she’s going to beat me at trailer park fighting, she may have graduated to the dumbest person I know.
She yanks at my hair. I punch her in the ribs, and pain shoots through my knuckles. As she recoils, twisting my hair, I slam my fist into her abdomen. She keels over, releasing my hair as she clutches her stomach. I resist the urge to slam my fist into her temple. I take a couple of steps back. The back of my shoe steps on something. I spin around.
Brady of all people stands behind me.
His thick, tall body seems more imposing when he appears so abruptly behind me. Fear prickles at me, although he’s smiling and nothing about him is any more threatening than anyone else here.
Brady looks past me. He and Damian’s gaze locks. Brady is the one to break it, turning back to me.
“Hello, Cinnamon. Could I talk to you privately for a short moment?”
I swallow. Damian must have given the testimonies to Brady. As the Assistant District Attorney, he’d certainly be involved in handling a case this massive.
We step outside of the art room. I pull loose strands of my hair out.
“I heard that you’re competing in the Daniel Comstock Art Award,” Brady says. “How’s that going for you?”
I tilt my head. “Um, it’s going fine. I’m making progress.”
Weird. Why would Brady know or care about a private school’s art competition?
He seems to sense my question. “I just know that it’s coming up soon,” he says. “You’ll have plenty of free time afterward, won’t you?”
“I’ll still have school,” I say. “It’s my senior year.”
“Oh, of course,” he says. “I just know women like you are ambitious. You’d hate to have too much free time. You’ll want something to fill up that time. That could work out well for both of us. I’ve been looking for someone to work on domestic tasks at my summer house. It’s on the beach. It’s a stunning piece of land, and I could pay you well.”
The intensity of his expression reminds me of a hawk surveying an injured mouse. He might as well be high above me, watching me nibble on some seeds. He’s on the hunt, happiest when his prey doesn’t know they’re about to be snatched. It’s someone who wants more polished than his silver. I’ve seen it in teachers. I’ve seen it in my mother’s one-night stands.
“Wow. Shit. That’s incredibly nice of you to offer.” I try not to make a face. “But I, uh, still want to focus on school.”
“Oh?” His eyes widen in genuine surprise. He truly thought I’d jump at the chance. The corner of his mouth twitches in annoyance. He looks away and shrugs. “I understand. I just thought you might want something on your resume. At the top colleges, admission often comes down to jobs and extracurriculars, considering everyone who’s applying has perfect grades and perfect SAT scores. But I understand that you might want to focus on the scores more than anything else.”
A snapshot of a nearly-empty resume develops in my mind. Maybe I’m paranoid after being repeatedly betrayed. Maybe reading about Damian’s fake perverts has made me see every man as a predator. I’m not in a position or arrogant enough to refuse an offer for the extra cash. I’m acting exactly like I’d expect the DDD girls and my mother would act—making excuses to not take a perfectly respectable job.
But I can’t bring myself to accept his offer.
“It was nice seeing you again, Cinnamon,” Brady says.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Especially if you came all of this way to just ask me that.”
“Oh, no,” he says. “I was visiting an old friend, and he mentioned that you spend a significant amount of time here. It’s good for a woman to have ambitions. I’d just remind you to be practical as well. Art careers often end in disaster.”
“Yes, I’ve read about Hitler, too,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “But thank you for the advice.”
He smirks. “There’s that impertinence again. You’re lucky I find it more amusing than tiresome. I’ll see you later, Cinnamon.”
He spins around, walking down the hall. I grab the doorknob to the art room. When I step back in, the chatter falls silent. The DDD girls regard me with curiosity. Damian is texting on his phone.
“What was that about?” Demi asks. “Are you helping the DA convict Grayson?”
I sit down across from her. I pick up one of the name tags. Demi wriggles in her chair. Dahlia shoots a look at Damian, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
“Damian,” she barks.
He slowly raises his head. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “She’s only trying to freak you out. Nothing’s changed.”
He glances at me. For the first time, I no longer see him as the best friend I had a year ago. I no longer know who he is, but I can almost understand him. Now, I know what it feels like to want someone to suffer, to witness his own life get doused in gasoline and set on fire.
He smiles at me.
I smile back.
12
Grayson
I lean away from the lunch table to avoid a wild wave of Eric's hand. He proceeds to take a bite from a slice of pizza, the cheese pulling away in long, thin strands. He closes his eyes and moans with his tongue tangling with the strands of cheese, doing his best impression of someone finishing up a blowjob on a piece of fucking pizza.
All the guys crack up. Donnie stands up and gyrates his crotch towards Eric. "I'm next! I'm next!"
Eric tries to punch him in the balls, but Donnie dodges and sits down with a laugh. I roll my eyes and look away, my gaze landing on Aurora and her posse of girls sitting at the next table over.
Her position at the school hasn't changed too much, not that I'm keeping careful track, even after her public humiliation. Everyone knows that she won't be a real Voss for much longer, or never was, depending on who you believe. Still, she seems comfortable enough to hang out with her usual crowd.
Aurora's laughing, a high-pitched fake thing. "Can you believe it?" she asks. "Elf helpers?" She laughs again, and the other girls join her.
"I love it," a brunette says between laughs of her own.
"I know," another blonde says. "It shows them exactly what their place is."
"Exactly!" Aurora nods furiously. "I am so glad that we won't have to socialize with that trailer trash at the dance."
She's talking about the scholarship girls, then. They have to dress up as elf helpers now and then for various holiday shit. Cin bitched about it a little. They're also supposed to show up at the holiday dance as elf helpers from what I can tell.
I'm too bored with the girls' mindless chatter to pay much attention to it, but I glance once more at Aurora. Something about the way she's talking with extra loud motions and an exaggerated tone is a bit off. There's a strange familiarity to what I'm seeing from her. Are her eyes red? I can't be sure, but I think she has the look of someone who's been sobbing rec
ently.
And then it hits me.
Diana.
Aurora reminds me of Diana before she broke down completely and lost her mind. Before Diana hurt Cin.
The guys are laughing about some stupid joke, but a cold pain constricts in my chest. I missed the warning signs last time. I didn't know how far Diana would go until it was too late. If Aurora gets pushed too far to the edge...what if she lashes out?
I glance back at Aurora again, carefully so that no one else sees me doing it.
I'd do anything to keep Cin safe, but that doesn't mean I don't feel a bit guilty for what happened to Diana. Shit. Aurora's not exactly my favorite person. She's been a bitch to Cin, too, but I can't help feel bad for what's happening to her.
I get out of my seat and walk over to Aurora's table, ignoring the eyes that are watching. As far as everyone else knows, I haven't said anything about Dad disowning Aurora. I haven't treated her any differently yet.
"Aurora," I say.
The table of girls falls silent. Aurora looks up, a faint smile lingering on her lips.
"Yeah, Grayson?" she asks.
"We need to talk." I nod towards the dining hall's exit. "Somewhere quiet."
Aurora smirks like she's just won something. I have no fucking idea what she's thinking. Maybe this was a stupid, but Aurora is already standing up.
"Sure," she says. She grabs my hand and walks around me, pulling me towards the dining hall's exit.
I yank my hand out of hers as I catch up to her and step past her. "Follow me," I say in a low voice.
I step outside the dining hall and walk at a brisk pace down hallway, passing a few small groups of students, before I turn and head into a stairwell. I don't look backwards, but I can hear the hurried rhythm of Aurora's heels as she rushes to catch up.
I move halfway up the staircase, where I can keep an eye on anyone coming up from below or down from above. Aurora walks up the stairs until she's on the same step as me, then changes her mind and goes up two more steps so that her eyes are on the same level as mine.
"It's just the two of us now," Aurora says with a strangely shy smile. "I bet I know what this is about. The holiday dance, right?"
"The dance?" I ask, not sure what she's getting at.
"You heard me talking about the dance. You want to take me, right?"
I stare at her, absolutely confused why the fuck she would think that in the first place. "No. Not with you."
Aurora's eyes widen in surprise. "But we'd be the perfect couple. You and me could—"
I scowl at her. "Fuck, no. I'm going by myself."
"Yourself?" Aurora snorts. "You're Grayson Voss. Why would you go by yourself? You should have someone classy, like me at your side."
She can't be serious. "Maybe I don't want an annoying bitch at my side," I say. "Maybe no one's good enough for me."
I had thought, for some stupid reason, to check up on Aurora and see how she was holding up. But her usual narcissism is pissing me off. She still thinks the world revolves around her, even after what Dad did to her. If nothing else, that's proof that she hasn't broken. She's still the same bitch she’s always been.
Aurora's eyes narrow. "You're going to take her, aren't you?"
I stare down Aurora, not replying. We both know who she means, and I don't like Aurora shoving her nose in anything having to do with Cin. We keep staring at each other for a while, until she finally crosses her arms and frowns.
I step closer to her, but she doesn't back away. "You love picking on girls you think are beneath you. But you aren't such hot shit anymore, either. Or did you forget?"
Aurora's eyes tremble for a second, but then a hard glare overtakes any hint of sadness. "So, what you're saying is that I have nothing to lose? Should be fun, then, right?"
Maybe I was wrong about Aurora being okay. She's acting bolder, desperate even. Like she said, she has nothing to lose. I stare at her for a little longer, trying to decide if she's going to break or not. For now, the best way to keep Cin safe would be to keep a close eye on Aurora. I won't let another situation like Diana's end up hurting her.
I won't hesitate to get my hands dirty on Cin's behalf, but I can let Aurora think that she's winning, if that will make her behave.
"Alright." I take a step back. "You win."
Aurora lifts her chin higher. "Win what?"
The fucking bitch has to rub it in.
"We'll go to the holiday dance together," I reply.
I shouldn't have to say anything more, but Aurora's big smile is creeping me out. "As friends," I add. Jesus Christ.
13
Cin
During class, Ollie told us that art was a physical manifestation of emotion. He told us that every stroke of the pencil, pen, paintbrush, charcoal, or pastel should show a deeper understanding of ourselves and evoke a deeper understanding in any soul that witnesses it.
He’s wrong. Art is a mess and a constant invitation to self-doubt.
The art piece I started in the dance studio, a tribute to all of the chaos I’ve felt at this godforsaken school, seems to slide in and out of focus. With every new stroke of paint, it’s bordering between something good and something a toddler would consider a failure.
I set my paintbrush down. While it started out more like abstract expressionism, it’s slowly transforming more and more into two intertwined bodies. I doubt it’s obvious to anyone who isn’t looking closely because the outlines are fractured and blending together, but I see it and feel it with an immersive immediacy.
A knock on the door causes me to almost knock over the easel.
I wipe my hands on my old white t-shirt. It’s been spattered by years of paint—not in the expressive, tie-dye way, but in a way that makes it look like I’m the sloppiest eater in the City. Still, I love it. It’s the closest thing I have to a security blanket.
I open the door.
I should be more surprised that Grayson is standing on the other side, but there’s no one else who would politely knock on my door and wait for me to answer. And it feels appropriate when I’m stuck on art that he was the muse for.
I am slightly surprised to see he’s holding up a bottle of wine.
“Sauvignon blanc,” he says. “I thought you might need a drink.”
“Usually, you just jump to having sex with me,” I say.
“If you’re offering…”
I rub my thumb and index finger together, rubbing off some paint. To his credit, he watches me without any sign of impatience.
“Does the wine mean you’re about to devastate me with some bad news?” I ask.
“I have some news about Damian.”
So, yes. I gesture for him to step inside. I close the door as he walks straight up to my painting. I wince, but I stand next to him, shoving my hands in my pockets.
“What do you think?” I ask. “It’s a bit dark in this corner, but I haven’t figured out which color to add to it. It’s hard to add bright colors. I should have started with them and added the darker shades.”
“It’s stunning,” he says.
I flush. “You don’t need to say that.”
He looks over at me. The tenderness in his expression should be disconcerting in such a ruthless face, but it only makes it more intense.
“It’s better than anything I’ve seen win the award before,” he says. “It almost feels voyeuristic, but it’s still intimate. It’s like…being close and far away from someone. It’s visceral.”
Heat flushes up to my face. “Uh, thanks. That means a lot. Um, God, let’s crack open that wine, so if I start spastically crying, I have an excuse.”
He chuckles. “Alright. Do you have some cups?”
I grab two of my mugs beside the single-serve coffee machine. We settle onto the floor, and I set the mugs between us. He contemplates the wine bottle.
“Honestly,” he says, “I didn’t plan this carefully. You don’t have a corkscrew, do you?”
I stare at him. “Not that I know
of. I’ll check in case Diana had one in the kitchen.”
I search through the cabinets, but I don’t find one.
“Bring a knife instead,” Grayson asks. “A butter knife.”
I take a butter knife to him. He has my alarm clock upside down. The school didn’t offer clocks, so it’s a cheap one, but I’d still be a bit offended if he stabbed it.
Using the knife, he manages to get the screw out from the bottom of it.
“Hold the screw up,” he says, placing the point of the screw on top of the cork.
I pose my fingers above his. The slightest friction between us almost makes my face flush again.
“I’m only doing what you say because people usually say screw up to me under different circumstances,” I say.
He laughs again. I smile. Long after this phase of my life is over, I’ll remember that laugh.
He uses the knife to secure the screw into the cork.
“Now what?” I ask, removing my fingers as he spins the screw another time.
“We need something to pull on the screw,” he says. “Do you have a hammer?”
“Grayson, do I look like a girl who owns a hammer?”
He looks down at the bottle. “Maybe we should just smash it.”
“No.” I stifle a laugh. “I’ve got something. One minute.”
I open my desk drawer. I rifle through it until I find a staple remover. I hand it to him and sit back down.
Needless to say, the staple remover isn’t flawless. Grayson struggles with it as the metal edges bend from the force. But as the cork pops off, we whoop and high-five. When we embrace, he kisses the side of my cheek. It’s sweeter than any other kiss I’ve been given. As he’s pouring it into my mug, I feel drunk and giddy without the alcohol.
The wine has a crisp, citrus flavor. I don’t know much about wine, especially expensive ones, but it tastes damn good.
“So,” I say, leaning against the side of my bed. I stretch out one of my legs, nearly hitting our mess of alarm clock parts and other scattered tools. “Damian. What did the shithead do this time?”
