PROLOGUE
PEYTON
Past…
Another day,another round of bullshit. High school… it goes one of two ways.
You are either popular—the queen bee with a swarm of followers. Every girl wants to be you. Wants your boyfriend. Dresses and talks like you. Is at your beck and call without question. And you are artificial as fuck.
Or two—my current life status—you walk around with a “kick me” sign stuck to your back. Girls point and laugh and say fucked-up shit. They write your name on bathroom stall walls with the word “trash” or “loser” or “slut” beneath it. They gather their posse and gang up on you. Start rumors and throw shit in your direction. Toss out every possible degrading word with your name to boost their own esteem and make others laugh and point.
How I landed in category two is beyond me. But here we are, another day in hell.
I exit the bus and spot them as I step off. As if they waited for me to arrive in the big tangerine beast. Just to antagonize me. To start their day with a fresh load of assholism.
Do mean bitches have nothing better to do with their lives?
“Mandy, did you hear the school slut banged the baseball team last night?”
That would be Mercedes, Queen Bitch.
“Ew.” And that would be Mandy, the girl parked so far up Mercedes’s ass, she no longer sees light. “But what else do sluts do?”
They laugh and start following me as I pass them without so much as a glance. As pretentious and mighty as they believe they are, one would think they have more in life to do than follow “trash” like me around campus. But whatever.
I walk through campus and head for my locker. They continue their not-so quiet artifice. And I continue to ignore them as best I can. After dealing with their bullshit for the last four months, I learned to tune them out. On occasion, anyway.
I spin the dial on my locker as they prattle on. Voices loud as they encourage others to join in on their hate fest. Only one other does. Meredith. Now my day is complete. Triple M is here and in their full glory.
While I swap my books and folders in my locker, I laugh at my own wayward thoughts. Triple M. Damn, those are big tits. Slut tits. Who’s the slut now?
“What’s so funny, loser?”
Shit. Did I laugh out loud? Oh well. No backpedaling now.
I spin around to face the blonde trio. Hair, makeup and clothes pristine and wrinkle free. Unlike me. My blonde locks currently wear a thick layer of black dye. My makeup equally dark and thick around my eyes. And my ensemble… you guessed it. Black. Let’s just say the current phase of life revolves around the saying black is life.
Courage bubbles in my chest as my nails dig crescents into my palms. Sick and tired of these bitches, I am ready to blow my top. Go full-on banshee and punch the smiles off their cakey faces. But not now. Maybe just a dose to appease my dark heart.
Just a dose.
“You,” I say with a laugh. “You’re what’s funny.” Confidence builds and I run with it. “If you’re not careful, someone might think you’re in love with me. Obsessed. I mean, god, you seek me out. Follow me like a lost pet. Talk about me all day. Like you have nothing else you’d rather be doing.” God, this feels good. Talking shit to her face. Calling her out in front of others. Should I kick it up a notch? Add to her embarrassment? Do it! “Hey, everyone,” I shout and several eyes glance our way. “Mercedes is in love with me.”
Her face turns stop sign red. If possible, steam would shoot from her ears. Her arms stiffen, hands fist at her sides and she literally stomps a foot. I bite my cheek to resist laughing at her charade, as it will definitely worsen the situation.
She shoves a finger in my face, centimeters from my glasses. “You’ll pay for that. When you least expect it.” She spins on her heel and storms down the hall with her followers up her ass.
At least she is gone for the time being. Shouldn’t see her or the other two until sixth period. Thank fuck.
Classes start and end as the day ticks by uneventful. And soon, the bell rings and a sea of bodies ambles toward the cafeteria. I hoist my messenger bag up my shoulder and follow the masses.
A strange square chunk of mystery casserole, a banana and water bottle on my tray, I weave through the tables in search of an available seat. Parked in the corner, I poke at the food and remind myself—again—that I need to bring food tomorrow.
The buzz in the room quiets an octave when a group enters the cafeteria. Micah Reed and half the district-winning track team. They saunter past several tables, all eyes on them, and sit at their usual spot. Chatter resumes and people pick at their mystery lunch.
But I keep an eye on Micah through my raven locks.
The first time I paid any attention to Micah Reed was a week into the school year. Parked under a tree, I read Wuthering Heights for English Honors. Micah and several others on the track team jogged out of the gym in tank tops and short shorts in the school colors, with bright running shoes on their feet. I followed them as they went toward the paved oval track surrounding the school football field. Watched as they stretched and bounced on their toes before they took off running.
I dog-eared my page and observed Micah with fascination. His long, lithe frame glided over the pavement like the gazelles on nature documentaries. Blond hair a bird’s nest from the breeze. Cheeks red as he huffed and circled the track.
He never saw me under that tree. No one did. No one ever sees me. And I am okay with not being seen. Okay with being the odd girl that makes others gawk. The loner who sits in the corner and keeps to herself. The quiet girl who admires a guy from a distance.
The next time I peek up, Mercedes stands beside Micah in the cafeteria. She smiles and laughs and flips her hair, all but begging for attention.
“Fake bitch,” I mutter to myself.
As if she hears the words leave my lips, her eyes scan the room and land on me. She notices the one time my eyes dart between her and Micah, and I hate the action immediately. Because a slow, wicked grin plumps her cheeks.
Fuck.