The Devil Inside

26: Old Wounds

February passed in a hail of ice and bitter wind. Record lows, the weathermen boasted, preening at their cameras. A historic winter.

Calla didn't mind the cold, save for the old injury at her shoulder. The temperature would drop, drop, drop—forty then thirty then twenty. And when that happened, her shoulder would ache something fierce. Cooper never spoke the words aloud, but she knew the freezing temperatures pricked at his scar, too. She'd catch him out of the corner of her eye, rubbing the back of his hand with a grimace. As if he could still feel the bite of Cory's blade, the steel carving through his skin like so much butter.

But the cold could not last. If she was relentless, time was more relentless still. February gave way to March, and a hush of excitement settled over the senior class.

Graduation was coming.

The little reminders hounded her. A sign here. An email there. Don't forget to order your gown, her mother scolded her each morning. Until finally, she had the thing in her hands—five feet of black polyester. If she squinted her eyes, she could almost pretend it was silk.

But it was not silk, and it never would be. She'd shoved it in the back of her closet, unsatisfied.

"Have you decided where you're going yet?"

Calla pulled her textbook from her locker. Her final semester of highschool was riddled with electives to pass the time, with an advanced chemistry course tacked on to give credence to her exceptional academic performance.

Stephanie hovered at her side. Calla shut her locker and turned with a shrug. "Not yet."

"Princeton," Stephanie muttered. "I can't believe you got into Princeton. And Harvard."

"And Yale, too." Calla twirled away, dancing to no music but her own. A death march.

Stephanie followed her with a laugh, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Smart ass."

"That's the idea."

The two continued down the hall, smothering their antics to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. The seniors were usually allowed some license at this time of year, given their impending freedom. But there was always one teacher waiting in the wings, ready to tear down any spark of happiness to spread the misery of their own lives.

As they walked, they passed a number of seniors lingering in the hall. Vincent was among them. A flock of girls had gathered around his locker, gushing about which university he would commit to.

"Ah." Stephanie steered Calla in the opposite direction. For once, Calla was grateful for the other girl's intervention. "How's that going?"

News of their breakup had spread like wildfire over the last few weeks. Which was odd, considering there'd been no official split between them. Vincent had never said the words, and neither had she—we're over, we're through, goodbye. But the rumors were true enough, she supposed.

There would be no fairytale ending here. Vincent had seen the wolf for what it was, and he'd left her to rot in the dark wood, red cloak and all.

"I'm fine," she insisted. At Stephanie's skeptical look, she huffed. "Really. I am. It was a mutual thing."

"Vultures," Stephanie said over her shoulder. But they were too far gone for his admirers to hear. "Do they really think they're gonna snag him before he graduates?"

Calla forced a smile. And not because she was suffering on the inside, as many girls would be after losing the one they'd loved. She was just so tired of it all. The questions. The concern. And of course, the assumptions.