The Class Reject: A Martyr in Maelstrom (Book III)

5

Miren was a wigged-woman walking.

Sure, it wasn't smart to be on the streets alone at nightfall, but due to the Valentine's Day holiday, downtown was filled to the brim with lovely lovers. And as much as she wanted to snort at their affections and their capitalistic obligation to shower fancy gifts and dinners on each other, she was thankful for their presence. Sort of.

A cold breeze blew past her, momentarily brushing her bangs out of her face. Suddenly feeling exposed, her gaze fell to the ground. It was dark, so she had neglected her sunglasses hours ago. And although her dark brown skin and monochrome attire made her look like a shadow, she was still radiant in the restaurant lighting. And asking to get caught.

"It's not like anyone's looking for me," she quickly reassured herself, adjusting her scarf. Retail therapy was a financially draining decision, but she needed to look different. She wasn't one for heels, which was why she was wearing ankle-length boot heels. They weren't high by any means, but they were tight, like the skinny jeans she wore. She forgot how much female clothes sucked. Her only consolation was her stylish, but unisex winter jacket. She readjusted her matching beanie as she watched a couple laugh past her. She wished she could laugh at life.

Instead, she was at the world's greatest impasse. It would be juvenile to say that she hated Jeno (well, not anymore), especially when Penelope held a special place in her heart. But that's what was so frustrating about the whole deal—the fact that it wasn't black or white. She could very easily choose to be the better person, to just get over her stupid, hormone-charged emotions. But she had only chose to hide from her problems.

Very mature. She readjusted her deflated backpack, already getting tired of her uneventful adventure. All she wanted to do was go home, but she had realized a long time ago that it never existed for her. And as much as she wanted to call that dingy dorm in Rinzen one, she knew she couldn't. Because that would mean accepting Jeno.

When she couldn't even accept herself.

She exhaled, leaving a trail of visible air in her conflicted wake. To go back or not go back, that was the question of the hour. As an academic, she had required no real skill other than playing the viola, and being able to study hours on end. Maybe she could be a tutor for spoiled rich kids? Then again, she was dead. And the fake Hawaiian ID she carried—Sara Smith, 18, wore corrective lens, organ donor, looked suspiciously like Gabrielle Union—was both the Jane Doe of fake names and identification.

Discrete was the name of the game, but she was still deciding whether or not she wanted to play. Naturally, she was still conflicted when she heard someone whistle in her direction. She didn't even bother turning toward it—after all, no one ever whistled at her—then again, there was that whole secret identity thing she had to defend. Her pace quickened as the whistling and nicknames grew in intensity.

"Hey, chocolate cutie!" Okay, she had to turn at that one. Not because she was flattered, but because she finally had a stranger to take out her frustrations on. But because she was the queen of coincidentally bad luck, she was staring Axel and Cliff in the face. They were carrying some watermelons (probably spiked with vodka or something), and Miren cocked her head in confusion before shock spread through her body. What the hell were they doing here?

"You do realize how racist you both look cat-calling me while holding watermelons, don't you?" Her own voice surprised her in a way. Maybe that's why she had to run away—so she wouldn't lose herself completely. Axel and Cliff exchanged looks before shaking their heads.

"We do now." Axel flashed her a wicked grin. He'd actually be quite handsome if she could stop thinking about all the girls he'd "conquered". "We saw you looking all glum and sullen and wanted to see what's up. Do you go to Rosemunde? I'm surprised we haven't met."