The Casquette Girls (Book 1)

15. Walk of Shame

October 21st

Cleaning out my new room was a constant treasure hunt, always ending with something beautiful and vintage. I'd been excited when I first found the little brass clock hidden among the junk in the closet, but now, as I lay in the dark, the ticking felt like the prelude to my execution. I imagined myself smashing the alarm clock against the wall.

Breathe.

Most of the night had been spent like this—suffering first-day jitters for the third time in one semester. It wasn't humane. My mind time-warped to Paris, reminding me how pathetic I'd felt lying in my dorm room, terrified of the sun rising. I'd been so jealous of my roommate, who lay peacefully asleep while my pulse raced. But Paris was different: over there, everyone had just cause to prejudge me. I was the foreigner invading their land of wealth and glamour. Feeling like a foreigner in my hometown was so much worse.

5:12 a.m.

I rolled over, groaning. The cute, little alarm clock went flying into the wall.

"Shit!" I sat up. All three lamps snapped on.

I hope it's not broken. I looked at the clock lying on the floor and then over at the corner where a small pile of things I'd destroyed over the last week had accumulated. This parlor trick—ability, whatever you call it—was out of control and one more reason I had new-school anxiety.

Now that my nerves were fired up, I conceded to the day's events. Standing. Stretching. Forcing my skin to embrace the chill in the air.

***

Legs shaved, skin moisturized, and hair tamed, I pressed the power button on the boom box, not caring that it was too loud for six in the morning. I didn't care if it woke my father; he had no reason to be out all night given the curfew. Plus, as far as I was concerned, me having to go to the Academy was entirely his fault.

"Add one more tally to the dead-body count," the DJ said, and I turned to look at the speaker. "The NOPD still doesn't have anything to say about these recently reported crimes." Then he went on about the lack of aid from the federal government.

Ugh. Listening to people rant about our demise wasn't going to help my anxiety. Without moving, I spun the tuner knob to the next station, but it was just more people shouting at each other, as was the next station and the next. I spun the knob until the shouting was drowned out by a boy band crooning about how beautiful I was. I walked to the full-length mirror for a self-assessment:

A little skinnier than usual . . . easily attributed to my meager diet of oatmeal, canned soup, and coffee. I hadn't eaten a piece of meat or a vegetable since my transatlantic meal on the plane, if that even counted as real food. Hanging loose, my waves fell several inches past my shoulders now, much longer than they had been at the beginning of summer—before the Storm, when life was normal. Back when Brooke and I were still planning out our junior and senior years.

I moved to the metal garment rack usually reserved for in-progress designs. Now there were just two hangers: on one hung layers of tulle covered in hand-stitched beading, and on the other hung various layers of blue, white, and gray. Three months ago I would've had trouble guessing which one was my Halloween costume.

We can't buy milk or find someone to fix our wall, but Sacred Heart has managed to get me monogrammed uniforms.

I shimmied into the scratchy polyester skirt and buttoned up the collared shirt. Over went the navy blue cardigan with ALM embroidered over my heart.

I'd never worn a uniform in my life. Even my boarding school in Paris didn't require one, hence the multiple shopping sprees with ma grand-mère. On the bright side, the uniform should make it easier to blend in. Taking cues from an old Britney Spears video, I pulled on a pair of white kneesocks and laced up the saddle Oxfords. Hmmm . . . I actually kind of liked the contrasting black-and-white leather shoes.