How Bad Can A Good Girl Get?

Chapter 6

The second I made it back to my bedroom, I burst into tears.

You're so stupid. My mind was a whirl of emotions, ripping me apart. Come on, Storm. You knew what was going to happen.

You should've known better.

Seeing Aurora again for what felt like the first time in forever triggered something deep inside of me. The memories I had suppressed began to rise, flashing before my eyes. I squeezed them shut, breathing hard, trying to put what I learned at yoga to good use, but it didn't work. Aurora McCoy's piercing blue eyes seemed to burn into my soul. I can hear her voice echoing in my head.

And the memories started coming back, back, back.

Seventh grade. Girl's bathroom. Lunch break. I'm on the floor. Aurora's above me, towering, a glint in her cold, icy eyes. Her friends whose names I don't remember snicker beside her. She kicks me with a pearly white Chanel shoe, and pain burns in my side. She laughs, wildly, madly, and I cry.

Eighth grade. Soccer field. I have the ball. Aurora comes towards me. I turn away, my eyes trained on the goal, until suddenly there's a shove, a push, and I'm on the wet, muddy ground. I look up and Aurora's gone. The referee sees what happened, but looks away. Of course he does. Aurora's the daughter of the Principal. Once again, laughter surrounds me as Aurora runs back to me after scoring her goal. 

"Why did you do that?" I ask, my voice soft. My arm was scraped, bleeding.

Aurora pursed her perfectly pink lips, faking a frown. "Did what? Sorry, I don't understand."

"You pushed me," my voice was firmer now, despite the fact that I was smaller than she was. "Admit it."

"Did I?" Again, another frown. She tilts her head to one side, tapping her finger mockingly on her chin. "Wow, I don't remember."

Anger flares, and suddenly, Aurora's the one on the ground, in the mud, and I'm standing above her. She looks at me, eyes wide, and shrieks: "Storm pushed me!"

The referee runs over, as does Mr. Welkins, our P.E teacher. I'm given detention and a firm talking-to by Mrs. McCoy, Aurora's mother. I have to write an apology letter. No one believes me when I say Aurora pushed me first.

Ninth grade. School hallway. Aurora's perfume is strong and overpowering. Her homework is in my hands. 

"Do this by tomorrow. I want full marks, or else I'm telling Mom you're bullying me," she orders, her voice firm and commanding. She's still taller than me, and she pets my hair before she leaves, "Good girl, Storm."

Good girl.

From tenth grade onwards, the pushing, shoving and homework-doing stopped as Aurora McCoy moved to another school nearby. With the stress of high school life the memories of her torment faded from my mind...until now.

Why was she at the party? Why was she with Joaquin? I slumped onto my beanbag, head buried in my hands. I was angry -- at myself and with Joaquin, but mainly at myself. How could I have been so naive and dumb? Of course Joaquin hung out with people like Aurora. They were practically made for each other. My stomach churned in disgust at Aurora's sultry words. "Joaquin, baby, who are you talking to?"

Me. I thought bitterly. He was talking to me. Storm Romero. The girl you always picked on. Remember?

The thing was -- Aurora did remember. The look of disgust in her eyes when she saw me was seared into my memory. In her eyes, I was still the same old Storm -- the weak Storm, the dumb Storm, and easily manipulated Storm.

The good girl.

I let out a frustrated sigh, then stood from the beanbag. I headed into the bathroom and quickly splashed some cold tap water on my face, washing away my tear stains. I picked up my phone to text Chloe, and at the same time, my phone rang.

Joaquin's number was displayed on the screen.

I stared at it for what felt like an eternity, not moving at all, allowing the ringtone to play in the empty room. I wanted to answer it, and I wasn't sure why. Curiosity, maybe. Or something else. Either way, it didn't matter. I hung up, chest heaving. 

I knew the truth now. 

Joaquin was just like Aurora. 

He was a bad boy.

And I'd learnt my lesson.