T.M.I.

Five

It's exquisitely annoying how once you become aware of something, you can't stop seeing it everywhere.

Before my dangerous encounter, Marisa Delterre was invisible. Now, she is everywhere. On the hallways, in the yard, doing sports, chatting to people.

Against my better judgement, I pause to observe her in her natural habitat. She doesn't seem to notice me, and it makes my blood boil.

What? Too good to be seen in school with me, Delterre?

She is so weird, breaking the pattern of everything that is normal for Petraka. No constant clique of friends, no constant checking of her cellphone to see if TMI might have updated, no running around with books.

Marisa talks to everyone equally, including the golden circle. She laughs airily at the stupidest jokes, bounces next to anyone who would have her, and spends classes actually paying attention to the teachers.

How did I miss this? This oh-so-obvious anomaly bouncing on my hunting ground. She has no power, yet she is everywhere, enemies with no one, except maybe Davey Postvam who she keeps avoiding. Discreetly.

For once in what feels like years, my attention is obsessively drawn to someone other than Rosie Geld. Marisa outshines her in every way, and yet, she doesn't seem to notice, doesn't gore her down with her tusks.

They laugh together. My desire to expose Rosie has never been greater. But I must play this right. Marisa is right. I want Rosie Geld to feel that I'm coming for her. I want her to shit her skirt and be afraid to open her notifications. I want to see her crumble.

Just like she made Audrey Hart crumble.

Crumble and fall. Die. Disappear.

"Move out of the way."

Someone nudges me and I hit my shoulder against the nearest locker. Hunter Gilligan marches past me with his posse of brain-dead football players. They all snicker at his Neanderthal antics, as if he's discovered fire or something. He gives me a once-over, probably trying to determine if I'm presentable enough to fuck or if he already fucked me.

I just glare at him, even if my hood is likely sparing him.

"Idiot," he mutters. "Emo garbage. Grow a pair and show off some skin." And just like that, he walks away.

If I grew a pair, he certainly wouldn't want to see skin. Entitled bastard. He messed with the wrong person. And he's about to see it.

I turn away from the crowd, lean my forehead against the locker and pull out my phone from the pouch of my hoodie.

That's right, asshole, strut away like the complete waste of oxygen you are. Strut while you still can.

A chorus of ringing phones fills the hallway. With frightening precision, every student searches for their phone, takes it out and opens TMI, Hunter Gilligan included. I watch him from under my hood. His face loses all color as he stares at his screen.

There is no laughter this time. Drugs are taboo at Petraka after one of the students OD-ed last year in one of the bathrooms. Being caught with it is a sure motive for expulsion, no matter who you are.

And no one finds it funny.

"Not cool man," someone whispers.

"This is bullshit," Hunter says, but the shaking of his voice implies otherwise.

"Is it, Gilligan?" Rod Wiseman and Rosie Geld make their way through the crowd, king and queen sheep, even if they look more like hyenas.

"Empty your pockets," Rosie says between her teeth.