Dark Notes(6)

“I…” She stares at the snakeskin-embossed leather on my Doc Martens, her voice hushed, dejected. “Just use your connections.”

To get her undeserving son into Leopold, the highest ranked music college in the country. That was the deal.

She gave me a teaching job when no one else would, and I’ll hold up my end of the bargain. But I will not bend or cower like her subordinates. She has no idea who she’s dealing with. But she’ll learn.

I toe the paper toward her fingers and hold it down with my shoe. “I think we’re clear on the terms”—I lift my foot, allowing her to snatch it—”as well as our positions in this arrangement.”

She stiffens, her head hanging lower.

Humiliation complete.

I turn and amble out of the library.





“I heard she stuffs her bra.”

“What a slut.”

“Didn’t she wear those shoes last year?”

The murmurs ripple through the crowded hall, spoken behind manicured hands yet intended to reach my ears. After three years, how have these girls not come up with new material?

As I pass their whispering cluster of brand names, limited edition iPhones, and black American Express cards, I reinforce my smile with the reminder that, despite our differences, I deserve to be here.

“I wonder whose bed she crawled out of this morning.”

“Seriously, I can smell her from here.”

The comments don’t bother me. They’re just words. Unimaginative, immature, hollow words.

Who am I kidding? Some of those jabs are true enough, and hearing them voiced so hatefully sucks the wind from my lungs. But I’ve learned that tearful reactions only encourage them.

“Prescott said he had to take three showers after slumming with her.”

I stop in the center of the corridor. The flow of traffic parts around me as I pull in a deep breath and walk back toward their huddle.

When they see me coming, several of the girls scatter. Ann and Heather remain, watching me approach with the same morbid curiosity tourists give my homeless neighbors. Unblinking eyes, backs straight, their dancer’s legs motionless beneath knee-length skirts.

“Hey.” I lounge against the lockers beside them, smiling as they exchange glances. “I’ll tell you something, but you have to keep it to yourselves.”

Their eyes narrow, but there’s interest there. They love gossip.

“The truth is…” I gesture at my boobs. “I hate these things. It’s hard to find shirts that fit”—let alone afford them—”and when I do, look at this.” I poke at the safety pin. “Popped buttons.” I give their flat chests a once-over, and while I feel a pinch of envy for their coltish figures, I hide it beneath a sarcastic tone. “Must be nice to not have to worry about that.”

The taller girl, Ann, gives an indignant huff. All lean and graceful and full of confidence, she’s the highest-ranked dancer at Le Moyne. She’s also intimidatingly beautiful, with her appraising eyes and full lips set in a dark brown complexion sharpened with cool, midnight undertones.

If Le Moyne had formal dances, she would be the prom queen. And for some reason, she has always hated me. She never even gave it a chance to be any other way.

Then there’s her sidekick. I’m certain Heather made the shoe comment, but she’s coyer than Ann, much too squeamish to be cruel to my face.

I lift a foot, twisting it so they can see the holes in the plastic. “I wore these last year. And the year before that. And the year before that. In fact, these are the only shoes you’ve ever seen me wear.”

Heather fingers her long, brown braid and stares at my beat-up flats with a furrowed brow. “What size do you wear? I could give you—”

“I don’t want your hand-me-downs.”

I do want them, but there’s no way I’m admitting that. It’s hard enough to stand up for myself in these halls. I’m sure as hell not going to do it in borrowed shoes.

Since day one, I’ve confronted their barbs with directness and honesty. That’s what Daddy would’ve done. Yet here we are, a brand new year, and they’re already mocking me with enough venom to burn through my skin.

So I decide to try a different tactic, a harmless lie to shut them up. “These were my grandmother’s shoes, the only things she owned when she immigrated to the States. She handed them down to my mother, who passed them to me as a symbol of strength and resilience.”

I don’t have a grandmother, but Heather’s guilty expression tells me I may have finally burst her precious golden bubble.

Triumph spirals its way up my spine. “Next time you open your patronizing mouth, consider the fact that you don’t know shit.”

Heather sucks in a breath, as if I offended her.

“Moving on.” I stoop toward them. “Here’s the thing about Prescott Rivard…” I glance around the crowded hall, like I give a shit who can hear me. “He has a sex problem. All guys do. They want it, and if you don’t give it, they take it, you know?”

Ann and Heather stare at me blankly. Clueless. How do they not know this?

I adjust the strap of the satchel on my shoulder, my skin itching with the truths I’m leaving out. “Someone has to step up and make the guys happy. I’m just doing my part to keep sexual violence out of our school. You should thank me.”