Brutal Precious (Lovely Vicious #3) (18 page)

“And you took it too?” I shout. “You let her take it, and took it yourself? What kind of idiot are you? What if she had a worse reaction? How could you help her if you’re doped up too?”

“She’s fine!” He yells. “We were all okay before you guys came along!”

“Fine?” I roar. “Look at her arm!
Look at it
!” Kieran flinches. “She bit herself, you moron! She’s far from fine, but you ignored that so you could slip your fucking tongue in her!”

Kieran’s eyes spark and I see his muscles twitch before his fist flies towards me. Gregory’s training is all but automatic – I sidestep him and hook my ankle under his, pulling back. He eats cement hard, groaning as he rolls over.
 
 

“Enough!” Isis’ shout rings. I turn and look at her, and her glare is a bonfire on the coldest winter’s day. “He didn’t ‘let’ me take anything. I decided to take it. So lay off him.”

I still my heavy breathing. Kieran glowers from the ground, nursing his nose, but it’s a muted, ashamed glower now. I dare him to make a move with my eyes, but he just sits up and swears. I pivot back to Isis.

“You have to get that looked at. Come on, there’s a first aid kit in my car –”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” She says evenly. “I’ll get it looked at on my own.”

“Isis – you’re injured. You have to –”

“Don’t pretend to care about me now, Jackoff,” She laughs.

“This isn’t pretending. I care about you.”

“Well, cut it the fuck out, okay? I’m not your girlfriend. I’m not even your friend anymore. You shouldn’t waste your energy on me. I’m nobody important to you –” She shudders, hugging herself and laughing harder. “I’m nobody important.”

You are the sun, I try to say. You are the most important. You are the only light that’s ever truly pierced my armor. You are the happiness and the spark and the one girl who never ran, who never cowered, who saw through my façade. I will never meet another girl like you, I will never want anyone as much as I want you. I don’t deserve you.

But all that comes out is self-censoring silence. Kieran gets up, and puts his arm around her shoulders.

“We should go,” He murmurs. They pass me, Isis refusing to meet my eyes as they turn the corner and go back into the club. Her smell lingers around me for a brief second, and I try to hold onto it as long as possible with shaking fingers as the clear, volatile truth wells up in me, past the walls of lies I’ve built around it (
you’re not good enough for her
,
she never really wanted you
), past the excuses I use to deny myself happiness (
you’ll hurt her, you’ve hurt her, all you do is hurt her
), past my own self-loathing (
you should’ve died instead
). The realization shines bright, quietly exploding, blowing them all away and leaving a single truth behind.
 

“I love you,” I whisper to the empty curb.

3 Years

51 Weeks

6 Days

Yvette is not impressed with my new diet.

“Are you eating…doritos with ice cream?” She asks.

“My mind is strong but my flesh is weak,” I mutter through a spoonful.

“Well, at least you’re eating
something
,” she throws her hands up. “What happened to the Isis who could put away an entire large pizza on her own?”

“She got bored,” I say. Yvette looks appropriately scandalized. “Of eating! Not of pizza. God no. The only people who get bored of pizza are evil at their core. Or Italian.”

“How’s the war-wound holding up?” Yvette collapses on her bed. I pull my sleeve up and inspect the blood-stained bandage on my forearm with a shrug.

“The nurse gave me antibiotics that taste like butt, and I have to change the bandage every two days, but so far it’s like a walk in the park. If said park was covered in infectious zombies and landmines. Kieran got the worst end of the deal – dislocated noses hurt like a bitch.”

“Yeah, but they’re quicker to fix. Only hurts for a second.”

“Oh yeah? How do you know that?”

“I got in a fist-fight,” She says proudly. “At a concert.”

“What concert?”

“Does it really matter? I think you are missing the point here, the point being that I have also dislocated my nose.” I stare at her until she groans and mumbles; “Taylor Swift.”

“
You went to a Taylor Swift concert
?” I screech.

“
I was taking my little sister
!” She shrills defensively.

“Why does it sound like a cage of birds in here?” Diana winces as she walks in.

“Di, she’s making fun of me,” Yvette whines. I courteously flip her off.

“If you met me at the pizza place like I
asked
,” Diana sniffs. “You wouldn’t be here, getting made fun of.”

Yvette groans and rolls off the bed, rifling through her closet for a jacket to wear. Diana sits on the bed beside me, all smiles.

“Hey you.”

“Don’t look at me I’m hideous.” I whisper, shoveling more soggy doritos into my mouth. She laughs, and smooths her fluffy blouse that makes her impressive rack all the more bouncy.

“And what are you doing on this lovely Friday night?”

“Eating. Sleeping. Sacrificing a goat to Mantorok, the God of Corpses.”

She looks over at the stack of fake blood packets on my desk and raises an eyebrow. “Riiiight.”

“Those are for a sociology experiment!” I defend. “Called ‘
See How Many People Run Away From Me When I Squirt Fake Blood At Them
’. Prediction: Many.”

“Okay but…just don’t get punched out, alright? Getting a new injury every weekend is sort of a new thing with you and I’d like for it to kindly stop forever.”

“You and me both.”

Yvette flaunts her army surplus jacket, Diana and I applaud. They’re gone before I can blink, Yvette crowing about pepperoni and jalapenos. My stomach makes a disagreeing noise, and I put the ice cream bowl aside and bring out my laptop. I get on Skype, looking for Kayla’s photo, but she’s offline, the little gray inactive dot taunting me.
 

It’s nice Diana’s worried. It’s only been a few months, but she and Yvette treat me like they’ve known me for years. Sometimes it makes me feel better, but right now it only makes everything feel worse. It makes me miss Kayla more. I hadn’t gotten to tell her about what happened that night at The Back Door, but part of me doesn’t want to. Part of me hesitates blabbing everything like I usually do. What would she think of the fact I took molly? I didn’t tell Diana or Yvette. I haven’t told anybody. Would she be disappointed? Would she hate me? I’m still disappointed in
myself
that I took it. And she wouldn’t be happy to hear about Jack, and how we’re practically strangers now. And I know for a fact she’d hate my stories of making out with any dude who looked nice at frat parties. She wouldn’t understand it. I’d just disappoint her. My life isn’t exciting and romantic like hers.

There it is again. Jealousy. I swallow it whole and try to convert it into exactly what it is – poop.

I get up and stretch, tracing the bandage on my arm lightly. Jack touched me there, and it’s stupid to think about, but sometimes in the quiet moments I touch the same place and wish things were different. But tonight is not the night for self-pity. I pull on shorts and a loose t-shirt and stuff a sidebag full of the fake blood packets, some gum, forceps, and a credit card.

Tonight is the night for revenge.

Granted, as I walk through the sunset-washed campus with happy couples clinging to each other and excited, dolled up girls on their way to parties, I have the minor revelation that I probably shouldn’t be doing this. I brush the nonsense off –
of course
I should be doing this. Doing possibly illegal things that would get me kicked out, such as breaking into Professor Summers’ office and sending him a message, is going to be hells more fun than sitting around another frat party waiting to die slash furthering my reputation as a slut. People stare. But then again, people have always stared. I smile and wave.

I’ve done my own independent study on Professor Summers’ – asking around parties didn’t exactly make it hard to find the girls who he’d previously harassed. He’d do it quietly; dropping reflective pens, coming up behind them after class and pinning them to chalkboards, asking them to come in on Saturdays and offering A’s for a handjob. He’s one hundred percent scum. And the worst part? He doesn’t look like scum. He’s almost cute – mousy hair, a thin beard, blue eyes. But the worst people rarely look like the worst people. I learned that from Avery.

Professor Summers’ office is in the Fowler building, which is about as ironically fitting as we can get for a Friday night in a Midwestern college town. Fowler closes at seven, but I manage to sneak in at 6:50 and hide in a bathroom. The janitor comes around checking the stalls, and when she asks me to leave I groan and empty a blood packet into the toilet. It makes a satisfying plop noise, and she sighs and tells me to get out when I can.

I hiss in victory as she shuffles with her cleaning cart down the hall. I pack everything up and flush the evidence before tiptoeing out of the bathroom. I pass Ferguson’s office, and then Vacroix’s, and as I turn the corner -
 

My ringing phone scares my intestines out of my anus.

“You scared my intestines out of my anus!” I pick up.
   
   
 
 
 

“Where are you?” Kieran asks on the other end, the distinct muffled boom of bass in the background. “You said you were coming to Rho Alpha Alpha tonight, but I can’t find you.”

“I am currently engaged elsewhere. Minus a ring. And a bachelorette party.”

Kieran’s quiet, then his voice lowers. “Isis, you aren’t doing what I think you’re doing.”

“I’m not, don’t worry!” I chirp.

He groans. “You are. You totally are. You’re gonna get busted, and thrown out. Just forget about Summers and come to the party!”

I check the time on my phone. “Oh my, is it that time already? Shut up o’clock? I must go, farewell sweet jocky prince.”

“Isis -!”

I hang up, and slither down the corridor with the grace of an oiled sidewinder. Summers’ office is the last on the right, and I crouch and immediately begin assessing my foe. It takes me three minutes of strenuous lock jiggling to find out these locks are much, much sturdier than anything I’ve broken into during high school. There’s no way I’m getting in.

This is where most people would paste a giant GAME OVER in their heads.

Thankfully, Isis Blake is not most people.

I pull as many blood packets as I can out of my pack, and start decorating. I’m halfway through with the janitor calls into the same bathroom for me. My heart jackrabbits around in my throat and I squeeze out the last few words as quick as I can. I hear her footsteps about to turn the corner just as I jam everything into my pack and skid around the opposite one.

She squints, her eyesight obviously bad, but she can’t see the wall I defaced - parallel to the windows - from that angle. She sighs and trudges back the way she came, and I jam on the gas full blast and beat her to the front door, taking the steps two at a time as cool twilight air washes my victorious face.

If she sees it, she’ll get rid of it, and it’ll have been a glorious adventure all for naught. But if she skips it over, then tomorrow –

I smother a laugh and reinstate myself as best in the world at everything. The high is so familiar, so enthralling that all I can think about is it – just it. Just my victory, just my near-busted status, just the retribution a pervy scumsucker like Summers will get if anyone other than himself sees what I did. It might not be proof, and it might not convince anyone fully, but it’ll breed doubt in their minds, and doubt’s the most insidious thing there is.
 

Tonight, I don’t need any parties to keep away the yawning chasm of silent pain. Tonight I’m high on my own brand of drug – pure immature, stupid, recklessness. I wash fake blood off my hands and head to the nurse’s office for my bandage change, laughing under my breath.

I’m crazy and going crazier, and I don’t know how to stop it.

I don’t know how to stop this horrible darkness from eating me alive, and no one in the world is going to help me.

I’m alone.

Tonight I don’t need any parties, but I go to the Rho Alpha Alpha party anyway, because it’s become habit. Because it’s who I am now, who I always was. Who I used to be. Because once upon a time I was a stupid fourteen-year-old who drank and smoke and spat with the best of them in a desperate attempt to look cool, and I’d do anything to look cool back then, because when you’re huge people only see how huge you are and forget you’re a person with feelings, but if you’re huge and you party you’re a little cooler than not cool at all, letting them make fun of how big you are (
whale, fatso, piggy
) makes you a little cooler than not cool at all.

I look around at the faces in the party, skinny and tan and glittery with makeup and good-looks, and I know they’d be the first to call me fatso if I was the old me. They smile at me
now,
Heather and Livy and Tessa smile at me
now
, but they’d change so fast, become mean and ugly so fast, if I was the old me. They don’t like me for who I am – they aren’t Kayla or Wren, but I’m trying, trying to make them fit in the spaces left behind and I hate myself, I hate that they left me behind -