Filed to story: Brace Face Betty Drama Story
I’d ignore Jake if I could, but the motherfucker is persistent. “Any of the girls here in school?” he presses. “You into any of them?”
“God, no.”
“It’s cool, it’s cool. I know Zen’s diggin’ on you. She’s one of Kacey’s friends. Gives amazing head, and I heard she let Taylor Elliot stick it in her ass. She’d be a freaky first conquest.”
“Told you. I’m not interested.”
“Hey, okay, okay. Didn’t mean to stick my nose where it’s not wanted. I just felt like I had to say something because…well, I hate to speak badly, but I saw you hanging ’round with Betty Branson a couple of times, and pssshh
…” He widens his eyes, making a crazy face. “That one is certifiable, my man. Bitch has mental problems.”
I press the nib of my pen into the notepad in front of me so hard, the plastic buckles and cracks between my fingers. “Oh yeah?”
“She’s a manipulator. Worse, she’s a super bad lay. Take whatever she says with a pinch of salt, dude. If Betty’s mouth is moving, then she’s fucking lying. She’s always been that way. Took a long time for any of us to see it, but now…I’m telling you the truth, man. There isn’t a single person at Ravenshire stupid enough to look twice at her.”
“All right. Open your books to page fifty-eight, people. Today we’re learning about, you guessed it…the United Nations Treaty Series! One of the most important international docu-ahh, who am I kidding?” Mr. Biltmore calls from the front of the class. “We’re going over the American Civil War again, ladies and gentlemen! Are you pumped for the Battle of Gettysburg or what?”
His sarcasm goes mostly unnoticed, but I appreciate it. Slowly, I turn my head a full forty-five degrees to the left, until I’m staring coldly at Jacob Weaving’s profile. “Duly noted,” I tell him. “Betty’s a liar. I’ll give her a wide berth.”
Jake grins at me, an All-American football hero in the making, complete with perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth. “Good man, Moretti. Good man. Now, are you gonna come to Leon’s party on Friday or what?”
My pen cracks again. The entire thing breaks in two. I clench my fist around the broken pieces, enjoying the feel of the sharp edges digging into the flesh of my palm. “Sure. Why not. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
When class ends, Jake thumps the top of my arm, telling me he’ll catch me later, and just like that, I’m dismissed. It’s a relief. All I can think about is slamming my fist into the fucker’s throat; finding myself free of him is like finding myself free of a persistent and particularly nasty bout of Chlamydia. I do not like the dynamic Weaving’s trying to cement between us-one where he assumes the role of alpha, with me playing along as the good subordinate.
Jacob really has to be the stupidest fucking person I have ever met. Or maybe not. Maybe he really is this sure of himself. Either way, he seems to be missing all the warning signs where I’m concerned: the rap sheet; the tattoos; the motorcycle; the murder in my eyes whenever I look at the piece of shit. I’m gonna go right ahead and blame this one on Instagram. They made guys like me popular. They made it fashionable to look like me, to dress like me, to talk and walk like me. But these Insta famous fuck boys have no idea what the hell they’re doing when they pick a gang tattoo from a wall in a hipster den in Seattle and pay to have it driven into their skin. They have no idea what a knife feels like in their hands. They sure as fuck don’t know what it feels like to drive that into someone else’s skin.
In the end, they don’t have a clue how to really walk this walk or talk this talk. The fact that you can buy my ‘style’ in H&M might have robbed me of my threatening reputation…but that doesn’t mean that I am not a threat.
* * *
I spend the day on the look-out for Betty. She’s not an easy person to keep track of, let me tell you. I swear I see the same repeating faces in the hallway, over and over again between classes, but not the girl with the haunted look in her eyes. Seems as though she’s a ghost from the moment she walks into Ravenshire High to the moment she books it out of here. I’m unsurprised to find her noticeably missing in the cafeteria at lunch. I normally leave school grounds and eat at a diner nearby myself, but not today.
I’m headed for the exit, about to go in search of something more palatable than cafeteria fare, when I catch sight of the food and realize that it’s actually a far cry from the garbage they dished up at Bellingham. Grabbing a loaded tray of food-burger, wedge of lasagna, cup of chocolate pudding-I find an empty table and park myself, ready to hoe in. I’m unimpressed when I sense someone to my right, lowering themselves onto the bench beside me. One, single, solitary banana appears on the table next to my tray, and an overpowering smell, saccharine sweet, hits the back of my nose.
“Wow. You starved at home or something?”
I sigh, annoyance snapping at my back. It’s her again-the Walking Fenty Purse. Zen straddles the bench, facing me, smiling suggestively as she peels her banana and takes a bite. Has this chick never seen a fucking movie? Doesn’t she know that she’s a walking clich?? Aside from the obnoxious perfume she’s doused herself in, she also reeks of desperation. Highly unattractive. She eyes my lunch like it’s both the most disgusting and most enticing thing she’s ever seen in her life. “Seriously, though. Do you live in an orphanage?” She clears her throat and then speaks, affecting a terrible English accent. “Please, Sir. May I have some more?”
Stupid, ignorant, stuck up bitch.
“Oliver. Nice. No, I didn’t grow up in an orphanage.”
Zen beams. “Oh, I know. I was only messing around. I-“
“They call them ‘homes for boys’ now. I stayed in one from the age of six until I was eleven. After that, I bounced around in the foster system for a while.
That was fun.”
The girl looks bewildered. Her mouth falls open wide enough to tell me that she can’t figure out if I’m fucking with her or not. I should put her out of her misery. Tell her it was a joke. That would be the kind, if dishonest, thing to do, but fuck…I’ve never been accused of being kind.
She shifts awkwardly on the bench, swiveling around to face the table properly. “That sounds like an interesting childhood.”
“Oh, yeah. Fucking fascinating.” I jam the burger into my mouth, taking a massive bite. Zen watches me, horrified, as I plow through my meal. I don’t bother looking up from my tray, even when three other people-two guys and a girl-come and sit with us. Eventually, I surface from my food and lock eyes with Halliday; she gives me a warning glare, nostrils flared, and the look conveys her thoughts perfectly:
Please, dear God, do not breathe a single word about what happened last night. Please, please, fucking please.
I give her a single raise of my eyebrows, mentally telling her to chill the fuck out, then I grab my tray and stand.