Chapter Nineteen
The sun slants through my window and is so bright on my face that by the time I finally sit up, I can’t see.
At first, I really think that I’m blinded.
Quinn. He got to my somehow.
My heart starts beating faster and I feel bile rise in the back of my throat, but after my eyes clear and I blink then I can see again.
Not blind.
Just very, very late to class.
“Fuck!” I jump out of bed, completely forgetting about my wrist, which I bang on my bedpost. “Oh, dammit all,” I moan, grabbing it and sinking to the floor in pain. It throbs and aches so badly that I can barely see.
Leaning against the edge of my bed, I take slow deep breaths, trying to clear my head. I have no idea what time it is, so I look up at my clock. 1:00. After lunch.
I should be in art.
What the fuck happened?
Struggling to my feet, I lean on my bed and grab my pill bottle. It takes me a minute to get my eyes to focus. Oxycontin? Okay, that makes sense. She did say that it would help me if I had trouble sleeping. I turn the bottle to find how much I’m on. 90mg.
Even I know that that’s a lot.
Way too much.
Enough to knock me out for a while. More than enough to take away the pain. It’s an insane amount, but what doesn’t make sense is why the nurse would give me that much if I just needed to take an edge off of the pain.
Unless she was trying to make it so that I wouldn’t make it to class on time. The thought gives me a headache, and I know that I’m going to have to worry about that at some point, but right now I need to get to the art department. My stomach is growling and I’m wearing yesterday’s clothes, but I’m going to do my best.
Grabbing my backpack, I lock my door behind me and hurry down the hall. It’s silent. Everyone is either walking to their classes from lunch or already there. I just…I can’t be late.
Nobody talks to me as I run across the quad. My legs don’t feel tired and heavy anymore, but my mouth is dry and I’m having trouble focusing. By the time I get to the art room and open the door, I’m panting and dragging myself.
My broken wrist aches and I feel like my head is spinning, but I made it.
Mr. Stanfield is in the front of the room, working on a huge canvas, probably showing off a new technique that Quinn already has mastered. As soon as my feet hit the floor in his room, he turns, and everyone turns with him.
Immediately I’m the center of attention.
“I’m sorry I’m late.” My tongue feels thick and heavy, and I force myself to walk into the room to stand by the rest of the class. The girl I stand next to shifts away from me, making everyone else giggle.
“Oh, Abigail. How lovely that you deigned to join us today. We were starting to wonder if maybe you thought that you knew all about what I was going to teach and decided just to skip out.” Mr. Stanfield’s eyes are dark and they bore into mine.
“Actually,” Quinn says, from across the room, “I was hoping that you had done the smart thing and withdrawn, but I guess you’re too damn stupid to do the one thing that can save you.”
I shoot a look at him but I don’t respond. It’s like I can’t seem to get my thoughts straight, and I can’t help but wonder if there was something else in the medicine that the nurse gave me.
That’s insane to think, right?
“I got tied up,” I say to Mr. Stanfield, ignoring everyone else in the class. “I had an accident last night and the nurse gave me medicine that was too strong, so I accidentally slept in.”
“More like you are an accident.” Quinn doesn’t even try to keep his voice low, but I ignore him.
“I’m disappointed in you, Abigail. More and more I’m beginning to think that you really aren’t any better than any other regular high school student. It’s a wonder that you made it through the admissions process, honestly.” He turns from me with a huff and continues his lecture to the class.
My knees are weak and I wish that I had somewhere to sit, but I know that showing any weakness right now will come back to bite me in the ass. Instead, I focus on Mr. Stanfield, even though the words he’s saying slip right through my mind.
By the time he’s done lecturing, there’s a fine sheen of sweat on my face and my wrist hurts so bad that each time my heart beats, I can feel my pulse throbbing.
The rest of the class breaks up to go to their canvasses, and I force myself up to Mr. Stanfield. “Sir,” I say, waiting on him to turn around. “I need a new canvas. Mine was…destroyed.”
“That’s a harsh thing to say about your art,” he says to me, his voice cool. “I would think that by painting over it you could start fresh, don’t you think?”
I shake my head, ignoring what he implies. “I mean that someone came in and destroyed it. They cut it into shreds and now I need a new one, please.”
Mr. Stanfield closes his eyes and takes a deep breath like I’m really ailing him. “That’s a shame, Abigail. I thought that you were ready to start working on your final piece now.”
“I had! That was my piece, but someone – ”
He interrupts me. “Don’t blame others for your own problems, Abigail. Besides, how in the hell are you going to write with that hand of yours?”
It was the one thing that
