“Thank you,” she whispers.
We drive with the windows down, the breeze in our hair, and the sunroof open. Molly looks entirely different away from the Academy. It’s like light has entered her soul, only it’s overfilling, and the happiness just needs to shine out. She cranks up the top forty hits, and it feels good, being away from Voclain.
We pull into the cafe a little over an hour later. It’s a small place in the middle of nowhere, next to a gas station with pumps designed to look antique where the numbers roll like a rotary dial as you pump gasoline.
Molly parks the car and bounds out, running to wrap her arms around her family. Her mom and dad smile while her brother, a tiny mini-me of Molly no more than two years old, giggles in the middle of them all. They act like they haven’t seen each other in ages, rather than just a week.
A thin matronly woman separates herself from the group when she spots me.
“Oh, you must be Harlow!” she squeals, wrapping her arms around me and squeezing tight. She holds me for a long moment, and it makes me wish my parents were here.
“I’m Barbara.” Molly’s mom gestures to the thin man still holding Molly. “Benjamin is my husband, and that little ball of terror and giggles is Atticus.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Bellamy,” I say.
Molly’s mom smiles and stoops in close. “Call me, Barbara, dear. Mrs. Bellamy reminds me of Ben’s mother, and I try to not think of her often.”
I laugh. She sounds like my mom.
Molly’s mom ushers us inside the cafe as Molly carries her little brother. Atticus looks just like her with big brown eyes and a mop of wavy, chestnut-colored hair.
We find a corner booth. Molly, Atticus, and I crowd on one side and her parents on the other.
“Four deaths by chocolate please and one chocolate milk with a side of applesauce,” Barbara tells the waitress when she arrives. She looks over at me. “I hope it’s okay I ordered for you, dear. It’s hot chocolate served with homemade chocolate truffles and a dollop of chocolate ganache.”
“Sounds fantastic,” I say, my mouth already watering.
Molly’s brother drags out a coloring book from behind the napkin holder and a pack of crayons. Molly helps Atticus and hands him a bright blue crayon.
Her father smiles kindly at me from across the table.
“How are you liking the Academy, Harlow?” he asks.
“It’s nice,” I say.
“Anyone giving you trouble?”
They must know, I think, but Molly shuts it down quickly.
“Everyone is fine, you guys,” Molly blurts, watching Atticus as he scribbles.
“Yup,” I agree, wondering why I’m lying to them. “Everything is great.”
Molly’s dad gives me a tight-lipped smile. He definitely suspects something, but then, he would be a fool not to, and neither of her parents strikes me as anything but astute.
I wonder why Molly is lying to them, but then our food arrives, and I tell myself it’s none of my business.
It’s her secret to keep and hers to tell.
9
Harlow
Every school-day for the next two weeks, Ian messes with me.
He tripped me on the way to class, sending my books everywhere and planting my ass flat on the ground.
He loudly told the entire cafeteria—while I was attempting to eat, mind you—that he would give $10,000 to whoever could hit me in the face with pizza, being very clear that no physical touching would be tolerated. Queue changing in my dormitory, being 10 minutes late for history, and receiving a demerit.
He stole my clothes in the locker room while showering after gym and replaced them with crotchless undies and an edible bra. He was kind enough to leave a shawl with it, but it was transparent. I had to ask Raven for help, and she thankfully obliged.
And so it continued, Monday through Friday, with interjections of his naughty talk. Once a day, like clockwork, just like Molly had said.
Like a freak, I started looking forward to it. Only today, when I arrive at Adaptive English, ready for Ian to destroy my homework or unscrew my desk so it falls apart when I sit, he does absolutely nothing.
— Ian —
Harlow probably wants to know what the hell I am waiting for. I like to get it over with early. Dragging it out ruins both of our days, but I didn’t have the stomach for it this morning.
I should have done it. Finn peeked his head in before class, no doubt wanting to judge my abilities himself.
The grudge that started all of this is fading for me though, like an old scar, not that I have forgiven the Thing for the shit-storm she rained down on our heads, but I am bored with it all. It’s been over two years. I want to move on with my life, though admittedly my new attitude has a lot to do with the blonde beauty sitting at the desk in front of me.
The thought of having to do it in front of Finn made me sick to my stomach. The freak probably jacks off to shit like this and to think he used to be my friend makes me question myself. Finn has always gotten too much enjoyment out of this...this...whatever with the Thing, but then again, I guess he’s lost the most out of all of us.
Stormy sits down in front of me and, under Edmonds’ instructions, opens her copy of Troilus and Criseyde. We were supposed to finish reading the cliff notes version last night and translate the first part of the poem, Book One.
The hours I have spent on this class have been brutal. I don’t know why I have to read a romance poem written by a guy in the 1300s.
“How did you like it?” Ms. Edmonds asks the class.
Nearly everyone groans, except for Stormy. From the handwritten notes that chew up
