She sauntered off, a sight that was becoming too regular where the two of us were concerned.
She had a point—many valid points—but I was too weary to acknowledge them and too fucking stubborn to ever admit them. Besides, I’d never promised her anything. She knew the deal. She knew that I wasn’t looking for more than the occasional hookup.
From the shit that had spewed from her mouth, Cherri knew too much about everything.
She made it her business to know. Because knowledge was power and leverage, and Cherri Jardin liked to have a hold over people.
It had never bothered me before because I had nothing left to lose.
I still didn’t…
So why did her words feel like a threat?
And why did I want to drive straight to Old Darling Hill and tell Harleigh to watch her back?
Harleigh
I survived the rest of the week.
It wasn’t easy, but I made it.
Celeste refused to let me wallow. And I both loved and hated her for it. If I went up on the roof, she followed me. If I shut myself in my room—the locks had been removed on my bedroom and bathroom door before I returned from Albany Hills—she knocked until I answered. She was an obstinate presence in my life.
The anchor I hadn’t even realized I’d needed.
School was harder. We only had one class together, and I had another with Miles, which left a lot of time without either of them by my side.
My least favorite class was math because Marc Denby and his douchebag friends liked to write me notes and get their all too willing minions to deliver them to my desk. After the first one, I didn’t bother to read them, stuffing them in my bag before Mr. Jefferies spotted them and had me read them aloud for the whole class to hear.
It was Friday afternoon, and I only had another thirty minutes before school got out for the weekend when it happened.
Mrs. Paulsen, the AP English teacher, asked me to read my poem to the class.
“I’d rather not,” I said, hoping she would move on to the next poor unsuspecting kid.
Didn’t she know my history?
Apparently not if the disapproving scowl she gave was anything to go on.
“Miss Rowe, I don’t—”
“Maguire,” I muttered under my breath. “It’s Maguire.”
She gave me a dismissive sigh. “We can either hear your poem now or we can hear it after school in detention. But this is a participatory class, Harleigh. Therefore, I expect participation. It’s your choice.”
Obviously it wasn’t.
The entire class looked at me, the weight of their expectant stares like a concrete slab crushing me. “Maybe I can hand it in instead. I would—”
“Just read the fucking poem,” someone grumbled from behind me.
“Really, Harleigh, I’m not sure how they do things over at Darling Hill High, but here we expect our students to participate.”
“I’ll read it, Mrs. Paulsen,” someone called. “If she can’t do it, I’ll—”
“No,” I rushed out, the idea of some… some stranger taking my words and making them their own was almost worse than the idea of standing in front of the class and reading them myself.
It was just a poem. A string of words and sentences about the prompt she’d given us. I could read it and move on with my life.
I could—
“Harleigh Wren, today please,” she snapped, growing impatient. A couple of kids snickered, whispering a little too loudly what they thought about my stalling tactics.
“O-okay,” I said.
“Up front, let’s go.” She beckoned me forward.
My skin tingled like a thousand ants were under the surface, dancing in my veins.
“What the fuck is her problem?” someone else mumbled.
On shaky legs, I got up and slowly moved to the front of the room. It grew small, the walls pressing in around me until my vision grew hazy.
“Anytime now, Miss Maguire.”
I’d never noticed before, but Mrs. Paulsen was kind of a bitch.
I glanced down at my notebook, trying to discern the words.
Breathe, Harleigh. Just breathe.
“Let’s go.”
“Okay, okay…” I gave her an exasperated sigh, my heart crashing violently against my chest. “This is called These Dirty Lies.”
* * *
Forever.
The only word my heart knew to be true.
You and me. Me and you.
Two halves of a whole, soul mates entwined.
I felt it there, like strands of silk that bind.
* * *
Love me today, tomorrow more.
Leave me never and not before.
These dirty lies that shatter and break.
Bring the darkness, but don’t forsake.
All we have, so deep and true.
The only thing I ask of you.
* * *
Forever.
The only word my heart knew to be true.
You and me. Me and you.
Two halves of a whole, soul mates for evermore.
Set me free, and I will soar.
* * *
Silence.
Complete and utter silence hung in the air. Not even the sound of a pencil tapping against a desk or a student shuffling in their seat.
Even Mrs. Paulsen was too stunned to speak. After what felt like eternity, she cleared her throat and gave me a strange look. “Yes, well, very good. Thank you, Harleigh, for sharing that… enlightening piece.”
Enlightening piece?
It felt like I’d cut out a piece of my broken bloody heart and held it up for all to see. But it was too late now. As I moved back to my desk, everyone watched me. But there was a little more wariness in their eyes now.
I wasn’t only the new girl from The Row. I was the strange new girl from The Row who wrote maudlin poems about love and loss and darkness.
Thankfully, Mrs. Paulsen moved on to someone else who gave a much less sobering performance of their poem. It even got a laugh or two. But she’d told us to write from the heart.
From inside of us.
I just hadn’t ever anticipated that I’d have to share my intimate thoughts with the entire class.
Folding my arms on the desk, I dropped my chin down and focused on my breathing. In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight. In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight.
At least, I hadn’t written about hurting myself. About the darkness that resided inside me, constantly fighting for a way out. That would have landed me a one way trip to the guidance counselor’s office.
And a whole heap of attention I didn’t want or need.
“What happened?” Celeste asked the second I met her outside of class.
“Nothing.” I shook my head, hoping she would leave it. But some guy said, “Nice poem, Maguire.”
“What—”
“It doesn’t matter.” I grabbed her arm and pulled her down the hall.
“Okay, are you going to tell me what that was about?”
“Mrs. Paulsen made me read my poem to the class.”
“So?”
“I didn’t realize she would do that when I wrote it. It was personal.”
“Personal how?” She frowned, stopping by her locker to trade some books.