For now, she’s not going anywhere. That thought keeps running through my head at night when I sit on the roof watching for shooting stars.
My obsession with her willing compliance is growing, feeding the beast. It’s voracious, starved for more of her obedience now that I’ve had a taste. I want to know exactly how far I can push her.
When no sound comes from the office other than the shrill ring of the fire alarm, I slip from the closet.
Vice Principal Sanford’s door swings open and I duck behind the circular desk before I’m busted. I hold my breath as he lopes across the room. I give it a few more seconds, then poke my head over the edge of the desk where my half-eaten donut sits.
The coast is clear.
I wonder if this is how Blair feels when she’s knocking over convenience stores or whatever delinquent trouble she gets up to as I go to the room at the back of the administrative hub. The doors are unlocked during the day, saving me the trouble of breaking in after hours with the set of keys Bishop and I copied sophomore year.
Thankfully, the room muffles the angry trill of the alarm once I’m inside. The permanent records of every student are kept here. It looks like something out of a stuffy old gentleman’s club rather than a high school, with a muted style stuck in time. There’s a leather chair in the corner, like someone enjoys leisure time with the student files, and polished wooden file cabinets line the walls. The only staples missing are a fireplace and cigar smoke.
Finding the drawers for the D-E names, I get to work. There are only minutes to swipe her file.
This mission is necessary. I need to find out more about Blair. Knowledge is ammunition to my arsenal against her.
I rifle through the first drawer and come up empty. Dragging out the next, I flick through the thick and thin files. Dabrowski…Dacosta…Daniels…Davis!
Smirking, I pull out the manila folder and lean against the file cabinet. The more recent stuff is obvious—dismissal from the track team, student lunch program paperwork from the state, suspension and detention slips.
There are a few late excuses from the first week of school, dated before she broke into my garage to steal my Porsche. One explains Blair took her mom to the hospital as her reason for arriving during third period.
My eyes narrow. Is this why she needed money? To take care of her mom’s hospital bills?
It tugs at my core. Jealousy runs down my spine in an icy-hot slide. Blair has to have a strong connection with her mom to be the only person around by her side each time she has to go to the doctor.
I trace over Blair’s handwriting. It must be nice.
When I picture myself doing the same, it’s difficult to imagine what it should feel like to take a parent to the doctor. Would I be anxious? Would they reassure me everything would be fine?
In my pocket, my phone’s silence screams at me. It’s been days since I’ve heard anything from my parents.
They could’ve died and I wouldn’t know about it.
I could’ve died and they wouldn’t care.
Agitated, I drag my fingers through my hair, wincing when I pull too hard and rip a few strands from my scalp. A rough sigh makes my shoulders sag. This is about Blair, not me.
Digging through the file, I discover more late slips from last year that mention additional hospital related incidents. It’s far more hospitalizations than normal. My gut tightens as I consider the first thing that comes to mind in situations like this—an abusive father or maybe the mom has a fucked up boyfriend putting her in the hospital repeatedly.
It sends an unwarranted pang of worry spearing through me.
I freeze, shocked at the unfamiliar feeling. My brows furrow as I shove the unnecessary protectiveness aside.
Unbelievable. I’m searching for ammo against her, but here I am fucking worrying that she has a dangerous home life. What is wrong with me?
I already told her I’m not her white knight.
There isn’t room for sympathy, only the ways I can use information to control the pieces on the board. Blair’s mom could be a drug addict, using up city resources for free care. I shouldn’t give a fuck about their home life.
I scoff and flip earlier, reading over comments from her teachers at middle and elementary school. They all say roughly the same thing about her.
Blair shows great aptitude for the material and appreciates the challenges presented. She has a strong interest in art and history subjects. Individual work is excellent, but in class she is quiet and slow to participate.
Miss Davis is polite and reserved, but often isolates herself from her peers.
Blair shows great intelligence in her school work given the recent changes in her family situation. However, she has gone from a bright, smiling, happy young girl to withdrawn. When other classmates engage her, she shies away.
A frown tugs at my lips.
The alarm finally shuts off. Glancing at the clock, I realize I need to hurry up. There isn’t time to run to the copy machine in the other room, and I don’t want to leave behind evidence. My phone will have to do.
I lay out the folder on the chair, flipping quickly through the pages and snapping photos of Blair’s pitiful history.
Smart but sad, how cliche.
A jagged rock lodges in my stomach, sitting heavy.
My grip tightens on the phone. She’s not like me. It’s not the same.
I work backwards through everything, caring more about the relevant information than what a delight she was to her preschool teacher. A creased note on an earlier page near the beginning of the file makes me pause. I missed it in my first skim. Flipping it open, I find it’s from a guidance counselor at Little Boulder Academy.
“Huh.” The curious sound puffs out of me before I can contain it.
I went to Little Boulder Academy, too. So did Lucas and Bishop. Most of the people in our circle attended the prestigious private elementary school. I try thinking back, searching distant memories for any of a dark-haired little pest. How could a girl as poor as her afford the tuition of the private school?
I always thought the trash spawned her into existence, low class through and through. Blair has always been the girl from the dirt who somehow managed to earn a scholarship to Silver Lake High. I never considered our paths might have crossed before high school.
Plucking the memo from the file, I read it with pinched brows.
Macy Davis called to inform the school that Blair will withdraw from Little Boulder Academy due to a change in financial circumstances. The transfer will go through next month. Macy expressed concern for Blair’s reaction to her father’s desertion and disappearance from his family. Please inform all of Blair’s teachers of this change and keep an eye on her while she remains a student at Little Boulder Academy.
My heart pounds harder as my eyes fly over the words. I don’t realize I’ve wrinkled the note from my clenched grip until the paper crinkles. Inhaling, I smooth the creases while I try to calm my pulse.
The unwelcome sympathy seeps back into my bones. I want to dig into the marrow and cut it out. I don’t like feeling this way about Blair Davis. The heavy ache inside me expands in my chest like a balloon.
I rub my eyes and push my hand into my hair. Grudging understanding sparks to life. Her dad left her and I know what that feels like.