She is evil incarnate.
A brat, and a bully.
And for some unknown reason, she’s chosen me as her prey.
I clench my jaw and ignore her. Just as I pull out a notebook to take notes, Lennon raises her hand. Mr. Geary nods his head once, a look of unrelenting exhaustion on his face. I’m not the only person Lennon torments. She abuses everyone in her path, including poor, old Mr. Geary.
“Yes, Miss Rose?”
She straightens as she clasps her hands together on her desk—prim and proper.
“I just wanted to note that Mr. Huxley is not adhering to the dress code,” she says sweetly. “He’s wearing his P.E. shorts, which is against the rules,” she adds, and everyone in the class begins to laugh. “If girls have to ensure our skirts aren’t too short, surely the boys should be held to the same standard.”
She cranes her neck to look back at me, a look of disgust on her face. I fight the heat that creeps up my neck, and the way my hands begin to shake.
One month.
One month.
One month.
I stand up and grab my things as renewed rage flames through me. I’ve had enough of her shit, and surviving until graduation is going to need to be priority. I don’t want any part of her sick games. I don’t want to be her punching bag anymore.
“I’m leaving,” I say to her as I walk down the aisle to the front of the classroom. I pass right by her before falling flat on my face, and the class erupts with a boom of laughter as I pull myself up, realizing the foot she stuck out to trip me.
“Oops,” she taunts, cocking her head and smiling. “My bad.”
My eyes don’t leave hers, and I swear I see an inkling of fear in them as I let all of my hatred for her show on my face. Giving Mr. Geary a tight nod, I open the door forcefully and stalk down the hallway.
Like I said, evil incarnate.
One day, I will get my revenge.
One day, I will push Lennon Rose past her breaking point.
one
Lennon
Present
Slamming the taxi door shut, I shield my eyes against the summer sun, looking at the building before me. I reach down and pull my two suitcases onto the sidewalk and look around the familiar street, swallowing as a few people look me up and down. I pull my baseball hat lower on my head and stare at the address in front of me, comparing it to the text my mother sent through an hour ago. A text. First time back in Greythorn in ten years, and she sends a text.Mother of the year award goes to Genevieve Rose...
I sigh as I walk up to the building, and two doors greet me. One is made of glass, and it appears to lead to a tattoo parlor. The other is to the left, with white, peeling paint, and the address is scrawled on it haphazardly with a sharpie. Scowling, I enter the code from my mom’s text and the door clicks open. I try and fail to gracefully get inside in one go, opting to bring in each large piece of luggage separately. By the time I get upstairs to the apartment landing, I’ve already been up and down the narrow staircase three times, and I’m panting as I enter the code for the door.
It swings open, and I groan when I see what’s before me. It’s a small studio apartment with a mattress on the floor, a small kitchenette, and a bathroom to my right. It’s no bigger than a hotel room. There’s a TV, a couch, and a small coffee table, and the décor could use some updating. I’m not sure anyone has stayed here in months. The smells of mildew and old food hit my nostrils, and I press my lips together as I drop my purse onto the dated, tile counter.
This is fine.
More than fine—it’s free, which is all I can currently afford. I didn’t know the shop downstairs had turned into a tattoo parlor. Last time I was here, it had been an old bookshop. That was one of the reasons my dad bought it a few years before he died—though I don’t know what compelled him to eventually buy the whole building.
He loved books and reading. It was the one highlight of my childhood.
Theonlyhighlight.
I rub my chest and close my eyes, tears pricking my lashes. Inhaling deeply, I pull my phone out and let my mom know I’ve arrived.
For the next hour, I unpack and try to cram all of my shoes, bags, and clothes into the one dresser and small closet. When I’m done, I take inventory of the essentials—pots, pans, plates, cups, mugs, coffeemaker. It’s pretty well-stocked, though the quality of cookware and bakeware is slightly lacking. I’m already itching to bake something, but I’ll have to wait until I’m making money to buy the necessary ingredients. I make a list of things that need to be purchased, knowing it could be weeks, or months, before I can afford to do anything other than survive.
