The Truth About Kian

13. Be my mirror, my sword, my shield

:: C H A P T E R T H I R T E E N | BE MY MIRROR, MY SWORD AND SHIELD ::

I knew the minute that I opened my locker on Thursday morning that the day was going to be a disaster. A clear, sticky film covered my lock, but I ignored it, frowning as I opened the door. I could hear the drop-drop of liquid falling onto the metal floor.

There was a folded up note sitting in a puddle of syrup that had been pushed through the slats in my door, and I unfolded it, wincing when I read the message: "Happy Sweet Seventeen!"

Oh, it was "sweet" all right. Biting back a scream, I gingerly picked up one of my books, only to realize that it was coated in a sticky syrup. The other book had received the same treatment. Luckily, I'd learned my lesson from last year and no longer kept anything but the necessary items in my locker overnight. But I'd forgotten to bring my Calculus and history textbooks home.

What the Inheritors lacked in subtlety, they made up for in vindictiveness. It wasn't even my sixteenth birthday, and yet, they'd found a way to repeat the prank from last year. I barely had enough money to keep myself fed — I couldn't afford to buy new textbooks to replace the ruined ones!

"Here." A wad of paper towel was thrust in my face just as the bell signifying the beginning of class rang. She was frowning at me, her colourful hair twisted into a sloppy topknot with loose tendrils framing her pale face.

"Um, thanks," I said taking the paper from Davina to wipe down my books.

"Don't do that."

Bewildered, I glanced up at her again. "But I need to get this stuff off before it dries."

"Elliot, your books are screwed. But—" reaching into her bag, she pulling out a permanent marker, a bottle of Liquid Paper and a sheet of labels "—it's fixable."

Wrinkling my nose, I pulled my sticky fingers away from cover of my Calculus textbook. Davina wrenched it away from me before standing up and marching towards a section of lockers by one of the trophy cases. I knew what she was going to do even before she pulled a key out of her pocket and unlocked a locker. "Davina, don't—"

She scowled at me. "Shut up, Elliot. The bitch may think that she can screw you over, but sometimes you have to fight back. So stop being a dumb ass."

Davina's logic was straightforward, and I didn't protest as she set Meg's history and Calculus textbooks on the floor. Turning to the log where the names of the previous owners had been filled in, she smirked. "She's too arrogant to even bother to put her name in. Apparently that shit's for lesser mortals. Add yours, Elliot."

Using the marker, I carefully filled in my name and the school year. "Why are you helping me?" I asked, wiping my locker down with dampened paper towel as her nimble fingers pulled the label with Meg's assigned textbook number off of the inside cover of her textbook. "You hate me."

"What's your textbook number?" She lifted her eyebrows as if daring me to ask the question again.

"09-27. So why are you helping me?"

She didn't answer until we'd "fixed" both of my textbooks and relabelled the ruined books as Meg's. "As much as you annoy the hell out of me, Elliot, I don't hate you." She glanced at me, her bright hazel eyes filled with agony and loathing. "But I hate them."

I looked down at my "new" textbook and let an awkward silence fill the space between us. Davina and I were not friends, but I'd figured out that the bitterness and hatred that she wore like a shiny suit of armour was a defence mechanism. Like me, she was terrified of letting people get too close.