Foreigner

Chapter 16

Tuesday afternoon. Mrs. Simmons' class.

The classroom feels colder than usual, though that could just be the way people are speaking—low voices, careful whispers, conversations that stop the second I get too close. It isn't unfamiliar. I've been the center of attention before, but this is different. This isn't just leftover buzz from the Julian stunt.

This is something else.

I slouch lower in my chair, resting an elbow on the desk, my fingers absently spinning my pen. I'm not really listening to Mrs. Simmons' monologue about The Catcher in the Rye, but I'm good at pretending. The real lesson is happening elsewhere.

Two seats to my right, someone murmurs just loud enough for me to hear.

"Monroe's been asking about the new guy."

My fingers still around the pen.

"He's gonna eat him alive."

I exhale slowly, forcing my posture to stay relaxed.

Monroe Hayes.

I've already had the slightest pleasure of being the brunt of his joke and his laugh last week.

"You don't want his attention."

That part isn't meant for me. It's just a general warning, one passed around like some well-worn superstition, a reminder that certain things in Whittiker are best left alone.

At the front of the classroom, Julian sits completely still, staring out the window like he could just fade into the glass if he tried hard enough. His hood is up, his shoulders hunched, his arms folded so tightly across his chest it's like he's holding himself together.

He looks like he hasn't slept in days. Maybe he hasn't.

No one speaks to him. Not even Oliver.

The Seven haven't done anything to him yet, but they don't have to. He already knows what's coming.

He isn't worried about me anymore. He isn't worried about anything except himself.

A faint scratch of pen against paper pulls my focus.

Christian.

He sits behind me, posture relaxed, head tilted slightly as he scribbles something in the margins of his book. If he's heard the whispers, he doesn't react.

He probably has.

I can feel his attention like a weight on my back—silent, steady. Observing.

I turn slightly in my seat, just enough to catch a glimpse of his expression. Blank. But there's something in the way he grips his pen, a tension in his fingers like he might snap it in half.

"You hear that?" I mutter.

Christian doesn't look up. "Pay attention to the lesson."

I huff a quiet laugh, shifting back around.

And here I thought we had bonded.

¤ ¤ ¤

The hallway is eerily quiet when I step out of Mrs. Simmons' classroom. The overhead lights buzz faintly, casting a dull yellow glow over the faded linoleum floors. The walls, lined with rows of dented lockers, seem to stretch longer than usual, the usual hum of student chatter nowhere to be found.

I adjust the strap of my bag, already thinking about heading back to the dorms when I see him.

Monroe.

He leans against the lockers like he's been waiting for me.

His spiky black hair sticks up in unruly tufts like he rolled out of bed and never bothered to fix it. His skin is pale, almost sickly under the fluorescent lights, making the dark smudges beneath his eyes look even deeper. Dressed in all black—hoodie, ripped jeans, scuffed boots—he looks like something out of a bad horror movie, the kind of guy you'd expect to find lurking in alleyways, flipping a knife between his fingers just for fun.