Wealth, status, and beauty define the elite of Kensington Prep. Every one of them possesses the ability to get away with anything and everything they want, unscathed and remain as privileged and superior as ever.
But Amory Scout decides that tim...
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I manage to get off easy with a subdued warning from Mrs. Abbey, who has sentenced me to two months of After-School detention for five days a week. Despite the fact that I could've been suspended, I should be ecstatic that I have the ability to retain such a light sentence but all I feel is rage erupting underneath my chest.
You fucking idiot, my brain screams at myself, of course, they won't trust you. This is basically a 'Who's that bitch?' message. How could I've been so stupid to assume I could just assimilate that easily into their ranks?
I run a hand through my hair as I enter the bathroom, breathing hard, anger boiling in me as I hurl myself towards the sink and splash water onto my face to calm me down but it's to no avail. in a hot, swift flash of anger, all I see is red and blood and my fists lash out and punch the mirror in front of me.
There's a crunch of breaking bones and glass. Fissures appear in the mirror. Pain flares up, shooting white-hot agony across my fingers and swearing under my breath, I immediately glance back at the toilet stalls. All doors open, nobody around. Good.
Keeping my bleeding hand elevated, I scrape the fragments of mirrors that have fallen to the floor into my palms and throw them into the already crammed bin filled with rolled-up pads and tampons, empty lipstick containers, and toilet paper. Then I tramp across to the bathroom to run my hand under the tap, cursing myself for breaking down like that. I'm such a wreck. Pieces of glass are etched into the lacings of my skin. Painstakingly, I pluck each one out and watch the water guide the pieces down the drain, along with the blood staining the transparency of the water.
After, I use a large wad of toilet paper to mop up as much of the blood and water off as I can before exiting out of the bathroom and heading towards my locker. I dial it quick and fast, then grab a bottle of bactine from my school bag, pour a considerable amount of the dry toilet paper, and swab it onto the wounds of my knuckles, hissing as it stings. That's what I get for being so emotional. Clutching the paper onto my right hand, I dig in my spare hand into a satchel and pull out a notebook and a pencil case. Then I make my detour over to the library with no directions needed. My head is now crystal clear, lucid at its best, and free of any other emotions. I've become very good at that- needing to switch off any emotion necessary to achieve the task at hand. It's like I've mastered the art of becoming entirely numb.
It's time to draw out a Plan B.
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The detention hall happens in an empty English Classroom, hosted by this batty English teacher who heads the Middle School department. She used to be my teacher back in sixth and seventh grade and I remember hating her with a passion.
Miss Nelson, I remember that's her name. She's always going off on tangents. Sometimes, I zone out, staring outside the window and tracing the grey clouds mentally with my mind, and then come back down to the world, and all of a sudden she's discussing her divorced life and advising kids not to get married young or the history of Shakespeare's life or the way the sunset becomes a vermillion haze when it descends down the horizon. She's around sixty, near the retirement age, but I'm pretty sure she's losing it.
