Peyton Church is a city girl by anyone's standards. Born and raised in New York City, she grew up wanting for nothing. She attended the most prestigious preparatory schools, shopped on Fifth Avenue, dined with the rich and famous and was adored by...
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I WISH I could say things at school got better. That the rumors died down and that people started talking to me again, but they didn't. In fact, a week later I walk into school, prepared to sit down for my final English test before exams, only to drop my bag to the floor in shock the second my locker comes into view.
It's covered in slurs and insults, each painstakingly written in permanent marker. Words like skank, slut, and bitch are the mildest of the names. There's others I wouldn't even utter in the worst of company. But it's not the slurs directed at my sexual activity or my past that make my eyes burn with angry tears.
No, it's the words in the middle, a single sentence hidden amongst all the black marker. Written in a bright, bloody red, it's also the only words that aren't in English.
Someone's been brushing up on their Greek, apparently.
Katá mána, katá kóri. Poutána.
It's a simple Google translation, at best. But the meaning is clear: Like mother, like daughter. Whore.
My blood boils in my veins and I swear my vision turns red. Calling me names is one thing; I can handle that. I can put on my best face and tune out the depreciation. But using my family to get a rise out of me? That's a whole other level of infuriating.
My locker is in a hall off of the main hallway, so only a few people have seen it. Those who do point and whisper to their friends, or even stop and take a picture of it. I fix each onlooker the most convincing glare I can manage.
A handful of freshman scurry in the other direction.
I all but stomp over to my locker, spinning the combination with more force than necessary. Thankfully, nothing pops out at me or dumps over my head when I open the door and quickly go about exchanging books and binders in my bag.
My gaze intentionally fixates on anything that is not the locker beside me. I haven't seen Hunter using it since we left for New York. Which means he's either not using it, or better yet, doing everything in his power to avoid being here whenever I'm in the general vicinity.
The thoughts in my head turn to more depressing topics, like what he'll think when, or if, he sees the writing on mine. Will he agree? Will he be mad? Will he even care? I don't let myself wonder if he had anything to do with it. Because I know damn well who did this.
The metal shutters when I slam the door shut, making the locks on the neighbouring lockers bounce. Heads turn at the slam, but I hitch my bag back over my shoulder and make a beeline for homeroom.
I don't make it past the end of the hall before a voice calls out to me from behind.
"I've heard toothpaste or nail polish remover work wonders on permanent marker," Clarissa advices with a satisfied laugh. "Too bad neither of them will help you clean up the mess you call your life."
