Sweet Like Revenge

V - It Pours

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then

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Stars dotted the sky above Irvine's recently developed stadium, the musky smell of rain threatening the Panthers' highly-anticipated Friday night semi-final. I was one of many clarinet players amongst a sea of brass and percussion, all of us trying to appear unbothered by the promise of a storm as we marched in unison across the lush green field.

Hundreds of faces peered back at us from the bleachers, some quite obviously more interested in our performance than others. I couldn't resist stealing a glance at the Elites — Earth's recreation of the stars high above.

They were radiant underneath the bright stadium lighting, their glittering smiles decorating the kind of flawless skin that no seventh-grader had any business having. Sienna's handful of carefully selected and equally beautiful handmaidens flanked her proudly, each glowing more than the last in their matching emerald dresses. It was a uniform of sorts, but it was also a symbol of their status. A reminder that they were lucky enough to be a part of something that every commoner craved to be.

A feeling of darkness crept over me, as if a cloud had drifted overhead and threatened to release its wrath onto me alone. It was a feeling of being intently watched, the irony of which wasn't lost on me. After all, I was performing to a crowd of hundreds. But the feeling was more intense, more malicious, than that which came from being admired by spectators. It was an evil eye cast on me, of that I was certain.

My gaze drifted down Sienna's row, passing Poppy, passing Kirsty, before settling on a narrow corridor leading up from the locker room. Two sets of eyes stared back at me from the shadows; a redheaded member of the football team, and behind him, his captain.

Astor's spine straightened when he realized that my eyes had found his, his body lurching forward as if he truly was a panther and I a helpless fawn. My fingers felt heavy as they attempted to glide along my clarinet, my breathing staggering at the memory of what he'd tried to do to me on that rainy afternoon.

He considered me for only a moment, though, before turning to whisper in his teammate's ear. He waved his hands around his lips, mimicking a foreign gesture that I didn't quite understand.

His friend — unrecognizable beyond his Irvine-green jacket — widened his eyes at whatever words poured from Astor's tongue. He drew the attention of nearly everyone nearby as he descended into a fit of hysterical laughter, then followed his captain's gaze to me.

The leering boy raised his hands to his crooked mouth in the same way that I held my clarinet to mine. But his jolted, exaggerated movements more so imitated someone eating an ice cream than someone playing a delicate instrument.

No. It wasn't clarinet-playing on his mind.

My face paled, turning as sickly as my insides felt as I realized what the redhead was implying.

Sienna leaned across the row to question the cackling pair. Like the faithful soldiers they were, they were only too happy to share their apparently outrageous intel.

Sienna's hand fluttered over her face, though not quickly enough to mask the laughter that cracked her usual stone-cold pout. All I could do was watch in horror as whatever was being said about me circulated throughout the Friday night crowd, turning the flock of spectators into an army of jurors.

I was paralyzed, devoid of emotion, staring helplessly at the bleachers which had seconds before peered back at me with admiration, but now rumbled with whispers of 'slut' and 'skank'.