And to put the shit-cherry on top of a shit-sundae, I can’t even lash out at him over it. The war is over.

I know that from how happy Kayla seemed. With her now satiated, I have no reason to attack him, other than general dislike and boredom. And those are petty. So petty I don’t know if I’ll have the heart to fight him with them.

It’s over.

I’m supposed to be happy. I won, more or less. Or we ended on equal terms, with me slightly winning. Or am I losing? Did him calling me that awfully wrong word mean he won? Does it even matter who won or lost? It’s over, and now I have nothing to look forward to. Nothing to scheme, nothing to plot for. Just emptiness where the war used to be. And somehow it hurts more than it should. I’d gotten so used to it, to exchanging barbed words with Jack whenever we passed in the hall or catcalling him with insults that I’ve forgotten how to be normal. Do I just smile at him? No, that’s repulsively, completely, definitely gross. All the other girls do that.

I spend the rest of the day finishing my college applications. I stare at them all – Seattle, Oregon – and secretly I know I’m only going to be sending off the one to Ohio State. It’s the closest. It’s the only one that’ll let me still look after Mom and get a college career at the same time. I don’t have siblings – I’m the only person she has left. I can’t leave her, hurt her like everyone else has. I dipped into my Europe travelling fund to pay for Kayla’s date last night. I’ve pretty much all but given up on that dream, anyway.

But it’s for the best. It’s the right choice. Not the one I wanna do, but the right one. And that’s all that matters.

-13-

3 Years

19 Weeks

0 Days

If it’s one thing in this world I’m certain of, it’s this: Jack Hunter’s gotta die.

Or he can cry like a huge nerd.

I’m not picky.

He’s stepped over the line one too many times. Now it’s faded and scuffed and I’ll have to draw it back on with paint, carefully, and it’ll probably take hours and my back will get sore and honestly he had no right to kiss me or take me on a date even if they were fake and he certainly, absolutely, positively had zero right to call me beautiful without my express permission. It was uncalled for and mostly a huge fat lie and lying is punishable by death. Or it should be. Uh, except for me. Because I’ve lied a lot. To Mom, to Dad. To myself. I should get exiled instead. To Maui.

I park and give an explosive sigh into my car. The war might be over, and I might be exhausted, but I have to get him back one last time. Just once, for messing with my feelings. Not that he did. Just, uh, he sort of kind of toyed with them, but I knew it was fake all along, so he didn’t really. But still. The fact he even said those lies to me objectively deserves some sort of minor capital punishment.

Also, because Jack is now going out with Kayla.

I get out of the car and make my way to Principal Evans’ office.

The first day Kayla grabbed Jack’s hand and he let her and they walked down the halls together, you could practically hear the hearts of a hundred ladies breaking in two. Poetry girl had burned her notebook. Dramaclub Wailer performed the greatest tragic screaming monologue from Shakespeare the drama teacher had ever seen. The girl who’s making the statue almost smashed it, but the art teacher convinced her to put it aside and finish it later, when she was in a better state of mind. A huge majority of lady teachers took sick leave to go cry into tubs of ice cream and watch Sex and the City.

I see the legendary couple as I walk through the quad before the morning bell. They’re sitting on a bench. Kayla kisses him on the cheek, and he nods. Just nods, doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say thanks or kisses her back. It’s like he’s just tolerating her. But Kayla can’t see that.

She gets death threats in her locker and nasty glares, so I’ve taken it on myself to be her personal bodyguard. I just never say that out loud. It just sort of is. Homeland security for Kayla. And her fabulous br**sts. Kayla’s so wrapped up in love, she’s all but oblivious to everything else, so that means I get to pull hair and wave warning fingers and punch a few harlots. Or five harlots. Evans isn’t happy.

The secretary, now completely used to my venerable presence, waves me through. I throw my backpack on the ground and flop in a chair.

He folds his hands on his desk and sighs.

“The papers are right there.”

I pull the stack of papers towards me, and get out a pen. In exchange for not being expelled like I was at my previous school, I get to help Evans grade math homework. He somehow found out it’s the one thing I’m good at, probably from Mrs. Gregory, the snitch. I knew I should’ve played dumb in her class.

He usually drinks coffee and answers emails, but today he watches me work. I flip through papers, making tiny tick marks and writing the correct answer by each wrong one. The first day he offered the answer sheet to me, but I brushed it off. He later checked my work against it. After that he hasn’t offered the answer sheet again.

“You are very good at this, Isis.”

“Yup.”

“Your SATs were rather miserable, though. Why is that?”

I sneer. “Well golly gee, Mr. E. Maybe it was because I didn’t eat breakfast that morning! Or maybe it was because I had explosive diarrhea! Or maybe it was because I was going through a bit of an emotional crisis! I was eighty-five pounds, with a boy -”

Ugly.

“- with some problems! Wow. A teenager with problems. Imagine that.”

He glowers and takes a sip of coffee. We both know I haven’t forgiven him for the picture incident, and I never will.

“You should take them again,” He insists. “There’s still time, before college applications are due. You could get a very high score.”

“And make your school look even better,” I mumble. Mr. Evans frowns.

“Come now, Isis. It’s not just about our reputation. Any school would be happy to have a female who can do math so well and easily. And according to your report card, your English isn’t bad at all. You could go to some very prestigious schools with those kinds of SATs. You could further your own life; make a great start for yourself.”

“Ohio State is fine with me.”

Mr. Evans laughs, and then when he realizes I’m not joking, his face falls.

“Isis, are you serious? I’m talking MIT, UCLA. State is for people who aren’t smart enough or aren’t rich enough for anywhere else. You could go where you wanted! Wherever you wanted in the country! Possibly out of the country! There are programs in China, Brazil, Europe!”

I flinch at the last word and scribble an answer.

“I-I have no interest in travelling. It’s full of rude people and food poisoning.”

Mr. Evans falls silent, and watches me work for a while longer. I press on, determined to ignore his gaze. Finally, he turns his computer on and starts answering emails.

Wren comes up to me at lunch. Kayla’s stopped sitting with me long ago, instead sitting with Jack at his usual empty table. She tries to feed him soup and he grimaces, but she laughs. She sees me staring and waves, smiling. Jack looks at me, and I quickly turn around and bury myself in my PB and J. Wren stares at the couple with his intense green gaze.

“It’s true then? They’re really going out?”