Chapter 4
Kara
I've seen them around—they're on the cheer squad, sit at the popular table, orbit the triplets like designer satellites—but we've never actually spoken. Girls like them don't talk to girls like me.
Until now, apparently.
"Kara, right?" Sophia leans against the locker next to mine, all perfect white teeth and glossed lips. "You live with the Sterling triplets, don't you?"
My stomach drops. Oh God. What did I do? Did I embarrass them somehow? Is this about the waffle?
"I... yeah. I live there."
Emma's eyes go wide. "That is so lucky. Like, literally what are the odds? Do you see them every day? What are they like at home? Does Blake really sleep shirtless?"
I blink. "What?"
"Oh my God, if I lived in that house," Sophia gushes, "I would literally get pregnant like every day. Those boys are insane."
They both dissolve into giggles. High-pitched, breathy giggles that make my head throb.
Right. Of course. They think I'm living some kind of fairy tale. They have no idea I sleep in a converted storage closet and spend my mornings cooking food I'm not allowed to eat.
"It's not like that," I say quietly. "I'm just... there."
Sophia reaches out and touches my hair—my hair, which I didn't have time to braid this morning and is now falling in damp, tangled waves past my shoulders. "Your hair is gorgeous, though. Like, wow. You're like Goldilocks."
Emma nods enthusiastically. "Totally! You're like a real-life Cinderella. Except, you know, the Prince Charmings are crazy hot future Alphas who already live in the castle."
Something sparks in my chest. Maybe it's the fever. Maybe it's the hunger-induced delirium. Maybe it's just ten years of biting my tongue finally catching up with me.
"So I'm Cinderella," I say slowly, "and in the story, she runs away at midnight, right?"
There's a beat of silence. Then Sophia bursts out laughing. "Oh my God. You're funny! I didn't know you were funny."
Emma grins. "Seriously, why haven't we talked to you before? You're actually cool."
I want to say: Because you only notice people who can elevate your social status, and I'm the scholarship kid who eats lunch in the library.
Instead, I shrug. "Guess I've been busy."
"Well, you should sit with us at lunch sometime," Sophia says. Then her eyes travel down to my soaked jeans, my broken boots, my threadbare parka. Something shifts in her expression. Not quite pity, but... awareness. "You know, you'd be really pretty if you had, like, nicer clothes. Not to be mean or anything! Just... your bone structure is amazing. You could totally pull off a makeover."
Right. Because my biggest problem is fashion, not the systematic abuse and food deprivation.
But I swallow the sarcasm. "Thanks, I guess."
The first bell rings. They wave goodbye and sashay off toward homeroom, leaving me dripping and cold and more confused than ever.
Did that just happen? Did the two most popular girls in school just... talk to me? Compliment me?
Don't get used to it, I tell myself. You're leaving tomorrow. None of this matters.
But something small and pathetic inside me whispers: What if it could matter? What if you didn't have to leave?
I slam my locker shut and head to biology class.
Dr. Harrison is already at the board when I slip into my seat in the back row. He's one of the few teachers who's never treated me like a charity case—forty-something, tall and broad-shouldered from his years coaching baseball, with kind brown eyes and a dry sense of humor. Today's lesson is on cellular respiration, but he's started class by handing back our biology midterms.
"All right, people," he announces, holding up a stack of papers. "Midterms are graded. Some of you did great. Some of you... did not."
Groans ripple through the classroom.
He works his way down the rows, placing tests face-down on desks. When he gets to me, he pauses. Then he flips my paper over so the big red "A+" is visible to everyone.
"And our reigning science champion," he says, loud enough for the whole class to hear, "continues her winning streak. Kara, excellent work as always."
A few people clap half-heartedly. Most just stare. I feel my face heat up.
Please don't make a big deal. Please just move on—
"Sophia." Dr. Harrison's voice goes flat as he drops a paper on the desk two rows over. "F."
Sophia's face goes white.
"Emma. F-minus. I didn't even know that was possible until I graded your test."
Emma looks like she might cry.
"Both of you, see me after class. If you don't pass the final, you're off the cheer squad. School policy."
Oh, shit.
I risk a glance at them. Sophia is staring at her test like it just told her the world is ending. Emma's hands are shaking.
The lesson continues. Dr. Harrison dives into mitochondria and ATP synthesis, and I take notes on autopilot, my brain only half-engaged. The other half is thinking about Sophia and Emma's faces. About how terrified they looked.
I know that feeling. I live that feeling every single day.
Maybe... maybe I could help? Not for them, exactly. But because doing something good for once might make me feel like a person instead of a punching bag.
You don't owe them anything, the bitter voice in my head whispers. They didn't care about you until today.
But they noticed me, another voice argues. They talked to me. They called me funny.
I'm so lost in thought that I don't notice Ashton Peters until he's right beside my desk.
Ashton is everything I hate about this school: tall, broad, blond, and mean in that casual way that comes from never being told "no." He's Blake's teammate on the baseball team, and he treats me like I'm something stuck to his shoe.
He brushes past my desk—deliberately, roughly—and my open binder goes flying. Papers explode across the floor. Pens scatter. My perfectly organized notes turn into a snowstorm of white.
"Oops," Ashton says without a shred of sincerity. "My bad, scholarship girl."
Laughter ripples through the classroom.
Dr. Harrison spins around. "Ashton. Pick. It. Up."
"I didn't—"
"Now."
Ashton's jaw tightens, but he crouches down and starts gathering papers. Shoving them at me in a wrinkled mess. When he picks up the last sheet, I feel a tug on my scalp—sharp and sudden.
He's taken my hair tie. The last one I own. A cheap black elastic that's been holding on by a thread.
"Thanks," he mutters, pocketing it. Then he smirks at me as he stands. "Looking rough today, Kara. You sick or something?"
My hair falls across my face in damp, tangled waves. I shove it behind my ears and force myself to look down at my ruined notes.
Tomorrow, I think again. Just one more day.
Dr. Harrison clears his throat. "Ashton, detention. Kara, I'm sorry about that."
"It's fine," I whisper.
But it's not fine. Nothing about this day is fine.
I gather my papers with shaking hands, stuff them back into my binder, and try to focus on mitochondria. On cellular processes and energy production and things that make sense.
Not on the hunger clawing at my stomach. Not on the cold water still squelching in my boots. Not on the fact that I have one hair tie left and it's fraying at the seam.
