Nobody in Particular(51)

“We’ll have to be quick,” I go to tell Rose, but she kisses the words away. I think she’s been waiting for this the whole time we were in the ballroom. We hit her bed and fall backward together, still kissing.

“I can’t stay long,” I say around the kisses. God, I wish I didn’t need sleep. What a waste, to lie there unconscious all night, day in and day out, eating into perfectly good make-out time.

“Mmm.”

“We’ll get in so much trouble if we’re caught.” God, I wish there wasn’t a curfew.

“Shut up, then, and we won’t get caught,” she says, her eyes glinting with amusement.

I open my mouth, and she kisses the words away until I forget what I was going to say to begin with.

By the time I leave Rose’s room, it’s not “a little past curfew” late. It’s “immediate detention” late. It’s “get your ass handed to you by the headmaster the next morning if you’re caught” late. And I should care, I really, really should. But I just don’t.

I pull her door closed as gently as I can and slip down the hall and to the stairs, taking them slow and steady to avoid creaking.

So, of course, I manage to run right into Harriet as I reach the bottom of the staircase.

I freeze, wincing, and brace myself for whatever she’s got to say. She might be my friend, but she’s tough on curfew. I’ve overheard her doling out detentions through the walls more than a couple of times.

“And what time do you call this?” she asks, looking me up and down, and sounding … amused? Amused is a good start. Much better than pissed off.

“I accidentally fell asleep watching a movie with someone,” I lie in my best pleading tone.

“So you weren’t gallivanting?”

“I promise, zero gallivanting on my end. And it won’t happen again,” I add.

Harriet rolls her eyes fondly. “Hurry up and get in your room before someone sees us,” she says, and I clasp my hands together to thank her. “Hey, Danni,” she says, just as I turn to go. “I heard you playing tonight, when I was heading out to my rounds. I haven’t heard you play that song before. It was beautiful.”

I touch the back of my neck self-consciously. “Oh. Thank you.”

Maybe I will get Molly to put that video up. If two people think it was that good, then I should probably believe them.

Still, I’m nervous. Nervous enough that it takes me hours to fall asleep that night. The memories of being mocked—and the urge not to give people any possible ammunition to use against me—have been stirred up enough that it feels like a present threat instead of just a really shitty thing I went through over a year ago now.

But, I remind myself, that was an entirely different school. At Bramppath, the people who know I exist are decent, and for everyone else, I don’t even register on their radar. I’m nobody to them, for better or worse.

I just have to trust that becoming aware of my existence won’t be enough to put a target on my back. That just knowing me isn’t a good reason to hate me.

Maybe that sort of trust is something that only comes with time, though. Time, and proof. And the only way to get proof is to do something scary like this, and have it be fine.

It’s going to be fine.





TWENTY-TWO

DANNI




The next morning, I wake up after four hours’ sleep, ready to face this piano challenge head-on, and discover a huge magenta hickey on my neck.

I take a photo of it and send it to Rose, alongside the message:

Good morning. I fucking hate you.

I try to put concealer on it, but it is extremely obvious, no matter how many layers I put on. I ignore Rose’s texts of apology—no time—while I wipe it off and try again. Then, way too soon, Molly’s knocking on the door to grab me for breakfast.

“Hey, I overslept,” I call out. “I’ll see you in there, okay?”

“Oh,” she says from the other side of the door, probably wondering why I’m not opening it. Unfortunately, I’m too tired to come up with any convincing explanation. “Do you need help?” she asks after a second.

“Nope! I’ll be there in a sec. Save me a seat.”

In the end, I pull up a video tutorial on applying concealer. It’s better, but still pretty obvious. And then I realize it’s too late now either way. I can’t walk into breakfast without getting a chorus of stamping feet, and today of all days, I’d rather go hungry than let that happen.

A few minutes later, there’s a knock on my door. I’ve never skipped breakfast before, so my first thought is that they’ve sent someone to check on me, to make sure I’m not lying in bed unable to walk or something. I pull my collar up so it’s covering my neck—something I wouldn’t be allowed to do in class, but passes okay in my own room, I’m pretty sure—and I answer the door, only to find Rose on the other side.

“I figured you needed backup when you weren’t in the breakfast line,” she explains. In her hands, she’s got a small pot of something, and a brush. “I own stage makeup. This should do it.”

What she owns is a miracle cream, actually. She sits me in my desk chair, and in less than a minute, she takes me from looking like I had a run-in with a toothless vampire to seeming like I have a very mild breakout on my neck at worst. And that’s only if you’re searching for it, I think.