Just like that… but more.
20
VIOLET
Every day, I keep up the ruse of my routine. I go to class. I eat with Willow and some other girls from the dance team—ones who’ve sided with me since Paris declared war. I study in the library, watch movies on the couch at night. I dodge questions about the article, doing my best to ignore the accusing glares.
Willow eventually brought to my attention that someone had made copies of the article and posted them on a blog. Everyone wanted to know what Greyson and I were doing together, and they blamed me for the smear campaign.
How does that happen?
How do they see a single photo of us together, not even together-together, and pin the blame for his actions on me?
They can’t blame their star hockey player. Not when he’s going to help carry the team to a championship…
It doesn’t matter that they sided with me after the cafeteria incident. It doesn’t seem to matter that there’s no hard evidence against me either. What Greyson wants, Greyson gets.
And he got the whole school to loathe me.
I don’t see Greyson for days.
I don’t talk to Paris. She’s been absent from campus, eating lunch or dinner at what I have to assume are off hours. Not avoiding me, probably, but planning her next attack. She’s always been one to hold grudges. I’ve seen her lash out at others, but I didn’t think I’d be on the receiving end.
After Willow goes to sleep, I sneak away to a local gym. Their monthly membership fee wasn’t too hard to swing, and it’s better than potentially repeating what happened in the CPU gym. Sneaking out also affords me the ability to not explain myself.
A week passes. My leg constantly aches, but it isn’t the muscles. And I can’t do anything about nerve pain. Still, I force myself to believe it can be willed away. Mind over matter.
Now, it’s Wednesday.
I load ice into the bathtub. Willow is at class, and my body is screaming at me. Muscles I forgot existed now make themselves known. Once the tub is full, I set a five-minute timer and step into it.
The water is cold enough to take my breath away.
I grip the edge of the clawfoot tub and then let it go, putting my arms under the water. I sink down until my chin barely brushes the surface. It takes me a few seconds to regulate my breathing.
“Relax,” I say. I close my eyes and remind myself why I’m doing this.
It’s a peculiar sort of drive, because I’ve spent the last six months convincing myself that my future will be different than what I had always dreamed. But suddenly someone has shoved it back in my face, and I’m desperate. I want to take it. I want to hold it to my chest and defend it with every fiber of my being.
Dancing is my life. A broken leg couldn’t change that.
My phone chimes, the timer going off. I reach out and tap blindly at the screen until the noise shuts off. I’m not ready to give up, though. I take a deep breath and sink below the surface. Ice chunks bump my face, and I let out a little stream of bubbles.
There are degrees of pain that I got used to as a dancer. I don’t want to let myself get soft. With that thought in mind, I remain submerged until my lungs feel ready to burst.
I surge upward and suck in a gasp. My hair sticks to my face, and my fingers are numb. My toes, too. I lift myself out of the water.
My skin is pink and tingling. I shiver and pull the plug. In seconds, a tiny whirlpool whips over the drain. I step out and grab a thick towel. My phone goes off twice in a row, and I frown.
The list of people who have my new number is small. Since I changed it, I made a decision to limit who had access. Willow, of course, and my mother. Greyson—by force—and some of the dance team.
The first text is from Greyson. I ignore it in favor of the second.
Mia
Dr. Michaels can see us on Friday at 4:30 p.m.
She follows it with his address in Vermont.
Okay. Now I just need to get to Vermont. My phone’s navigation says it’s only about two hours away. Not terrible—at least she’s not having me fly across country. My mother would almost definitely find out about that one.
I send her a thumbs-up, then switch over to my thread with Willow. I send her a screenshot of my conversation with Mia, followed by the emoji that looks like its head is exploding.
Me
How am I going to get there?
In the past, I might’ve borrowed a car… or just had my mom take me.
The little typing dots on Willow’s end pop up, then disappear. Then again. I stare at it, gnawing on my lip, until her text comes through.
Willow
I have a solution… but you’re not going to like it.
Uh-oh.
When she comes home an hour later, she wears a sheepish expression.
“I took care of it already.” She’s keeping her hands behind her back, too, which is… odd. She sidesteps me into the kitchen and smiles. “See? Everything is fine.”
I watch her with suspicion. “You took care of getting me to Vermont?”
She rolls her eyes. “You’ve had your head stuck in the sand. Guess who’s traveling to Vermont for a game on Friday night?”
Oh shit. “No.” I immediately step back. “Absolutely not.”
She reveals what she’s holding. Yep, two tickets to the away game.
“It’s the only way I could get us a hotel room. And seats on the bus. This was the best solution, and we can totally skip the game. Even if you just want to mope around all evening, then we can catch the bus back in the morning…” She smiles, brightening. “The bus is basically a designated driver anyway.”
Yeah, right. The only thing I need more than a panic attack is to go to an away game. If Greyson has the wrong idea now, he’ll definitely get the wrong idea then.
“Wait.” I grab one of the tickets and scan it. “Did you just say hotel room? And bus?”
“You know that the school likes its section filled.” She shrugs. “I just paid for the tickets. We can take a cab to the doc.”
I swallow.
She comes forward and takes my hands. “Come on, Violet. You’ve been sulking since the Paris and Greyson thing. It’s starting to freak me out.”
I can’t exactly say that my sulking is due to my body rebelling against my sudden workout regime. It’s only for a few more weeks.
“Okay,” I agree quietly.
“Great!” She kisses my cheek. “Now, I propose a sleepover.”
I blink at her. “Huh?”
“Sleep. Over.” She loops her arm through mine. “We’re going to Amanda’s apartment. It’s been literally weeks since you had a social outing.”
“Weeks is an exaggeration.”
She pouts. “You wouldn’t go out last weekend. Even though the hockey team was at an away game.”
She has a point.
“Fine.” I heave a big sigh. “I need to dry my hair the rest of the way.”
We separate, and I stew over what the hell a sleepover entails. Like… a slumber party? As if we’re still in high school. I poke my head into the hall. “Are we actually spending the night?”
Willow laughs. “Yes, you dork. We’re going to drink martinis and do our nails and talk shit about Paris and her cronies.”
Okay, you know what? I can get behind that.