Page 17 of Breaking Isolde

“Don’t want to mess up your average,” I say.

She smirks, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “See you at the next funeral. Oh wait, I won’t. It’ll be yours.”

I walk out without looking back. But I memorize every face at that table. The snickers and the eyes and the way their lips moved when they thought I wasn’t watching.

I add them to the list, right next to the boy who mimed drowning and the girl with the floating stick figure.

The wolves may keep the world in check, but I’m not here to join the pack.

I’m here to thin it.

The bathrooms in North Hall are a relic from the original campus, all white marble and brass taps so old they turn your hands green. They smell like bleach and dried flowers and the ghosts of a thousand anxiety attacks. I avoid them when I can, but my bladder wins the argument.

There’s no one at the sinks when I enter. The mirrors are polished to a shine, and the lights overhead buzz with the effort of being alive. I drop my bag on the counter, turn to the nearest stall, and—

The door swings open with a crack.

Three girls file in. The leader is tall, brunette, cheekbones sharp and high. Her eyes are so pale they look translucent in the light. I recognize her from the library: one of Pearls satellites. The other two are smaller, one ginger, one dirty blonde, both with the posture of people who’ve never heard the word “no.”

They don’t say anything at first. Just watch me with the kind of focus that only happens when the outcome’s already decided.

I try to sidestep, but Cold Eyes blocks the exit, leaning against the door with a smile that could cut glass. The others drift closer, flanking me at the sink. The move is practiced, rehearsed in a dozen other bathrooms on a dozen other victims.

I put my hands on the marble, gripping until the veins pop in my wrists.

“Lost, Greenwood?” Cold Eyes says, making my name sound like a joke.

“Nope. Just washing up.”

She shrugs, inspects her nails. “You should have kept walking.”

The ginger laughs. “She can’t help it. They say trauma makes you do weird shit.”

The blonde leans in, her perfume so strong it makes my eyes sting. “You know, it’s really not fair to make everyone else uncomfortable with your… presence.”

I don’t reply. The only way out is through.

Cold Eyes tips her head. “You don’t talk much.”

“Maybe I’m just not interested in your voices,” I say.

The ginger oohs, like she’s watching a catfight on pay-per-view. The blonde moves to the tap, fills her cupped hands with cold water, and then slaps it straight into my face.

The shock is instant. My eyes snap shut, the cold burning up my nose and down into my lungs. I taste copper and chlorine and the sharp spike of humiliation.

I stand there, dripping, every nerve ending screaming for me to swing or scream or break. But I don’t.

Cold Eyes laughs, low and mean. “Can you hold your breath like Casey couldn’t?”

The words slice deeper than the water ever could.

The ginger tries for another round, but I dodge, sidestepping so fast she sloshes most of it onto her own shirt.

My clothes are wet. My hair sticks to my cheeks in ropes. My heartbeat is a drumline in my ears. But my breathing is steady. I force it steady. In and out, like the shrink at my old school taught me.

I wipe my face with the back of my hand, then meet Cold Eyes’ stare. She’s waiting for me to crack.

I don’t. Instead, I memorize every detail: the mole on her jaw, the chipped polish on her pinky, the way her smile flickers when I refuse to flinch.