Page 39 of Satan's Spawn

The imagination of these people.

I keep my head high, not sparing them a glance as I make my way to Dembridge Hall. If I don’t respond, they’ll eventually get bored.

I’m sure of it.

My stomach pangs, and my fingers are tingly from lack of food today, since my anxiety had me skipping breakfast.

I’ve been running on matcha and disappointment for most of the morning, and it’s already past noon.

The doors to the dining hall are big, heavy, and wooden, much like everything else in this school. The interior design kept well within the eighteen hundreds. The sound of loud chatter and movement erupts when a girl brushes past me to push one open, not bothering to hold it for me.

“There you are!” Hendrix stomps over to me, holding the straps to her backpack. “What the hell took you so long?”

Besides someone locking me in the bathroom?

“I forgot a book in class,” I lie, not wanting her to feel sorry for me.

“I was about to send out a search party, yo.” She bumps my shoulder, the uncomfortable smile telling me she’s well privy to the whispers in the halls.

“Did somebody say party? Because it’s here, baby!” A voice belonging to Archer bellows out behind us right before his arms wrap around our shoulders.

“You good, Bex? Heard there was an incident in the bathroom.” He offers me a squeeze.

“What incident?” Hendrix lowers her eyes on Archer and me.

“It was nothing, the door jammed.” I brush it off, and thankfully they let it go.

The dining hall here looks more like a damn venue than a school cafeteria. Wood floors below us, rustic chandeliers above us. Mosaic designs above the windows to compliment fancy oak panels that are the walls. I feel like I’m walking into the compact version of the Hogwarts Great Hall. Most of the tables are long and rectangular, taking up the center of the room, save for a few circular ones by the windows and entrance.

This room is nothing less than extraordinary, fit only for the most elite kids in this city.

We make our way toward the buffet style setting where an array ofactualmeals are being served: sesame chicken, lasagna, slow cooked briskets. It’s lightyears ahead of public school lunches back at La Jolla.

For the first time since third period, I’m feeling damn excited. Even if it’s just to eat.

“You have to try the Chinese food. It’s the shit.” Archer grabs a tray and gets the servers attention by pointing to the sesame chicken.

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Hendrix picks up a tray too, and signals to the woman she wants the same.

I look around at some of the options: Asian, American, a variety of salads, and decide to go for Italian since it makes me feel close to mom.

Her family’s from Calabria.

“Spaghetti, please,” I say to the older woman in front of me, in charge of all the carbs.

Once we have our food, Archer grabs each of us a water bottle and we make our way toward the tables, where I take in the masses. I’m not shocked to see that all the cliques are already in full swing on the first day, taking up the few round tables as if they’re maintaining social order.

There’s the geek squad to the back on their computers, the popular kids to the right, and the jock table is obvious since a couple guys are wearing Letterman jackets instead of blazers. There’s even a surprising amount of punk kids in the far corner.

I can tell by the dramatic makeup and neon hair.

Then it happens, an overwhelming sense of dread takes over—my body reacting to his presence before I even see him.

Goosebumps erupt on my skin like tiny icicles, and my head instinctively turns to where I feel that undeniable heat of his stare. Sure enough, there’s Crayton Shaw, like a god amongst men a couple round tables down from the punk kids.

There’s three other guys next to him, two sporting a Letterman, one in a traditional blazer in the midst of talking and laughing.

He’s not laughing, though, no.