Page 61 of Web of Lies

Her eyebrows raise as she checks the smartwatch on her wrist with alarm. Her tan skin pales, and she falls back against the teacher’s desk, gasping for breath.

“You wanna rephrase that, teach?” Carter asks, smirking.

Smug satisfaction roars through him at the sight of her panicked state. Her chest heaves under her hand, securing her beating heart. Her brown eyes stare ahead, and she shakes her head, lips quivering as she speaks.

“There’s no more room for desks,” she whispers. And that was the last nail in my metaphorical coffin. There will not be a desk for me here. I sigh, resigned to my fate. I can deal with invisibility. I can deal with a dildo in my locker and name-calling. But I can’t deal with it today.

The teacher starts her lesson on shaky legs, but she evens out, getting into the groove. She writes problems on the whiteboard, calling on students for answers. It’s like she’s been here all along, ignoring me when she asks questions, eyes skipping right over my raised hand. If I needed help with this subject, I’d be fucked. Super-duper fucked.

A deep sadness settles in my guts, slowly turning into a blazing rage, ready to burst free. They’re messing with my education. They’re messing with everything, taunting me, excluding me from classes and learning. It’s bullshit. I’m so tired of it. I need school so I can continue to Parkford, where I can forget this place exists.

I’ll survive. I can do this. It’s all for answers. It’s all for Magnolia.

Chase slumps over his notes, listening intently to the teacher. Every inch of his uniform has wrinkles, and his blonde hair is a greasy, chaotic mess. Like he hasn’t touched a shower, let alone soap, for a solid week. The first time I saw him, until this past week, he has always presented himself as put together. Never like this. Never a mess. But seeing him now, with gray skin and a sloppy appearance, has me wondering what on earth has gotten into him?

The class goes on for what seems like forever. The new teacher is excellent at her job, but I tune out her voice. My mind wanders over to Chase again. He was so kind and caring for the first week of school. He tried to woo me, which was a ridiculous request on my part. I never in a million years expected him to do any of those kinds of things for me. So now, it’s my turn.

She dismisses class at the bell, and I take my time grabbing my things—no sense in rushing when the kids will be assholes, anyway. So—I slowly jump off my perch after the last kid leaves, making my way towards the exit.

“Miss Cole? Kaycee?” My footsteps falter at the sound of her voice. I stop, turning to look at Miss Pascal. Her tongue wets her dry lips, eyes darting towards the loitering kids in the hallway. “Here,” she whispers, handing over a small package. “It’ll help get that vile word off your skin. I’m—I’m so sorry,” she whispers again, going back to shuffling through papers students turned in as they left.

Looking down at the little wipe in my hand, my eyebrows furrow with confusion. I walk to the girl’s bathroom again, taking the little packet of alcohol wipes with me. I smudge the word as best I can and leave the room. Black ink smudges are all over my forehead, and I have two black eyes and a swollen nose. But everything will heal. I’ll be okay.

I head toward my locker, rolling my eyes. Sitting there in bold print, on a white sheet of paper, is my medical information. In fact, every locker has a piece of paper taped to it with my diagnosis.

Kaycee Addison Cole, Age 8, Autism Level 1, requires support. Suggestions: behavioral therapy to support and to develop positive behaviors.

Crumpling up the piece of paper I’ve seen a million times, I throw it across the hall without care. Fuck these people. I may be a little different from most, but I’m still the same. What I lack in socialization skills, I make up for in computer skills. I don’t require constant conversations. In fact, I loathe them. And that’s okay with me. They may think they got to me by trying to demean me with an actual medical diagnosis. But they haven’t. I may feel sad and beaten up, and I’ll give myself a day to wallow in self-pity. After that? I’m still strong, innovative, and I’ll fuck these fuckers over.

Me:

No bullshit? I got into a fight.

Tristan:

What?!

Me:

Everyone here is a jerk…. I’m ready to transfer.

I’d never admit that to anyone around me, but Tristan isn’t around here. I need someone to vent to, and I can’t do it to anyone here. I already feel the heaviness of spilling my guts about Magnolia to Zoe.

Tristan:

I swear to God Addi! I’ll come to where you are… I’ll kill them all. Did you at least get them back?

Me:

Errrrrr… I kinda started it.

Tristan:

You badass! Fists?

Me:

Eh…. may have dug some information out of the internet…. and posted it…