Page 29 of Wicked Little Darling

Was this an arrestable offense? Wait, couldIbe arrested? Oh, god, would Dakota tell his dad about this and get me kicked out?

I must’ve had a miserable expression on my face, because while I made my way to the library, people avoided me even more than usual.

I was never going to get that dick’s dick out of my fucking head.

I found a free table in a secluded corner on the second floor and pulled out everything from my backpack, determined to take my mind off Dakota and do something productive.

I was here for school. I needed to focus onthat.

I sifted through a pile of papers that I hadn’t even looked over yet, and the wordsComposition 404 Syllabusmade me pause.

That was the class I had with Dakota—where we regrettably had been partnered for a project.

I needed to know just what, exactly, I had to do with him so I could figure out how to do the bare minimum. Well, how to have bare minimum contact with him, at least.

I scanned the front page, which just had basic class information, then flipped to the second page.

The project wasn’t outlined until the second-to-last page, and I read the requirements.

I stared at the words on the syllabus and read them over and over again, thinking I’d suddenly lost the ability to comprehend the English language.

No.

There was no fucking way that this was a requirement. It was preposterous. Utterly ridiculous. Why would anyone do this?

I threw the packet to the ground—or tried to. It just flopped awkwardly and fell under the table.

I rammed my elbows down onto the table and put my head in my hands, tugging at my hair.

This was going to be a complete disaster. I needed to get out of this class, to figure out some way to drop it or switch into a different one. If I’d known we’d be performing on stage, I neverwould’ve signed up. It was the same course that I’d been taking at Tagerton, and that hadn’t been a requirement there. And yet, the stupid professor here at Ashbrook needed us to perform our duets on stage for some reason.

The one and only time I’d tried to perform after the accident was a disaster; having a full-blown meltdown on a stage in front of hundreds of people was not something I wanted to repeat.

So how the fuck was I going to do this?

Maybe I could talk to the professor. I really didn’t want to tell him about my past and my issues, but it seemed like that might be necessary. What if that didn’t sway him, though? What if he told me to tough it out and just do it, otherwise I’d fail? And if I got up there and wasn’t able to perform, what did that mean for Dakota? Would he be penalized too? That didn’t seem fair at all.

Ugh. Fuck this school. Fuck this class. I’d talk to my advisor and see what they could do for me because I didn’t want to deal with this.

Giggles erupted from beyond the bookcase in front of me. A girl spoke, another girl chimed in, and then they broke out in laughter again.

I threw my pen down and sat back. Was there nowhere I could go to get a quiet, peaceful break from everything? Apparently fucking not.

I rolled my eyes and stood up, shoving my textbook back into my bag and slinging it over my shoulder. The stairs to leave were in the opposite direction, but out of curiosity, I peeked around the bookcase.

Two girls were sitting at a table, and one was pointing somewhere. Whatever they were looking at was something that was clearly distasteful to them; their judgmental and scornful expressions were so familiar that a flare of anger heated my skin.

But when one of them said, “Oh my god, there he is. Ugh, if it weren’t for that scar he’d be so hot.”

“And if he wasn’t crazy,” said the other one.

Disgust spread through me as I listened to them talk shit about someone.

I looked right, toward the unfortunate target of their vitriol, and sucked in a breath.

Fucking Dakota. Ofcourseit was Dakota.

He was walking past a row of tables, not looking this way.