A/N: I've got two apologies to make for this chapter, first for being late and second for the chapter name. I swear I didn't mean for it to relate to Jojo Siwa's song, the phrase just goes well with the overall tone of this chapter.
Anyway, I don't have much to say. Updates may be more frequent, they may be more sparse. A-levels are taking up all of my attention these days, so writing has fallen onto the back burner. Either way, I'm still aiming to update when I can. So do be on the lookout for any additions. I aim to finish more or less every story I post on here (unless I've really given up hope on it).
So, till next time,
Drama :D
Karma's A Bitch
Amy's P.O.V
Reading this diary is meant to be feel like a chore. When Heather handed me Courtney's personal diary, instructing me to read all of its pages and report back to her, I couldn't believe it at first. Reading is something that people like me - people like her - got other people to do for them. Reading diaries is beneath us; doing all of the dirty work is meant to be a role reserved for grunts and mindless worker bees.
Yet, in the best way possible, Heather's reminded me of exactly who I am to her: a replaceable worker bee.
Flicking to the next page of Courtney's diary, I try to seem inconspicuous as I sip at my smoothie. Out in public, trying to catch a break before cheer practice starts up, I'm not meant to draw attention to myself, especially since I've now got Courtney's diary in my hands. But I just can't help but feel engrossed as I read her loopy, swirling handwriting, absorbing every word of her complex thoughts and feelings about being a teenager in Wawanakwa High.
Like, do you know that Courtney has had four little 'crushes' in the past two years alone? Obviously, big bad Duncan Carter is right at the top of that list - he's had her by hook, line and sinker for the past three years. But Justin Kekoa isn't a very far second place slot. Nor has Alejandro Burromuerto failed to sway her heart. In fact, she's mentioned a few incidents where her beloved Duncan may have accidentally mistaken for someone else...
Sighing, I close the diary as I finish up the final page. Now that I've read through the whole thing and drained two smoothies, I can text Heather to meet up, deliver my findings to her, and call this whole meaningless task finished. At least, I hope it'll be once Heather gets the information she needs.
Pulling out my phone, I idly swipe past some of my contacts until I reach Heather. When I spot my mum's, I pause for a second. Part of me wonders if the worthless piece of shit I call a sister will be home yet. Shockingly, she hasn't been at school today - neither has Zoey. Maybe they've ran away together, decided to skip this useless town and start over. Honestly, I wouldn't mind that. That way I won't have to deal with Samey anymore.
"So," Heather doesn't bother with greetings when she answers the phone. Straight to business, fixed on being successful, she doesn't have time for formalities. She's all business and no bullshit. "Did you read all of it?"
"Obviously," Scoffing at her question, I pack my stuff up and stand up from my table. No-one spares a second glance in my direction as I pocket the dairy and toss my empty smoothies into a nearby bin. Rolling my eyes, I adjust my bag strap on my shoulder, "I wouldn't call if I hadn't finished your grunt work. Speaking of, it was a pretty interesting read. Courtney's got a lot of skeletons hidden in her perfect, little closet."
"And they are?" Heather prods, clearly not appreciating my vague revelations. Not that I can blame her: her entire plans hinge on the contents of that diary. Everything Heather wants could be hidden within the pages of Courtney's tiny, little journal.
"Well- " Just as I'm about to tell Heather everything I've learned, I stop right in my tracks.
There, right in front of me, is Courtney Fairbank. Face-to-face, blinking, we're inches apart as she pulls open the cafe door and I try to step through it. Beside her, wearing a scowl so deep that I could feel its imprint, is Taylor Gripling. Both of them look as if they've just come from school, school bags still on their shoulders and phones in hand. Both of them look shocked to see me, although Courtney doesn't look so disgusted by my presence. Taylor's doing all that for both of them.
"Thanks," Is all I manage to say, breezing past the pair and through the open door. Scurrying away, I don't even give Courtney the opportunity to try and catch me in a conversation. That won't end well. At all.
"Amy?" Heather's grown confused now. Perhaps even a little impatient. Tinny, irritating, her voice is grating as it booms from my phone's speaker, "Amy? What the hell just happened! Why did you go silent?"
"I saw something off," Answering semi-honestly, I glance back over my shoulder at the cafe. Through its window I spot Courtney and Taylor, ordering together, seeming to get along as they make conversation and smile at each other. Bond. That can only really mean one thing in this world; Taylor hates everything to do with Heather and her cronies, the very empire that Heather's crafted in her year as queen.
"And that was?" Questioning it more, definitely not trusting my vagueness, Heather snaps at me once more.
"Some nerd who thought he was in the same league as me," Trying to sound casual, play it cool, I shrug as I turn away from the cafe shop. Walking away, brushing aside the urge that I should tell Heather about what I've seen, I give an audible groan, "It was real nasty. All eyebrow wiggles and finger guns. You would have had a fit if you saw him," Shaking my head, I reel the conversation back in, "But it's fine now. I've left."
"Good," Heather responds, not all seeming to care about my story. Bored. Disinterested. She really couldn't care less. "Anyway, just text me over the details, Amy. I know you're busy so I'll give you a half-hour extension, kay?"
"Ok," Nodding, I let her words drift over me like a winter breeze, "Got it."
No more words exchanged, Heather hangs up. Then I'm left all alone, wondering what exactly I should do next: follow Heather or try to forge a new alliance with Courtney?
Sammy's P.O.V
As per usual, the hospital stay isn't long. Not too much time passes between me waking up and the nurse and doctor coming to perform some safety assessments. Mundane, almost bored, the nurse silently ticks each box off as the doctor conducts their observations. All the while I sit there, silent and compliant, nodding whenever required and mustering up the best smile I can when prompted. All too soon, I'm handed a stack of papers and told that I can be signed out; I'm no longer the hospital's problem.
Lunch has just finished when I step out of the hospital, shielding my eyes from the late autumn sun. No doubt Amy's busy at school, living out her favourite fantasy as the beloved, only child - a well-known face from Wawanakwa's cheerleading squad. Dad's probably at work, too occupied with computers and crunching deadlines to pick up any phone calls about me. But mum... oh she definitely knows. Zoey's made sure of that.
Releasing a sigh, I can't help but trudge as I head toward the bus stop. With nowhere else to go, I'm forced to face the almost certain anguish that will be on my mum's face when she sees me. Bubbling at her eyes, flushing her neck, she'll grow all fussy and upset when she spots the healing wound on my head, the clear tape they had to use to glue my forehead back together.
Out of everyone I know, she'll take this news the hardest. More than anyone else I know, she'll blame herself for it all.
Especially because I plan to stay at Jasmine's for the foreseeable future.
For the most of the bus ride home, I think about my mum, picture the curl to her lip and the crinkle to her brow at the mention of Jasmine and her home. Anywhere on the other side of town always makes my mother shiver with disgust. Run down, rough around the edges, that neighbourhood always makes my mum fill with panic, fuss and fluster and fiddle with excuses for me to stay with her, away from all the petty, poverty-driven trouble.
But this time, I don't care. Jasmine's home, although much less fancy and impressive as ours, makes me feel safe. Jasmine's home, although right in the middle of a crummy part of town, makes me feel comfy. So that's where I'll be staying for a while - at least until I know Amy has calmed down.
"Sammy!" As soon as I arrive home and open the front door, my mum grabs me in a tight, choking squeeze. Tears are in her eyes, running down her red cheeks, and her usually straight blouse is smudged with creases. "How did you get home? I was about to pick you up, but then the hospital said that you signed yourself out! Why didn't you call me? Let me know that you had such a terrible accident at cheer practice?"
Like always, my mother launches into a tangent. Amy and dad and me banging my head. Dad and Amy and me being emotional. All of this has been blamed on me banging my head, feeling intense shame because I made a mistake during a complex cheerleading routine. Of course it is. Typical, oh so typical, Amy's beaten me to the punch: she's told mum that my injury is because of an accident. Zoey's mum never really called my mum; Amy had been pretending to be her.
"Well," Swallowing thickly, biting back the stabbing tears that welled in my eyes, I grinned, "You know me, mum, always the clumsy one! Amy tried to catch me before I banged my head real hard, but it was too late. My friend, Zoey, was so frightened that I had a fractured skull that she got someone to call an ambulance for me."
Nodding along, seeming to believe the lie, my mum smiles absently. Walking toward the kitchen, a sway to her usually methodical steps, she looks somewhat happy as she picks up a half-empty wine glass and takes a sip. Daytime drinking. Never a good sign with her. When mum drinks, she drinks because she feels like she's having a shit day; her depression is sinking its claws into her heart and mind, stemmed by her dysfunctional family.
"Those look new," Nodding toward my wrists, the bright white material wrapped around them, my mum hums as she leans against the kitchen counter, "Also part of the accident, I suppose? Or are we keeping secrets now, Sammy?"
"No, no secrets," Shaking my head, I release a sigh and lean against the counter beside her. Nonchalant, my mum offers me the wine glass, implores for me to take a sip. Carefully, I accept it, knocking the bitter alcohol down the back of my throat.
"Good," Taking back her wine glass, topping it back off with the rest of her bottle, my mum now wears a smile. Bright, lovely, beautiful - so many people always say that my mum is beautiful. Yet the years weigh on her in moments like these, dragging at the eyes and graying streaks of her bright blonde hair. "But I do worry about you, Sammy. You're my little baby, my lovely, sweet girl - such a sweet, darling thing unlike your sister..."
Turning to me, her hand squeezing mine on the counter top, my mum lets out a gentle breath, "So sweet that I worry she bullies you. Just like how I let your father bully me."
No other words exchanged, my mum then pushes off the counter with her wine glass and saunters off to another part of the house. Just like always, she only sees the surface, pushes deep enough to stir the stilted top of the pool. Looking deeper, dredging up everything, would simply make her more upset; for my mum it's easier to pretend that everything is fine, that I'm simply dramatic just like her. Only, we're not. We just like to think we are.
It's easier that way.
Letting out my own sigh, I simply leave the kitchen and hurry upstairs to pack a few of my things into an overnight bag. No more than an hour passes before I'm thundering down the stairs, yelling out a quick goodbye and racing to the bus stop at the end of the street. Just as I make it out of sight, ready to turn the corner, I spot the bright red flash of Heather's convertible pulling up to the curb by my house. Standing beside it, staring right back at me, is my sister.
"I see you," Is what I want to say to her, "I see you and I'm not scared anymore."
But nothing leaves my lips. Instead I continue to run away, hopping on the first bus headed to the wrong part of town.
Heather's P.O.V
Organizing a mandatory after school pep rally has never been difficult. With a principal like Chris Mclean, known for his past stints hosting reality shows, collective student body torture is always easy to sell - especially when it involves the public embarrassment of one of said students. If there's anything Chris loves most on this earth, then it's the chance to horribly, irreparably scar an innocent teenager. And for free? Well, you've basically got him thinking he's found a perfect bargain.
So Chris' given us the go ahead for this afternoon. Making it a special announcement in the daily Aftermath broadcast, blared on all speakers to all members of the student body, everyone knows to come to the gymnasium after school. If anyone decides to skip the event, then Chris would have a very special punishment in line for them. Considering his track record, it's probably something so foul you'd rather sit through two hours of forced pep rallying.
As soon as the school day ends, everyone flocks into the gymnasium. Sorted into their grades, Freshman at the very far left end and Seniors at the very far right end, they're all squashed next to each other in an effort to make it work. Spare benches and chairs are even pulled out, Chef grunting about his lack of payment as he harshly unfolds the flimsy things.
"Ok, ladies!" Calling for the entire cheerleading squad's attention, I gather them all into a tight huddle. Circling around me, pom-poms in hand and questioning looks on display, they're all waiting for my latest announcement. To all their knowledge, this is simply a routine event: every year I make the cheer squad demonstrate their prowess to the lower masses of the school. "We have to get this right. Just like we've practiced."
Everyone nods around me, semi-confident smiles and nervous giggles. Only Lindsay stares at me with a different look, nodding hesitantly as I flash the cover of Courtney's diary at her. So far, only she knows about my true plans. Even Amy has been left in the dark, handing over the notes she's gathered from the diary and agreeing to say nothing more about it.
Not that there is any time to change anything now. Up in front of the entire school, beaming with pride and excitement, Chris is happily blabbering away into his microphone, yammering on about tradition and the constantly impressive results the cheerleading squad achieves in its annual competitions. Next to him is the stupid mascot: stinky Owen Brown dressed up in a faded blue whale costume. Honestly, it's rather ironic he's the whale.
All too soon, Chris is finishing up on his routine. Thanking Owen, handing over the mic, he looks almost remorseful as he backs away from the spotlight. But that's probably because Chris always loves to be in the spotlight.
"Good afternoon, Wawanakwa!" Courtney definitely sucks at sounding relatable. Maybe it's because her voice is too preppy, or that she insists that her skirt should be longer than the rest of ours. Maybe it's the stupid ponytail she wears, hairline decorated with shiny clips that match the white of our uniforms. Maybe it's just because she's Courtney, basic, brown, annoying Courtney. Yeah, maybe it's that...
"Now I'm sure you've all heard of our cheer squad," Rolling my eyes as her obvious smugness, the hidden gloat in her words, I try to focus on smiling. Smile and wave. Smile and wave. One key part of being a cheerleader, being a pillar of school royalty, is mastering the smile and wave. If you can look friendly enough, act nicely enough, then anyone would do anything for you; people would worship your every step.
Impressing the lower grades is always easy at this stage. Performing a few basic tricks, the usual flips and coordinated cheers, tend to get their jaws hanging open. When Zoey effortlessly pulls off a handspring, there's audible gasps. Bridgette walking on her hands earns a round of applause. Even when Dakota, Lindsay and I chant something about the school (the usual spiel about being the best) we get a decent response.
Standing in her little corner, mic still in hand, Courtney is reveling in it all. Accepting the applause, making little comments that just make me feel sick, she's acting as if this is an actual showcase and not a way to show how much better we are than everyone else.
"As you can see, we're totally ready to bring home the title of champions this year!" Gesturing at our human pyramid, Zoey beaming at the very tippy-top of us all, Courtney puffs her chest out with pride. Extreme pride. "But we can't do it without all of your support!"
Now I definitely want to die, barf out all my guts and die. Paling on my position in the pyramid, willing Zoey to go faster as she prepares to take the final jump - the biggest move we have mastered at the moment - I feel my stomach swim. It's only once Zoey's landed, the pyramid breaking itself down, that I start rushing to Courtney.
Barging her out of the way, grabbing at the mic, I'm scrambling to initiate the second phase of my plan. Even though it looks like I'm calm and collected, certain and cool, a lot of me feels like a nervous wreck as I turn to the audience, ready to announce my latest findings. Courtney's face doesn't help much, her brows pinched inwards and her lips curled into a confused frown as she watches me clear my throat.
"Well, that's enough of that crap!" Cutting all applause short, drawing every set of eyes in my direction, I try to act blase as I address the audience. Nonchalant. Leaning towards the audience, a strange smile plastered over my face, I'm aiming to look as inviting as possible as I say, "Now, I have a very special surprise organised for everyone today," Now the smile's genuine, a curl of a smirk, "One that I'm very excited to share with all of you."
Yes. Very excited indeed.
Everyone seems to share the same sentiment - although they are all probably a mixture of surprise and dread. Infamous for doing this, everyone knows that I'm skilled at using public settings to humiliate others. Just last year, right before summer break, I'd brutally crushed Gwen Maves' reputation; all it took was a well-timed scandal and a few false rumours. And everyone remembers it, remembers how Gwen had to avoid all public spaces.
Now, they're all probably wondering who's next on my hit list. Who has now upset Heather Chang, Queen of this pitiful school and its subjects?
"This is a performance by me, with words written by our very own Courtney Fairbank," I can't help the smile now, spreading on her face and hurting my cheeks. Holding the mic, making sure I can spot both Courtney and the audience as I speak, I continue, "All of it is graciously provided by Gwen and Amy. Give us a wave from the crowd, Gwen!"
Obviously, Gwen doesn't do anything. Hidden among the masses - the tiny, insignificant thing she is - she easily avoids the stares of people who don't know exactly who she is. But everyone who does know her, homes in on her location. Subtly, filled with judgement, they all show their obvious disdain for her part in my evil work. What everyone else doesn't know is that Gwen isn't even involved in my plan. I'm simply dragging her along for the ride.
Clearing my throat, I pull out the small book Courtney uses as a diary. As soon as she spots it, she gasps.
"Listen, closely everyone because this is a real masterpiece," Chuckling with glee, I click open the book's lock and start on the first page, a post-it note left there by Amy with a summary of what she's found. Neat, tidy, her handwriting is almost as perfect as Courtney's. "After all, it's not everyday that we get to read Courtney's diary!"
Checkmate, Courtney. Now I've won the game.
Gwen's P.O.V
"Give us a wave from the crowd, Gwen!"
Right now, I wish that the ground could just open up and swallow me whole, make me disappear. Actually, no that's too cliche. Right now, more than anything, I wish that Heather Chang would just drop dead. Right there, all smug and confident in front of the whole school, possibly also in the most embarrassing way possible. Like crapping herself right after or something. Yeah, that would be a shitty way to go - literally.
Times like these make me wonder if karma is even real. When people like Heather Chang can do such cruel things to people, seeming to forever be untouched by their bad deeds, I do question is karma is real. Especially when Heather likes to shit on me - someone who's probably been through enough crap as it is this year. Scratch that, my entire fucking lifetime.
Maybe that's why I know how to deflect attention from myself. Acting natural, ignoring the stares that a few people shoot my way, I can block out some of the static that comes with people's judgement, the lingering burn of their stares against the back of my neck, my brain. As long as I don't make it obvious, don't make a scene, no-one will actually believe what Heather says; she's a proven liar and a proven manipulator.
Is that why I flinch when I catch Courtney's gaze, halfway across the gymnasium, throwing daggers right back at me?
No. That's not why. Flinching is a sign of guilt, a feeling of remorse that lingers when you feel like you've done something wrong. Guilt is all I feel whenever I think of Courtney these days. Guilt about our past friendship. Guilt about how we've ended up drifting apart. Guilt about Duncan, my irrational feelings for him which shouldn't exist at all. Sitting next to him right now isn't helping that guilt; it only amplifies the feeling.
"You ok, Pasty?" Duncan can read the upset in me even when I'm acting like everything's ok. No doubt he's even noticed my little flinch, the flash of pained tension that washed over my face when I spotted Courtney.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Shrugging it off, I sit up in my chair and try to look as unbothered as possible. But we both know it's pointless. Heather's bothered me, she's bothered the good mood I've had for the past few days. If you can even call my period of zero drama a 'good mood'. "Don't worry about it too much. I can handle myself and Heather," Glancing at the Queen Bee in question, I frown, "She's gonna get a rude awakening from karma."
Nothing else is said between us. Heather continues to read from the diary, emphasizing whatever notes she's gathered on the contents and meticulously hanging out every single piece of Courtney's dirty laundry. Even when Courtney storms off to the changing rooms, trying to keep herself composed, I don't say anything. Heather doesn't stop either. She only stops once she's run out of material, bowing at the hanging silence and thanking everyone for listening.
"I hope you all feel inspired by this masterpiece!" Grinning that devious smirk of hers, Heather shuts the diary with an echoing thump. Then all of the cheerleaders are filing out of the gymnasium and everyone else is getting ready to leave.
Taking advantage of the now busy gym, I slip away from my seat and head toward the changing rooms. Luckily, they're pretty much linked to the gymnasium, one of the doors leading to a corridor that puts you right in front of the changing rooms. No-one follows me, either too busy trying to leave the school or unaware that I've even slipped away from the gym. Which is a good thing, really. This is a private matter.
Pushing open the changing room door, I slip inside. Straight away, I bump into Bridgette - literally smacking my entire body against hers.
"Oh, sorry, Gwen!" Helping me to my feet, Bridgette looks apologetic as she grabs my hand. Grateful, I accept the help. At least Bridgette has enough sense to know that I wouldn't side with Heather. That fact alone already soothes a lot of the guilt I feel. Once I'm back on my feet, Bridgette asks, "Are you here to speak to Courtney? Cause if so, I recommend saving that for later. Heather's got her... well, in a pretty bad mood."
"Nothing I haven't dealt with before," Dusting myself off, I flash Bridgette a confident smile. But I doubt it looks confident. Both of my hands are shaking with nerves. "Plus, I have a message to deliver to Heather."
"About the diary?" Bridgette tilts her head to the side, pursing her lips. Both of her brows furrow, betraying her concern, "Gwen, I really think- "
"She deserves it. I'm tired of being passive with her," Crossing my arms, I remain defiant. Stubborn. Right now, even though I'm presenting myself as calm, I'm actually really mad at Heather. Absolutely fuming. I've just never been very good at looking like a rampaging animal; I've never been explosive and destructive like Courtney, or Heather, or Leshawna. My anger has always been the quiet, passive type.
Today isn't one of those days, though. Not after all the crap I've had to endure for the past few months.
"Heather's a selfish bitch. She doesn't care about who she destroys in her quest to be a high school god," Continuing my explanation, I try to keep the rage from spilling out as I say, "Chris won't do jack shit because he enjoys when we fight. Everyone else is scared shitless of Heather. That means I have to handle this myself."
There's no point in arguing with me. Bridgette recognises that and even says it out loud. Visibly, she deflates with defeat in the face of my defiance, simply telling me that she's going to follow me to make sure I don't do something stupid. Really, I think it's just because Bridgette doesn't want me to get hurt; if Courtney switches on me, she'll be able to diffuse the situation or drag me the hell out of the changing room.
So, with Bridgette in tow, I head toward the main changing area in the changing room. There I find most of the cheerleading squad, halfway between changing or idly talking to each other about Heather and what she's just done. Only Zoey and Katie are lingering around Courtney, trying to calm her down as she sobs hysterically into her hands. Heather isn't in here yet; she's probably taking a strategic shower to avoid facing Courtney's tears.
Everyone else is here, though. And they all notice when I walk in, the complete opposite of their perfect, uniform smiles, hair in ponytails or glitter-specked braids. Normal girls. Happy girls. Preppy, fun-loving, outgoing girls. Cheerleaders are all a type of girl that I've never seen myself being - or I did see myself being like that once in the past, before it became an impossibility for me. Something impossible.
"Gwen..." Everyone's silence is what makes Courtney sit up, scrub at her red eyes with her hands. Scratchy, rough, her voice sounds like how sandpaper feels. Bent with anger, her face is scrunched into a demonic yell as she springs up onto her feet, "What are you doing here?! How could you even think to give that bitch my diary! Do you have any idea how fucked up that is, how wrong that is, after you promised me you wouldn't tell her anything..."
Part of me is shocked when she simply stands before me - wait, Courtney doesn't even stand. Crumbling on her legs, melting onto the floor, she's collapsing into a ball of tears instead of a raging inferno of anger and torment and rage. Sobbing, the ugly kind that pulls at her face and makes wrinkles press into her forehead, shakes her entire body. Not a single punch or slap or kick goes flying my way. Instead it's all tears. Tears and tears and tears.
"Courtney..." Daring to reach out for her, to assure her that I haven't said anything, I soften. Show weakness. "I haven't done anything. I... I didn't even know."
"You knew," Courtney wailed, inching away from me. Rejecting my kindness. "You knew and I trusted you. I trusted you, Gwen!"
"And you can trust me," I insist, trying once more to reach out for her, to right this broken wrong. "Please, believe me when I say it, Courtney. I was your best friend, I'm still your friend. I've never wanted to be your enemy."
"Which is complete and utter bull."
As if summoned by the drama coming from the changing room, Heather emerges from her shower. Wrapped up in a purple towel, her pale face a little splotchy without its usual makeup, she looks like an angry mum that's just emerged from the bathroom, forced to deal with her annoying, hyperactive kids. Tossing her long hair over her shoulder, Heather studies me and Courtney, taking in the way we both immediately turn to glare at her.
"And how would you know that, Heather?" Speaking before Courtney can, I stand up and dust off my skirt, "You love to throw around false rumours."
"Yes, but this one isn't false. I've got a recording and everything," Heather grins, strolling over to her locker. Unlocking it, she pulls out her phone, shaking her hand triumphantly - like she's showing off a golden treasure or a winning chess piece. "Does Courtney know about your little relationship, Gwen? Does she know about how close you've been getting to Duncan ever since they've ended their relationship?"
"It's not like that and you know it," I bark out, balling my fists and glaring at Heather. Turning to Courtney, spotting how she's become alarmingly silent, I ask, "You know that, right? I've never wanted to take Duncan from you, Courtney. He's my friend- "
"That you want to get with," Heather butt in, smirking as she unlocked her phone. Scrolling through it, she added, "What was it I heard you both say? 'I love you'? So sickeningly sweet for a pair of metalhead outcasts."
Echoing around the room, those same words are played to everyone. Immediately, I recall the moment they came from: when Duncan had cornered me after school, tried to cheer me up after Trent had ruined my mood. That entire conversation is friendly with context. Our usual playful back and forth that could verge on flirting if you don't know us well enough to think otherwise. But Heather's taken away the context; she's chopped the conversation.
"Dakota helped me to get that little clip," Heather's all smiles and giggles as she nods to the blonde. Dakota herself bows her head in shame, not even looking me in the eyes as she tucks her knees to her chest. Visibly, she wants to disappear; I know what that feels like. But I can't sympathise with her now - especially after I offered her my damned help in getting away from Heather, from not falling into her traps.
"Courtney, I- "
"Don't talk to me," Courtney gets up, wipes her tears, dusts off her skirt, "Just don't, Gwen. I never want to see you again."
Grabbing her bag, not even bothering to change, Courtney starts to leave. No-one gets the honour of meeting her gaze, her head held high as she tries to maintain as much dignity as possible. But that sight only makes me feel annoyed, agitated. Whenever it gets like this, Courtney always likes to act like she's better than me. Whenever I have to explain myself, she likes to make it look like I'm grovelling at her feet.
But not anymore. I won't grovel.
"So you're just gonna believe her, yeah? The proven liar!" Yelling after Courtney, tears in my eyes, I can feel my heart rupturing in my chest. All of that rage I'm trying to contain, all of the swirling emotions, are starting to properly leak through. No amount of duct tape can keep them at bay. No sealant would work to keep the damn stable. "That's so fucking unfair of you, Courtney. You can do no fucking wrong, you believe in innocent until proven guilty, but when it comes to me all I ever do is the wrong thing!"
No response comes from Courtney. Eventually, the changing room door slams shut and I know it means she's angry. Outside of that door she's breaking down, throwing things or yelling or screaming her entire heart out. But not in front of me. Not in front of Heather. Believing she's better than us, better than our petty and meaningless anger, she'll present as perfect. Perfect Courtney can do no wrong.
Turning to Heather, I cut all the pleasantries, "You bitch!"
My fist has been waiting a long time for this moment. Connecting with Heather's face, denting her cheek, I make sure to land a good hit on her. One that's sure to leave a nasty bruise and have me called into the principal's office for assault. But I don't care. I don't care. Heather Chang deserves this. For everything. For stealing my best friend. For stealing my boyfriend. For making my life a load of shit every fucking day.
Staring back at me, smug despite the tears in her eyes and the swelling to her face, Heather smirks, "At least I'm not a homewrecker."
And that lights the fuse. Jumping at Heather, not caring as she collides with the metal lockers, my fists pummel her one after the other, hitting her face, her cheeks, her chin over and over again. Beneath me, Heather wriggles. One hand clutching at her towel, the other clawing at me, she's trying to fight back. Burning, her nails scratch at my face. One of her legs knee me in the groin, an elbow knocking at my boob. But I ignore it.
Punch after punch, hit after hit, I let Heather know just how angry she's made me. Blood sticks to my hand as I hit her cheekbone. Something cracks under my hands as her nose bends. Soon Bridgette and Zoey are lugging me off Heather, yelling out something about the infirmary and calming me down. Most of their words are static in my ears as I'm dragged out of the changing room, dragged far away from Heather.
"You could've killed her, Gwen," Zoey's voice breaks through to me first, tinged with concern as she passes me a clump of wet tissue. We're in the toilets now, Bridgette running the cold water tap and Zoey making compresses out of the cheap, thin tissue.
Gently, Zoey presses the tissue to some of the cuts on my face. Painful, they sting as they make contact with the water, making me hiss.
"She deserved it," Is all I say, numb with the remnants of my anger, "She fucking deserved it."