"I'm... I'm not doing anything," I stammered, my voice sounding impossibly small. I instinctively pulled my arms closer to my chest, trying to cover the notebook.
Trent noticed the movement. His eyes narrowed. Without a word, he stepped forward, planted his heavy hands on the table, and violently swept his right arm horizontally across the surface.
My carefully constructed wall of textbooks went flying. They hit the linoleum floor with a concussive crash that echoed across the massive room. The entire cafeteria went dead silent. The low roar of hundreds of conversations evaporated instantly.
I flinched hard, ducking my shoulders and bracing for an impact that didn't come.
All around us, the scraping of chairs filled the air as students stood up to get a better look. Dozens of smartphones were immediately hoisted into the air, their lenses pointing directly at my humiliation.
Trent stepped back, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "Oops. Clumsy."
Chloe stepped forward, leaning heavily onto the table. Her face was inches from mine. "Did you really think we wouldn't notice, Harper? Did you think you could just sit here in your pathetic little hoodie and pretend your family isn't a disease?"
I stared at the empty space on the table. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might crack my ribs. But I couldn't speak. I couldn't defend myself. I just wanted to disappear.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you, trash," Chloe hissed.
When I still didn't move, Chloe snapped. She reached across the table, her manicured hand flying through the air, and struck the back of my head with a loud, vicious slap.
The impact jolted my neck forward. A sharp, stinging pain radiated across my scalp. A collective gasp echoed through the cafeteria. I saw Chase wince out of the corner of my eye.
The old Harper, the girl who had survived the last year by shrinking into a ball, would have grabbed her bag and ran from the room in tears. That was what Chloe wanted. That was the script.
But as the sting faded into a dull throb, a strange, absolute coldness washed over my brain.
I realized something. Trent had knocked all my heavy books to the floor. But he had missed the blue notebook. It was still sitting on the table, just inches from my right hand. And for the fraction of a second before Chloe hit me, I had seen her eyes flick down to it.
She wasn't angry because I was sitting in her sightline. She was terrified because she recognized the notebook.
I didn't run.
I pushed my chair back slowly. The metal legs screeched against the floor, a horrible, grating sound that seemed to paralyze the room. I stood up to my full height. I didn't look at the crowd. I didn't look at the phones.
I reached behind my neck, grabbed the heavy fabric of my grey hood, and pulled it up over my head. It cast a deep shadow over my face, transforming me from a crying victim into something else. Something hard.
I lifted my chin and locked my eyes directly onto Chloe's.
For three agonizing seconds, neither of us moved. I stared into her blue eyes, projecting every ounce of grief, rage, and suspicion I had buried for a year. And in the depths of her gaze, I saw it clearly.
Panic.
She took half a step backward. Her lip twitched. Trent stopped smiling.
Before she could speak again, the shrill, mechanical scream of the lunch bell rang out through the school. It shattered the tension like a hammer hitting glass.
The crowd immediately began to murmur, shuffling toward the exits, though many kept their phones pointed at us.
Without saying a word, I reached down, grabbed the blue notebook, and slid it smoothly into the front pocket of my hoodie. I picked up my backpack from the floor, stepped around the fallen textbooks, and walked straight past Chloe. My shoulder brushed heavily against hers as I passed. She didn't push back.
I walked down the main corridor, my boots moving in a steady, robotic rhythm. I didn't stop at my locker. I didn't head toward my fifth-period biology class. I pushed through the heavy wooden doors of the girls' restroom at the end of the north wing, walked to the last stall, locked the metal door, and collapsed onto the toilet seat.
My hands began to shake violently. The adrenaline crash hit me in waves. I leaned forward, gripping my knees, struggling to pull oxygen into my burning lungs.
She knew about the notebook. She recognized it.
I pulled the small blue book from my pocket. My hands were trembling so badly I could barely open the cover. I turned back to the page with the yellow storage receipt.
OAKRIDGE SECURE STORAGE. UNIT 42.
Why would Leo have Chloe’s storage receipt? They traveled in entirely different universes. Leo was a mechanic who fixed cars in our driveway to help pay the mortgage. Chloe drove a brand-new BMW that her father bought her for passing her driver's test. They didn't speak. They weren't friends.
Unless they were connected by the scandal.