I also had a rape kit performed—I cringe at that humiliating memory, the cold, impersonal room, the invasive questions. Are you sexually active? Yes, I’d had sex before. How long has it been since your last consensual intercourse? Six months. Who was he? A guy from Sisters of Charity who now lives in Texas. How many partners have you had? Just one, just one—until this. What kinds of medications do you take? None. Then they moved me to another room for an exam, where they inspected me from head to toe, swabbing every inch, from my mouth to my toenails. They took photos of the bruises on my inner thighs. They took my clothing and put it in a paper bag. They asked me details about what led up to the assault, wanting me to tell them step by step what happened, and even though the nurse was kind, so incredibly kind, I had to hide my face when I told her I couldn’t remember who it was.

And in the end…

Nothing.

They determined I’d had sex, rough sex, but no semen or reliable DNA was found.

And Chance? His last text after I went to the police: Stop lying about the party. You aren’t the person I thought you were. You’re just a slut.

That nasty word slices into my heart, cutting deep. I’m not promiscuous. I didn’t screw around at Camden; I was too busy working, studying, and taking care of my brother. Besides, it shouldn’t freaking matter if I had screwed every guy here.

Drunkenness does not equal acquiescence.

I must be insane because I linger in front of the three of them and study the lines of Chance’s face, his square chin, the dimples on either side of his mouth, the ones that deepen when he smiles.

There’s a frown there now.

Yes, I mentally whisper, my mouth tightening. I hope seeing me pisses you off. I’m not here for you, jock. I’m here for me.

With that fake smile back in place, I move on. I’m almost to my locker, number 102, when two girls appear in front of me, blocking my path.

Geeze. At least I’m getting it ALL over with at once.

A long exhalation leaves my chest as I take in Jolena and Brooklyn, my former cheer pals. My lips twist. They were never really my friends. Not once have they called or texted me in the past ten months.

Jolena, the clear queen bee, is in red heels, her dark auburn hair twirled up in a high ponytail that accentuates her striking cheekbones and ruby lips.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Ava Harris. I can’t believe you have the nerve to show your face here. Please tell me you aren’t going to try out for cheer.” The words are said with a perfect fake smile.

I’m not surprised she approached me right off the bat. It’s what I expected—anger and resentment. By going to the police, I ratted on the popular kids. To me the party was a meaningless side note compared to what happened at the end of it, but to some, I committed an act of treason. I’m the rat and snitches get stitches and all that jazz.

Plus, there’s the video of me with football players, her boyfriend included.

Just another sick carnival ride.

The young detective taps a pen on the table. “Miss Harris, is it possible you consented to sex? Your behavior at the party was, well, indicative of…” His dry voice trails off, but I get his meaning. “I know most of these boys. Good parents. Great football players. It’s okay if you had consensual sex with—”

“No!” I call out. “No, no, no…” My shoulders hunch and I want to crawl away.

“There’s video of you dancing with Liam Barnes, Dane Grayson, Brandon Wilkes…” He lists several more, each name a slice of pain. “Let me show you.”

He sticks a laptop in my face and hits play. I don’t know who took it or who gave it to them. It’s dark and grainy, but there’s no mistaking my tank top and blonde hair. Or the guys. I’m in a circle dancing and laughing up at them, my hands on their shoulders, moving one to another. My eyes are shut. “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails blares.

“Turn it off,” I whisper, holding my stomach. “Please.”

“Hello? Are you listening, moron?” Jolena says. She’s shorter than me, even in her high heels, and I tower over her, thankful at least for my five foot, eight inches. I’ve never met my sperm donor—some man who got my mom pregnant—but I figure I get my height from him since she’s petite.

“Move out of my way,” I say, keeping my voice low, struggling to keep it from cracking.

“Oh, it has claws. Make me.” She takes a step closer until I can smell the cloying scent of her flowery perfume.

I battle my jumpy stomach. “Trust me, I’ve known meaner girls than you. Wanna try me?”

Her lips curl and she laughs, the sound tinkling out to several other students who’ve stopped to watch. She throws her gaze around, surveying them all, and some of them visibly shrink away. Others come closer, their faces almost fascinated, wondering what I’ll do, what she’ll do…

A delicate shrug comes from her. “Consider yourself warned. None of the cheerleaders want you back. We don’t need sluts on our squad.”

My gut reaction is to just dart away. It’s what I would have done if I’d had an interaction with her in the past, because I just wanted to make things easy for myself here. Don’t make waves. Graduate.

I hear her muttering behind me as I walk away, calling out a juicy name, but I tune it out, focusing on deep breathing. My hands tremble as I fumble with the locker combination I received in the mail with my registration packet last week.

“You look different,” are the words I hear from my left. My eyes dart to the guy who said them, taking in the clipped light brown hair on the sides, the top longer and swept back, the dark brown eyes. About six foot and muscular with a hint of mischief in his gaze, he flashes a grin. “You used to have light hair. The black is wicked cool. Saw you when you parked your car.” His accent is obviously Bostonian, maybe Southie, with the R sound missing. Pahked yah cah.

He arches a brow, and the silver piercing there glints in the florescent lighting. “Name’s Wyatt. I’m new since last January, but I heard all about you. I’ve seen your picture in the yearbook. We’re locker neighbors.” Locka neigbahs. Another grin as he leans in closer to me. “People are staring at you like crazy. You’re like…a celebrity. Welcome back. I’m honored to be your neighbor.” He places a hand over his heart.

Ha.

I didn’t expect anyone to be nice, and I don’t trust the feeling. I turn toward my locker, gripping the lock. The combination doesn’t work, and he watches me try it a third time until it finally gives. I fling it open, blocking his face.

Wyatt shuts his locker and shuffles away in my peripheral vision. My eyes move down to a sealed envelope at the bottom of my locker. I frown. How did this get here? I check the outside and glance at the small vents where someone must have pushed it through.

For Ava is scrawled across the envelope, and chills ghost over my neck, imagining who would have left it. Plus, how did someone find out my locker number? I received all the information about registration details just a few days ago. I chew on my lips and stuff my lunchbox inside the space, tempted to just leave the letter there. I eye it and my hand shifts closer, my fingers an inch away when I stop. What if it contains anthrax? I roll my eyes at my own ridiculousness. I’m smart enough to know anthrax spores released into the air could harm not only me but several people, including the person who delivered the letter. Okay, fine, but I’m still not touching it. I’ll grab some gloves from the science lab later and then toss it in the trash.