With her flawless makeup and perfectly styled hair, she looks like she belongs on a magazine cover.

I can’t help but notice the group of equally pretty girls surrounding her like a pack of wolves.

Ready to pounce.

I eye the blue and white gym bag she’s holding. It matches the one I have in my closet. Right next to my cheerleading uniforms and pom-poms.

“Are you a cheerleader?”

If so, these are the girls I’m supposed to be friends with. Although they look the opposite of friendly right now.

The girl scrunches her face. “Wow. That accident must have taken all your brain cells too.”

People start to gather around us, forming a circle.

“Man, Caitlyn has balls,” some guy calls out.

“Come on, Bianca,” another guy shouts. “Let her have it.”

I don’t want to fight. I just want to meet my friends and make it through this school year in peace.

“Caitlyn, right?” My shoulders slump. “Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot. Things are a little foggy for me since I just got out of the hospital and I have amnesia—”

Caitlyn takes a step in my direction, causing me to back up.

“Let’s get one thing straight, freak. I don’t give a shit about you and neither does anyone else here. As far as we’re all concerned, you died in that accident along with your little lesbian lover.”

My head swirls.

Died?

Lesbian lover?

“Someone d-died?” I question, not understanding.

Jace and Cole never told me anything about the accident.

Then again, given the way I reacted to Mom and Liam’s death, why would they?

My heart folds in on itself.

Another death.

My throat locks up. I can’t breathe.

“I—uh. I have to go.”

I feel like I’m going to be sick.

Correction: I am going to be sick.

My stomach lurches as bile works up my esophagus. I need to get to the bathroom before I puke in front of everyone. “Move, please.”

“Don’t tell me to move, cunt,” Caitlyn hisses.

Okay, fine. I’ll move.

Only I can’t…because the crew of girls spreads out, blocking me from leaving.

No, no, no. “Please, mo—”

It’s too late.

My stomach jerks in one big wave and before I can stop myself, I’m puking my corn flakes all over Caitlyn’s shoes.

People start howling with laughter.

“Damn. The bitch is back,” someone cackles.

“I’m sorry,” I say between dry heaves. “I’m so sor—”

She pushes me, but since I’m not too good on my feet yet, I wobble and teeter.

Right before I end up slipping on my own pool of vomit.

“Ew. That’s so gross,” someone whines.

Some girl makes a gagging sound causing everyone to laugh.

“What a train wreck.”

No argument here, because that’s exactly what I feel like right now.

I tried my best to clean up in the bathroom, but there’s still a faint vomit stench that lingers in my skirt.

One that everyone can’t help but point out whenever I enter a classroom.

It got so bad, I had no choice but to text Jace and ask if he could drop off another uniform for me.

He did, of course, but it did nothing to stop the whispers and snide comments.

I walked in here today wanting so badly to reconnect with my friends and fit in, but I’m officially a social pariah.

I end up spending my lunch in the bathroom because people refused to let me join them at their table.

For someone who was so popular, the old Bianca doesn’t seem to have a true friend in sight.

And this new Bianca?

Well, she’s downright lonely.

The only thing I can do is apologize to Caitlyn and offer to buy her new shoes.

Hell, maybe she and I—along with the rest of the team—can go on a shopping trip after school.

We can gossip, they can fill me in on everything I’ve missed since I’ve been gone, and I can get to know them again.

We were all friends once, so that means they had to have liked me at some point.

I just need to find the right time to approach Caitlyn and the rest of the team so I can hash things out.

Fortunately, I get my chance when they walk into the bathroom.

Tossing the rest of my sandwich out in a nearby trashcan, I cut my gaze to her.

“Look, Caitlyn, I’m really sorry—”

A sharp punch to my cheek has me seeing stars.

Stunned, I cup my now throbbing cheekbone. “What the hell?”

“Lock the door,” Caitlyn instructs.

I hear the faint click of the latch and the remaining group of girls form a tight circle around me.

I reach for my crutches that are leaning against the sink, but they’re snatched away. “Not so fast, bitch.”

I look around at all of them. I’m not sure why they’re being so mean to me, but the pure hatred in their eyes tells me whatever happened between us is bad.

Real bad.

“I don’t—”

Another sharp punch to my cheek sends my head reeling.

Past…

I clap my hands. “Let’s go, bitches!”

Swear to God, these worthless whores couldn’t dance their way out of a paper bag.

The routine isn’t even that hard.

I press a button on the speaker and music floods the gymnasium. “Again.”

A groan of irritation ripples through my chest as I watch Amber turn and shimmy in the wrong direction, bumping straight into Caitlyn.

Of course, this causes a domino effect and sends the rest of the line teetering and swaying like tree branches in a hurricane.

Only way less graceful.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” My hands clench into fists. “You motherfucking idiots.”

I march over to Amber. “Remind me again why the fuck you’re on my team when you’re too stupid to know your lefts from your rights. You just ruined the entire formation, dumbass.”

“Maybe if you gave her a break it wouldn’t have happened,” Caitlyn snaps. “We’ve been practicing for three hours now without so much as a sip of water.”

I glare at her. “Oh, you want some water?” Snatching my water bottle off the table, I pour the contents over her head. “How’s this?”

Everyone gasps as it soaks her hair and shirt, but I don’t care.

I’m so tired of these assholes expecting handouts and free rides.

These bitches have to learn.

The real world isn’t fair and the sooner they realize that, the better.

Because if they want to keep their spots on my team, they’ll have to continuously work their asses off for it, because being a cheerleader is more than a pretty uniform and pom-poms.

Hands on my hips, I walk down the line, giving each of them their daily critique.

“Renee, do you know how to count?”

Confusion colors her face. “Uh, yeah.”

“Then why are you consistently a second late on your jumps?”

Clearly embarrassed, she looks down. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I suggest you figure it the fuck out. Otherwise you’ll be standing outside school tomorrow morning wearing a t-shirt that reads, ‘I don’t know how to count to three because I’m a dumbass.’”