Defiant Princess (Boys of Oak Park Prep #2) - Callie Rose Page 0,21

times.

I had to go to the registrar’s office and beg for replacement books, which I got after paying a hefty fine and enduring a lecture from the woman behind the counter. And when I went to go put the new textbooks in my locker, I found that it’d been broken into again. Someone had scratched disgusting messages all over the inside of the door and walls, and the outside was decorated with just one word.

Trash.

So fucking original.

I hated that it still got to me. The things they’d written in my locker were just words—they couldn’t actually hurt me. Couldn’t leap off the scratched paint and attack me.

But not all wounds were physical. My dad had taught me that lesson many times over before he died. And as much as I wanted to ignore them, the hissed names and scrawled notes calling me everything from a worthless slut to a thief to a disease-riddle piece of trash did hurt.

So I gathered the hurt low in my belly and let it marinate until it turned into anger. Then I unleashed that anger like bolts of lightning, an electric charge that practically jumped out of my body, making my hair stand on end from the force of it.

After Adena burned my books, I stole Finn’s homework and threw it in the Olympic-sized pool in the gym building. After two boys threw water balloons full of paint at me, I poured printer ink down the back of Finn’s neck.

But I couldn’t keep up with everything. And there were pranks I couldn’t even think about pulling without an accomplice, which I didn’t have. I was falling behind, and by the end of the week, I was an exhausted, strung out mess.

On Thursday, I sat in the little dance studio, stretching for a final few minutes before I had to face the world again, when my gaze fell on the heavy bags in the corner. On the chains that pooled around them like sleeping snakes.

Oh, fuck yes.

I’d been playing defense, responding to what the Princes threw at me and trying to match or top it. But maybe it was time I played a little offense. I still didn’t have enough dirt on them to use any of it yet—I didn’t want to show that hand until I knew I would win with it. But there were other ways to get to them.

All last semester, when the five of us had gone somewhere, it’d always been in Mason’s car—the dark red convertible that must’ve cost his parents a fortune.

Adrenaline surged through my veins, waking me up, making me feel more alive, as I rolled over one of the large bags and unclipped the chain that’d been used to hang it from the ceiling. The metal links were thick; the chain was at least five feet long and heavy as fuck. I ran downstairs to the locker room to change early, then headed back up to the studio and emptied out my backpack. When I left the building, I carried a stack of books in my arms, and the thick chain rested heavily in my bag.

The remainder of the day was a blur, and in the evening, I waited impatiently for the sun to set.

Then I waited some more.

At almost midnight, when I didn’t see anybody outside, I hefted my backpack over my shoulder and slipped into the darkness. Dim lights lit the paths that crisscrossed the campus, and I kept my distance from them, not wanting to be spotted by anyone who might be glancing out a window.

Mason’s car was in the student lot, parked in one of the few covered spaces. The walls and ceiling of the covered spots were tall and wide—probably in case some student with a tiny dick decided he wanted to park his Hummer there—and I glanced around the dark shelter assessingly as I stepped into it.

This’ll work.

Setting my backpack down, I drew out the length of chain. The links clanked together, the sound loud in the quiet stillness. I worked slowly, trying not to make too much noise. It’d get loud in a second, and I wasn’t sure how long I’d have before campus security or someone else came running, but I didn’t want to give them advance notice.

I slipped my arms back through the straps of my empty bag, keeping it with me so I wouldn’t lose it if I had to run in a hurry, and doubled up the thick chain, grasping one end of the shortened length in