Victory at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys #5) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,134

as she curls one hand into a fist, digging those chipped fingernails of hers into her palm. The way she looks down at my perfectly painted and bejeweled nails makes it plainly obvious that she’s jealous. Control. It was all about control.

“Why did you even come here?” Pamela asks, but I’m shaking my head again, leaning in close to her so I can whisper.

“You answer my questions now or I’ll see to it that you don’t survive to your trial date.”

Our eyes meet, and I notice just the briefest hesitation in her gaze, like she isn’t sure if she believes me or not. It takes a while for the idea to settle, the idea that she finally has no power over me. She can’t make me sit in Neil’s lap or watch Coraleigh put me in the car to take me to the Kushners.

My throat gets so tight that I suddenly find it impossible to breathe. I’m choking. I’m choking and I am so goddamn sad. Why am I so fucking sad all the time? One minute, I’ll be fine. I’ll know how many good things I still have in my life and how goddamn lucky I am. I’ve made it to seventeen-going-on-eighteen without being sexually assaulted. It’s a miracle. Getting my Havoc Boys back is a miracle.

I clamp an arm over my belly as I try to hold back the tears.

The miscarriage is a distant, edgy thing at the back of my mind. I didn’t want a baby, so I’m relieved. And I feel bad for being relieved. But I also know that if I did end up with a daughter, I’d know exactly how to be the perfect parent: be the opposite of Pamela. Embody love instead of hate.

I sit up and fold my arms across the surface of the table.

“Why did you marry my father?” I ask, because I need to know all of this. And, in this last moment, if Pamela can give me a scrap of something to hold onto, I’ll let her live the rest of her days out in prison. Frankly, it would be a better punishment than death really. She’ll hate the food and the lack of designer clothing, the absence of nail artists from Oak Park, the lack of a hairstylist with experience working on Hollywood stars. She’ll hate this place because it will embody everything that she deserves: a desperate, empty, lonely cage. Forever.

At the same time, I know that my list of vengeance was not made for the people whose names ended up on it. It was designed for me, by me, and if you ever thought a personal vendetta was the only reason this story was penned, I feel sorry for you. If you thought all those soft and quiet in-between moments were filler, then you didn’t understand. If you disliked me because the ugly things inside of me made you see the ugly things inside of you, then you’re just as lost as I once was.

Not anymore.

Never again.

When Victor put that crown on my head, I knew that it wasn’t a reward for the violence, that it wasn’t a reward for bashing in James Barrasso’s head. It was a reward for reclaiming myself, for falling into my own skin and finding out that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

Mixed reviews from critics stained with blood and tears,

The politics of a broken life are really just reality,

My words are what set me free, so if I have to be something polarizing,

Then that’s exactly what I’m going to be.

The poetry filters through my head, unbidden. I couldn’t stop it if I tried. Any attempt to hold back that twisted prose would leave me writhing on the floor in agony, poisoned by it. Consumed by it. So I don’t bother. I just tap my pretty nails on the table and let it come, memorizing every line of my mother’s face so I know exactly the type of person that I never want to become.

“I married him for his money,” Pamela says, sitting back in her orange jumpsuit and looking like a supermodel even with the faint purple circles under her eyes. She’s pretty, just like me. We’re both pretty and look at what a curse it is. The world simultaneously rewards and punishes pretty, doesn’t it? “I’d have done anything back then to get away from your grandparents.” She keeps staring at me, but like she has no idea who I am or why I’m here. “Does