And next in line: Monday.

Much to your surprise and no small amount of unspoken disappointment, Theresa doesn’t suggest any additional “practice” between the two of you in bed. She left early the next morning, taking Mom with her and leaving you all by your lonesome. You can’t recall if you’d even seen your father at all since his outburst, and you’d definitely not exchanged words if you had crossed paths. You know Dad’s anger is slow to burn out, so hopefully after some more time you can assuage his concerns and get things as close to normal as they can be.

Sunday comes and goes in a blur; empty home save for you and some last-minute homework. With your mother and sister out of the house all day, you only learn near the end that they had been shopping and planning out your impending three-way date. Whatever they’ve decided upon, they don’t divulge to you, nor do they let you see what’s in those bags they brought in. The idea of a matching surprise from the both of them is something you’re content to let develop in your imagination. No need to spoil their good time with orders. Whatever Tess’s next dubious scheme is, you’re more than confident that Mom isn’t going to let her go overboard, so you let patience stoke the toasty hearth of anticipation.

But alas, Monday must come (even if you don’t). Other mondays might leave you taken by gravity, unwilling to kick off the delight of a weekend of freedom, but with so many good things to look forward to, how can you lie in bed? You have dates! Datesss-uh! Plural! You went from zero-in-your-entire-life to two on back-to-back Saturdays in less than a week! TWO dates with THREE women! May all lesser men shrivel in jealousy for your recent good fortune.

Though you miss Theresa already, Monday is the beginning to the week you have to get through to get to your date with Penny. A quick shower, a clean set of clothes, and youthful determination have you zipping out the door after just a few bites of breakfast. Just as well, both Mom and Dad are coldly silent at the table, creating a tense miasma you don’t want to wade through for too long. They’re not saying something, a big something, but you have a strong feeling that you’d best not dare ask.

~

You don’t run into Dylan, once in the school foyer. Nor Penny, nor Faith, nor any of your classmates you might know well enough to greet in passing. Somehow over the din of sleepy morning rambling and shuffling feet, you hear a parting sea of high-schoolers as loud stomps grow ever closer. Like a bullet; a heat-seeking missile, Isabelle Fucking Arlington is coming right towards you with **** in her eyes and her hands reaching toward you.

You expected a black hood and scythe when you met **** someday, but Izzy’s lumpy hoodie was close enough. No sooner do her fingers clutch your formerly smooth shirt do you feel the sharp impact of spine and raised metal door divider. If only that had knocked you out and left you blissfully incapable of experiencing the rest of your execution.

“You…” Her single word hisses like white fog billowing from dry ice. “Counselor’s Office. Now.” Such a glare leaves your legs as good as rubber, but Isabelle doesn’t give you permission to faint. Keeping one talon on your shirt, she yanks you forward, gliding effortlessly through the crowd like a flipped magnet. No one is getting anywhere near young Miss Arlington when she’s that angry. Nor would you, had you the choice…

Some haze of time later, you feel yourself thumped into a chair, now present within the stifling closeness of the school offices. Isabelle drops herself next to you in the chair adjacent, startling the poor counselor woman behind the desk ahead. In need of some control over the situation, the rotund woman clears her throat, trying to mask the shake in her voice for fatigue instead of fear. Gods be damned, even the adults in the school were afraid of Isabelle! Or maybe her family…

“Mister Shaw,” started counselor… Mullins, as you see on the nameplate, “Miss Arlington has brought to our attention an issue that has her… distressed.” Arms crossed tightly, nose pointed high, Isabelle’s fiery gaze demands that Ms. Mullins hasten her delivery. “If you’ll have a look at this. I’m sure it’s quite familiar to you.”

A manila folder is presented toward you on the desk, filled with a modest array of stapled documents and dropped firmly enough to let one of the contents slide slightly free. You need not open it, as the only clue necessary is laid bare. On the folder itself might be Isabelle’s name, but on each and every piece of paper within, you knew the name causing this situation… was yours.

This is a printout of Isabelle’s english portfolio. The one you had claimed last week.

Isabelle’s words were sharp and crisp, ready to slice you at the slightest wrongdoing. “The answer to all of this is very simple. You own my folio, sure, whatever. Just tell Melinda here that it’s not stolen and not plagiarized, and that I can use it for the class. Easy right? I keep my grades, and you keep your balls.”

“Young lady, watch your langua—”

“Literally no one cares,” bites Isabelle, causing the counselor to shrink away. “Don’t make me bring anyone else into this.” Whatever threat that implies, Melinda clams up, offering no support for you whatsoever. No no, you had made this all happen yourself, and so soon were you reaping the rewards of your stupid, shortsighted impulses. **** on Isabelle? Yeah right.

You don’t speak, not immediately. With a white-knuckle grip on your chair, you stare at the folio, thinking of what to do. Isabelle’s even given you an out; release your ransom grip on her grades and this can all be over. You’ll be free, Isabelle will probably hate you more somehow and make the rest of your brief senior year a minor hellscape. It might suck, but it’s the obvious answer to your immediate problem.

But you think about the writing on your arm, and what you promised yourself. This is your only chance.

“Come on, cuckyboy, speak up before the bell rings.” She shoves you firmly, but your fingers grafted to the chair keep you from moving much.

“Okay…” You take in a rattly breath, releasing it slowly. “I refuse.”

“There now, was that so ha— You What.” The last two words come through grit teeth and a jut jaw, Isabelle’s head slowly craning to glare directly at you.

“Miss Mullins, may Isabelle and I have a private moment to discuss this?” Both ladies’ mouths fell slack at your seemingly level tone, though the counselor’s look of pity made it clear she thought you suicidal. Against her better judgement, and possibly lack of options, she nods slightly and vacates her own office at your request. No sooner that the door clicks shut, Isabelle is upon you again, almost lifting you on your feet and into the air. Damn, she’s got a good grip.

“Wrong answer, little fuckboy. You think you can fuck with me and get away with it? You think I give a rat’s ass what you want or what you think you can do? You’re nothing but a simpering little shit who’s trying to look cool in your last impotent days of high school before you fade into nothingness like the useless cuck you are.” Boy, does she have an extensive vocabulary of insults, though cuck seems to be her favorite. “I’m gonna—”

“Fail english.” You have barely enough presence and volume to succeed at interrupting her, but you know it’ll take more than that. Isabelle lets go of you, dropping your ass down on the chair well enough to crack the plastic.

“Oh, I’m not failing anything. I don’t fail, pencil dick. At anything.”

“First time for everything.” You’re still not convinced you’re even the one speaking anymore. It’s like you’ve been possessed by the inky mark you branded yourself with. The real you couldn’t even talk to an Arlington like this.

With a sharp breath, she rears back to break your jaw with a tight right hook… but pauses. “You don’t get anything out of this, cuckmeat. I’m not paying you, I’m not doing you favors. I’m just going to hurt you, and keep hurting you, until I get what should be mine.” She lowers her arm, but only because you imagine she’s cooking up something worse. Sitting back on the desk, she crosses her ankles and leans down enough to cast a shadow over you, eyes glowing with rage.

“And if my family hears that you’re trying to extort me? We’ll take everything you have, want, and dream about. Your whole family is going to suffer. Whatever fat sow you were spawned from will regret ever having you.”

Two things ring through your head simultaneously as Isabelle continues her speech. One, she is trying way too hard to scare you. It’s working! You’re terrified! But why is she laying it on so thick? The absurdity of it is beginning to feel like some villain on tv. Why didn’t she just punch your nose in, beat you senseless, and **** submission from you? She has the physical power to get whatever she wants, and the influence with the name Arlington to have whatever she wants done to you come to fruition.

But she’s threatening you, scaring you, and making an irredeemable ass of herself in the process. You may not be as keen as Theresa on these kinds of social cues, but even you can tell there’s more going on here that’s not being said. For whatever reason, she wants you to buckle, and she wants you to do it right now before you leave this room.

…she’s in a hurry.

All of that logic will probably get to your front-facing thoughts eventually… but right now, something far more pressing needs addressing. This cold-hearted bitch just insulted Mom. Threatened her, even. The radiating heat that came from your stressed, fearful body runs icy cold. You slowly begin to stand, and when Isabelle tries to nudge you back down with her boot, you don’t abide. You push upwards, taking her off balance enough to tip back against the desk, **** to look up at you.

This girl believes she’s in control,

you think. Or… someone thinks. Is that you, in your head?

Prove Her Wrong.