Dinner was tense. It always was.
I sat at the long dining table, staring down at my plate, pushing my food around with my fork, wishing I could disappear.
Jeanette sat across from me, wearing her usual polite, cold expression. Stacey, of course, sat next to her, smirking subtly every time her mother directed a passive-aggressive comment my way.
“So, sweetheart,” Jeanette said, turning to Stacey. “How’s the cheerleading preparation coming along for the big game?”
Stacey brightened immediately, launching into an entire spiel about her team’s choreography, the matching uniforms, the “perfect” music selection.
Jeanette listened intently, nodding approvingly, the way she never did when I spoke.
“I’m so proud of you,” she cooed, resting a hand on Stacey’s. “You’ve always been a natural leader. I just know your squad will impress everyone.”
Stacey preened under the attention, flashing me a knowing look before taking a slow sip of her drink.
I stayed silent.
I thought, maybe, the conversation would move on. Maybe I’d get through dinner without being acknowledged at all.
But then—
“And you, Bethany,” Jeanette turned to me, forcing a polite smile. “I hear you’re… competing as well?”
Stacey smirks into her water glass, silent but triumphant. The perfect daughter and everything I'm supposedly not.
I tensed, hating the way she said it. Like she was surprised. Like it was amusing.
“Yes,” I said simply, keeping my voice neutral.
She hummed, picking up her wine glass. “That’s… ambitious of you.”
There was no compliment in her tone.
Only barely concealed disdain.
"Stacey’s been training for this her entire life," Jeanette continues, each word a carefully placed blade. "It's admirable that you want to try, but sometimes we have to accept our... limitations."
Stacey smiled sweetly, feigning modesty.
I said nothing. Because what was there to say? Jeanette didn’t expect me to win.
She barely even expected me to compete.
I clenched my fork, staring down at my plate, swallowing back every bitter thing I wanted to say.
I finished dinner in silence. This house, with its perfect facades and poisonous undercurrents, suffocates me more with each passing day.
The walls feel too close, too thin, offering no protection from the reality that I'm an outsider in what's supposed to be my home.
The next day, I walked into class feeling exhausted.
Between late-night cheerleading practice and stress-induced insomnia, I could barely keep my eyes open. But when the professor walked in, I suddenly found myself very awake.
“The grades for your group projects have been finalized,” he announced, adjusting his glasses as he shuffled through papers.
Professor Marshall's voice cuts through the tension-filled classroom as he announces the project grades. My heart pounds against my ribs, weeks of sleepless nights and solitary work flashing through my mind.
A ripple of tension spread through the room. I clenched my hands in my lap, my chest tightening.
“Stacey and Giselle,” she said, glancing up. “A very strong presentation. Excellent documentation. You receive an A.”
I barely processed Stacey’s smug smile, too focused on my own impending grade.
"The highest score," he pauses, shuffling papers with deliberate slowness, "goes to Bethany and Marcus."
The irony tastes bitter on my tongue. All those hours in the library, drowning in research while juggling practice with The Unseen, and here we are – Marcus getting credit for work he never touched.
For a second, I thought I misheard her. Then the whispers started. Eyes turned toward me. Toward Marcus.
My stomach twisted for an entirely different reason.
The professor continued, flipping through her notes. “However, I’m already aware that Marcus has had some academic struggles.”
My breath caught.
“Which is why I’d like to ask—” she peered at me over the rim of her glasses—“Did you both contribute to the research equally?”
Silence. Marcus stiffened beside me. His entire body went rigid, his fingers tightening around the edge of the desk. I could feel the tension radiating from him.
He didn’t know if I was going to expose him.
If I was going to destroy him. And for a brief moment—I considered it. It would have been poetic justice, wouldn’t it? After everything he put me through. After everything he took from me.
But in the end—I chose to be the better person.
I straightened my back, keeping my expression composed.
“Yes,” I said smoothly. “We split everything evenly. Our documentation confirms our shared contributions.”
“Very well then.” The professor nodded approvingly. “Congratulations on your excellent work, you two.”
Marcus exhaled sharply. The tension in his shoulders unraveled just slightly.
I didn’t look at him. I'm doing it for myself, for the person I want to be when all this is over.
After class, I was heading toward the exit, fully prepared to pretend Marcus didn’t exist. But as I turned the corner, I heard his footsteps behind me.
I didn’t stop. Didn’t acknowledge him. Not until he caught up, stepping in front of me, forcing me to stop.
I glared up at him. “What do you want?”
He looked… hesitant. Like he wasn’t sure where to start.
"Thank you."
I blinked, stunned. "What?"
His jaw clenched. "For what you said in there. You didn’t have to cover for me."
I folded my arms, watching him carefully. "No, I didn’t."
He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. "That grade… It was important. If I failed, I’d—" He hesitated, then shook his head. "Look, I just… I owe you."
I raised an eyebrow. "You think you can just repay me for not ruining your life?"
Something flickered in his expression. "I can try." I scoffed, already stepping around him. "Wait."
There was something in his tone that made me pause. Something almost… sincere.
I turned, crossing my arms. He hesitated, then said, “Come to Tristan’s party.”
I stared at him, stunned. "What?"
"It’s at his apartment this weekend," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "If you show up with me, people might stop talking about—"
He cut himself off. But we both knew how that sentence ended.
The bet. The humiliation.
"Oh, I see it now.” I scoffed. “So you think one little public appearance with you will fix my reputation?"
His jaw tightened. "It’s better than doing nothing."
I narrowed my eyes at him. "You think I want your help? Your pity?"
"It's not a pity," he insists, but I'm already backing away. I clenched my fists, hating how much sense it made. Marcus studied me, waiting. "This could fix things for you, Betty."
I should have refused. Should have walked away. But the truth was, I was tired.
Tired of the whispers. The stares. The constant reminder of what they did to me.
If showing up at that party could make it all stop… I exhaled slowly, staring at him for a long moment.
Then—I gave a small, reluctant nod.
Marcus’s expression shifted, just slightly. A smirk tugged at his lips—not mocking, but almost… relieved.
"Good," he murmured. "I’ll see you there." And with that, he turned and walked away.
Leaving me standing there, wondering what the hell I just agreed to.