High School Hit List (CLIQUE BAIT)

0. red lips and watching eyes

The red which painted my lips the color of a ripened cherry reminded me of a time long ago.

I was eleven, and Monica was twelve, which had me swimming in jealousy, even if she was only older by a month and three days. She pulled at my chin to pop open my mouth, painting my lips with her mother's lipstick, her amber eyes following her movements carefully – an artist examining her work.

"Done," she'd announced, flipping her auburn hair over a shoulder and tilting her head to the side, her blue shadowed gaze glossing my appearance with pride.

I'd swiveled in my chair to see my reflection in her mirror, contorting my face when I caught site of my appearance. "I look like a clown."

Monica paused, her serious composure holding for a few seconds longer before a snort of laughter finally broke through. "You look like my mom."

Since then the chubby and freckled face I'd harbored grew out, and my lips didn't look so corny covered in lipstick. No, from the amount of time I'd spent perfecting them before my vanity mirror, they looked almost menacing, especially when I pulled them into the confident smirk I'd been perfecting over the summer.

I pushed the rear view mirror back into position and entered my Audi into reverse. The magical purr of the engine hadn't diminished even slightly since it had been gifted to me on my sixteenth birthday by my father in an attempt to mend our fragile relationship. That was something that had definitely diminished.

Today was the first school morning that I didn't turn onto Wayward Street to pick Monica up from the Pennington manor. It was usually routine that she rode with me, ever since we'd started our first day at Arlington Preparatory.

This year I had a lot of work to do. Not academically. No, grades had always come easy for me. This work came in the form of a list. A list of people who were going to pay.

Payment is usually part of a basic transaction. You give and then you take. But, at Arlington, people take at their leisure. They take their entertainment in the form of humiliation. They get what they want at the expense of their pawns. But they never pay.

The list sat seemingly innocent in the crevice between my bookshelf and bedside table, printed on rose colored paper with my calligraphy pen. At the top of that list was Lola Davenport.

My first job for the semester was very simple. Observe. And though it was the simplest task, it was definitely not the easiest. This was reaffirmed as I pulled into the school parking lot, filled with cars labelled with luxurious names and milling students dressed in plaid and grey uniform.

I already knew the dynamics well. And I knew the people even better. My eyes glossed over the muscular figure of Zachary Plympton as he slapped the shoulder of Max Heath, his best friend, football in hand. Both of them lay on the list, surrounded by the friends they thought of so fondly.

Arlington had a system. It wasn't a monarchy or a pyramid or anything that was dared voiced in words. No, it was much more complicated than that. It wasn't juvenile or silly, it was an enforced invisible system that sorted everyone into five levels that Monica and I had categorized in freshman year.

Level five was freshmen, and those scorned by those above. It was usually reserved for people who had been openly outcast by higher levels, or who had done something throughout their high school lives to condemn them, like openly disrespecting those in power. Level five was not somewhere anyone wanted to be. It was open hunting grounds, and those who resided at level five suffered everything from disgusted looks and taunting to being shoved around in the hallways.

Level four was the uncool people. The harmless people that didn't quite fit in. In sophomore year, Monica and I had upgraded from five to four, where we sat at a table with the debating team in the lunch hall. We didn't think much of it at the time, but it put us in prime position for social destruction. Level fours were easily looked down upon and had no protection from the onslaughts of harassment brought on by the levels above.

And then there was three. My safe zone. Level three was the balance between in and out. The level where you were too high to be noticed and low enough to be safe from a fall. Level three was invisible. I was invisible. My junior year was spent on level three, safe with only a handful of friends and an easy focus on school. My view was nice, far away from the drama. The only problem was that Monica wanted to be higher.

Level two, the largest level, was for the people that wanted to be level one. They were the people that worshiped the ground people like Lola Davenport walked on, and they were the people who fueled the egos of those above. They tried to impress, fulfilling the tedious duties required for them to gain the approval of the top. Halfway through junior year Monica decided she wanted to upgrade, and by default I found myself beside her in her mission.

Level one was as high as it got. It was as if the whole school was a television series and the people on level one were the main characters. The stars. They were the beautiful, the rich, and the mean. Somehow, they rendered everyone's attention. They were popular and they knew it. They were the sun of our little solar system and they seemed to hold everyone's fascination.

Including mine.

I wasn't like Monica. Monica always wanted to be them. She wanted the spotlight, and she wanted the adoration that came with being on top. But to them, Monica was like a newborn foal trying to stand. She was cute, but she could be easily knocked over. And when they knew of someone's vulnerabilities, the games began.

No, I didn't want to be them. I wanted them to know what it felt like to be played with. I wanted them to taste the feeling of rejection burn in their mouth, like Monica Pennington felt the night she'd returned from her first elite party. I wanted them to know what it felt like to have themselves exposed, piece by piece, no matter how hard they tried to cover up.

I was fascinated with them. And it gave me power. It gave me information, and I stored it carefully. Waiting for the right moment.

And that moment was now. Because now, in my senior year, with Mon long gone, it was time.

It all started today. The first day of senior year. The last chance I had to make things right before they went off to their Ivy-League colleges and forgot about every life they ruined in their wake.

I was going to become a level one. And I was going to take down every single person on that pretty little list.