INIQUITOUS

CHAPTER XXXIX

CHAPTER XXXIX

I was going to murder Winnie and her big fat mouth. Having the spotlight glaring down on me with twenty seven sets of eyes was the last thing I needed today, I wasn't in the greatest state of mind and I was feeling sloppily put together with a small strip of tape here and there and crossed fingers and hopeless wishes for the rest. I attempted to dispute their original argument. "So," I started, "instead of one fucker having the power to blackmail us, we're being Oprah and handing it out to thirty odd people. This is a bad idea. And I'm sure I speak for the voiceless, bullying will be a whole lot worse if we all know each other's secrets." I didn't give a damn for the bullied. They could go slit their wrists and weep in a corner about how depressed they were for all I cared. I was trying to save my own behind.

"It's not as if you're going to be bullied," Zachery Lawrence reciprocated with a snicker and a heavy brow lowered in a challenge. "The only people who'll be targeted are Leif and the smelly twin. Why are you so worried, Cleo? Our secrets aren't going to bury us underground. We've probably jerked off to manga or gotten a blowjob from a cousin. It's stupid shit."

Mikey prodded. "Why are you so anxious, Cleo? C'mon. Spill. I'm desperate to know what you're hiding." He set his acne-splattered chin down on his hands, elbows on the desk, leaning forward. His bright blue eyes were fixed on me. "I bet it involves multiple cocks and the boys' bathroom." His friends laughed.

Winnie turned around in her seat and whacked him on the head with her heavy textbook. "Shithead!"

"Are you still sore over my rejection?" I stared at him coldly, voice light and teasing. I wanted to throttle the sonafabitch, set him on fire and roast marshmallows while he danced in agony. "It's been months. Get over it."

The tips of his ears burned red. He ducked his head and muttered under his breath as his friends taunted him. I diverted my attention to Velvet. "This is a bad idea."

Barney Griffin exhaled loudly, expression twisted in irritation, and he shot upright and announced loudly. "I killed a cat by accident. I rode over it on my bike while she was sleeping. She was injured and crying and I didn't know what to do so I–" he pulled a face –"I buried her alive."

Classmates gasped in horror.

"It was a while ago," he shrugged, sat back down and looked at me dead in the eye, "it's easy. Your turn, Cleo."

I hesitated, took a glance towards the open classroom door, displayed a persona of nervous energy and then blurted as if by accident. "My mom committed suicide a week and a half ago. She jumped in front of an oncoming train." Sympathetic and surprised faces stared at me and I continued, almost as if it pained me (it wasn't that hard to mimic feelings: the sting and ache of losing Mom still burned and threatened to consume me whole). "It's why I was absent. I wasn't ill. I was ...attending her funeral. There," I scuffed my shoe on the squeaky floor of the classroom, displayed my open palms and dropped them, "you guys happy now? That is my secret. My mom was depressed and manic and a recluse. She swallowed a handful of pills each day. It subdued the pain for a while, and then..." I swallowed the lump in my throat, hating the prickling in my eyes, the vulnerability. I didn't want to lose control in front of my classmates. This was heading in a direction opposite to the one I had planned. I hated it. "She's dead."