The Player & The Pauper | ✓

27 | Cry Pretty

When we pull into the parking lot on Tuesday morning, I realize I'm both entirely prepared and unprepared all at once. Sure there's no gossip blogs in Rock Valley, but teenagers are the same no matter where you live. And teenagers love to talk.

My mom drove me to school this morning. I'd lasted ten minutes in the Jeep with her last night before I told her what had happened in New York. About Mia, my friends and my father. I'd told her I'd bailed on the Columbia thing, that I knew Dad was only trying to buy his way back in my good graces.

She'd taken it in stride. Yeah, she'd been mad as hell to hear about Layla-Mai Jordan, and I'm grounded for the first time in my life, but she also told me she felt some of the blame was her own. She should've been more for us growing up, raised us to be better. But I don't blame her one bit.

"You sure you're okay, Peyton?" She asks me for the tenth time this morning. "I know I told you there's no skipping school today, but if you really don't feel like you can handle it, call me, okay?"

I give her a real smile, even when I spot a familiar old pickup over her shoulder. "I will, Mom. Don't worry."

"I'm your mom, Peyton," she says exasperatedly. "It's my job to worry about you."

With a quick kiss on her cheek, I climb out of the Jeep and plug my earbuds into my phone. Cranking up my music— a mix of pop and country— I make my way towards the front doors.

I keep my eyes fixed in front of me as I walk straight to my locker. But even then, I still see people look at me and take in my appearance.

I do not look like the Peyton Church they know. My hair is tied up in a top-knot and a bit of mascara and lip balm are the extent of my makeup. I'm wearing the only pair of leggings I own with plain white tee and denim jacket. My shoes are flats— no heels.

This isn't a cry for attention; I didn't dress down for anyone but myself. I just got out of bed this morning, opened my closet, and closed the accordion doors when I didn't like anything that I saw. Then I threw on a tee and my leggings and went to my bewildered mom to borrow one of her spring jackets.

I feel more vulnerable than ever without my armor. That's what my wardrobe was for the longest time, something to help me stand out from and rise above the people around me. I wanted to be looked at and idolized. But now, it feels almost freeing to walk the halls looking no different than any other girl at Rock Valley High.

So I ignore the stares and soon enough, people look away and go back to gathering their books. The breath I'd been self-consciously holding in comes out as a sigh of relief when I reach my locker and see nobody around. Of course, a part of me had hoped to see a familiar and welcoming face waiting for me. But I know better.

Silently, I stuff my things into my locker and exchange them for the binders and pens I need for my first class. My phone doesn't buzz, nobody stops to talk to me, and I make my way to homeroom.

I make it one step inside the door before I falter. Somehow I had actually forgotten who I share this class with, who I've been sitting next to for weeks now.

Hunter isn't here yet. Our desks sit side by side, our chairs empty. For all the quiet confidence I've had today, I don't think I can spend more than a minute sitting so close to him knowing we're over.

Somebody clears their throat behind me. I look quickly over my shoulder, heart pounding double time against my ribs, but it's only my teacher.

"Sorry," I mumble, and make a not-so-subtle beeline for a desk in the back corner of the room. One of the stoner kids usually sits here, but considering I don't remember the last time I actually saw him in class, I don't feel too bad stealing his seat.