Chapter 2 Ella

Chapter 2

Ella

Ten years later

Age 17

There's a dick in my mouth.

Not a real one, of course. It's a drawing of a hairy penis scribbled with Sharpie onto a photograph of me singing karaoke one summer, my mouth wide open, making it the perfect picture to use when depicting a phallic-shaped object jutting between my lips.

Groaning under my breath, I make a mental note to lock down my Facebook account.

Maybe I should delete it.

I snatch the photo off my locker and pick at the tape before crumbling it into an angry wad and stuffing it in my back pocket.

Classmates snicker behind me. Snide whispers float through the hallways, causing my stomach to pitch. I glance down at the cream-and-tan linoleum tiles and blow out a breath.

Ella Sunbury: the weird new girl, who went from riches to rags. The sister of a murderer. The broken teenager who was forced from her pretty house made of bricks and shingles and shlepped over three hours away to the small town of Juniper Falls, where everyone judges her.

Where everyone hates her.

That's what people see when they look at me. That's what they think they know based on news reports, rumor mills, and gossip trains.

And I suppose they're not wrong—I'm all of those things.

But those things are not all I am.

I stretch a piece of chewing gum from between my teeth and twist it around my index finger until the digit is woven with neon-yellow ribbon. Students shuffle past me, muttering nasty comments under their breath.

"She was probably his accomplice."

"I bet she bought him the gun with her million-dollar weekly allowance."

"Maybe we shouldn't piss her off. First-degree murder runs in the family, after all…"

Before I can make a hasty retreat to my next class, someone bumps into me from behind, and I nearly topple forward, no thanks to the extra weight on my back from the dozens of books stuffed into my orange Vera Bradley book bag that I couldn't bear to sell in the auction.

I catch myself on my locker door with an oomph .

"Sorry," a voice says, snatching my elbow to keep me steady.

That's all he says, but his hand feels like a hot laser on my skin. Hot enough to leave a future scar. My eyes flick up and meet a familiar shade of clear blue as I recoil, readjusting my bag strap over my shoulder. "No biggie," I mutter. When his hand falls away from me, I take a step back and scratch at the itchy heat left behind.

He doesn't linger; he just stares at me for a stuttered heartbeat, then rejoins his brother who must've bumped him into me.

The Manning brothers.

Max and McKay.

A decade ago, Max became my best friend during a memorable year here in Juniper Falls—the town where my parents first met as teenagers. That was until my father abruptly whisked me away without allowing me to say goodbye. Now, it feels like a lifetime has passed, and I realize that Max is no longer the same person he was back then.

Just like I'm not the same girl who told him I'd marry him one day as I sucked on a tangy orange Popsicle and stared up at the puffy clouds with sunbeams in my heart.

These days, he acts like I don't exist. I'm sure he saw that news story of me, where I made a fool of myself on national television, and now he's grateful we lost contact over the years.

Associating with me would make him a social pariah, too.

I inch my dark beanie down my forehead and glance over at the two brothers now conversing against a row of blue lockers across from me.

"You should come tomorrow," McKay says, shoulder wedged up against a locker door, his back to me. "Bring that chick. Libby."

"I'm good," Max replies. He fiddles with a pack of cigarettes, pulling one out, then pushing it back into the box. "Doesn't interest me."

"You need to get laid, man. You've been a real asshole lately."

My nose scrunches up. Neither of the Manning brothers have said much to me since I arrived back in Juniper Falls—a small community in Tellico Plains, Tennessee—four months ago. Truth be told, I wouldn't be disappointed if they both dropped off the face of the earth. The only person who's shown me an ounce of real kindness since my mom and I moved here is Brynn Fisher.

She just so happens to be dating McKay, which is probably why the brothers haven't outright tormented me like everybody else in this school.

Ancient schoolyard magic be damned.

I tuck my hair behind my ear, my sandal squeaking along the linoleum when I shift my backpack onto my other shoulder.

When Max glances up at me, I realize I'm eavesdropping like a snoop. He doesn't say anything and just furrows his espresso-brown eyebrows together, probably irritated by my existence, while McKay prattles on about beer and Libby's tits.

Then Max blinks and looks down at the grubby tile, which is evidently more enticing than my face.

As fate would have it, the Manning brothers aren't just my schoolmates—they're also my neighbors. They live across the street from the little ranch home my grandmother purchased for us this past May, after Mom drained her bank accounts close to dry paying for my brother's legal bills.

Sometimes I'll see Max outside, mowing the front lawn.

Smoking near his pickup truck.

Careening out of the gravel driveway with shrieky tires as he inevitably takes off into the night to find trouble.

On occasion, he'll glance across the street at me while I'm sitting on the wooden porch in a beat-up folding chair, reading a novel or bookbinding. The eye contact never lasts long, and it's often followed by a pitying headshake or a squinty-eyed scowl.

He doesn't like what I've become.

The feeling is mutual.

Mom used to tell me to go over there and reattempt to make friends with them, even though they are not at all approachable. I told her she should make friends with their father first and then I would consider it. That was the end of the conversation. She hasn't brought it up since.

I swallow down the grit in my throat and move away from the wall lined with lockers. The choked-down emotions are making me thirsty, so I decide to grab a Dr Pepper from a nearby vending machine before heading to English class.

The hallways are mostly cleared out, save for a few stragglers jogging past me with their noses in their cell phones. Everyone is a blur of monochrome. Everything looks desaturated. It feels like I'm moving in slow motion while faceless bodies rush past me like an old VCR tape that's being fast-forwarded to the good part.

But there is no good part in my movie.

There's only this vending machine staring back at me, filled with overpriced snacks.

Sifting through my pockets for spare change, I blink myself back to color and real time. The crumpled photograph falls to the floor when I yank out a handful of dollar bills, and I can't help but cringe as I lean over to snatch it up.

I'm midbend when a voice blares, "Just leave it. Your maid can come by and pick it up for you."

I'm pretty sure the voice and steroid-infected body belong to a football douche named Andy, but I might be wrong. It could be Randy. All I know is that he was blowing spitballs at my head last period and he smells like an off-putting combination of man sweat and butterscotch pudding from the cafeteria.

"Fresh out of maids," I shoot back. "But the position is open if you're interested."

"Yeah, right. It'll take a fucking saint to clean up your brand of mess." His buddies saunter alongside him, trying to cover up their laughter with coughs and dramatic throat-clearing.

Potential-Andy pauses then, his biceps twitching beneath the hacked-off sleeves of his white gym T-shirt. Brown-black eyes trail me from toes to top, the expression he wears brimming with distaste, as if I'm some kind of lower being. Nothing but pond scum or chewed-up taffy wedged into the sole of his shoe that he can't scrape off.

He averts his attention to the photograph and a smirk blooms. "Is that your locker decor? It was so tasteful."

"Was that a gift from you?" I glance boredly at my tangerine-chipped fingernails. "Charming."

"You're flattering yourself if you think I spend my time scouring the internet for pictures of you, Sunbury."

"I guess I overestimated your ability to multitask. Figured you'd find some time in between Googling yourself and browsing low-budget porn sites."

Popping a finger in the air, he perks up like he's had a light-bulb moment. "Speaking of, wasn't that you I saw in that video of—"

"Let's go, Andy. She's weird," a gum-snapping brunette says, giving his ribs a pinch.

Confirmed-Andy sends me a wink before he jogs into one of the bustling classrooms and out of sight.

I can't help the internal flinch as his words pierce through my armor, but I try to brush it off, grabbing the photograph off the tile and throwing it in a nearby trash can.

I'm about to twist back around to the vending machine when a bright-blond ponytail and a pink sundress zooms by. Brynn Fisher catapults herself into McKay's arms with a squeal, and the two of them stumble back as her boyfriend catches her by the thighs and they kiss hotly in front of us, making a scene.

I fidget in place. I've never been kissed like that before, and I idly wonder what it would feel like.

Scratch that: I've never been kissed at all, period.

Double scratch that: I don't care.

After smothering him with repetitive kisses, Brynn slides back down onto her white sneakers and reaches for the backpack she dropped at her feet. When she pops up, she throws a beaming grin in my direction. "Hey, Ella!"

She's the bubble gum to my black licorice.

I drag the beanie off my head and smooth down my hair, startled by her use of my first name. Everyone calls me Sunbury , or new girl , or Whatever-her-name-is . And those are the kinder variations. "Hey," I murmur, lifting my hand in a half-hearted greeting.

"Are you coming to the bonfire out by the bluffs tomorrow tonight?"

I'm fairly certain I missed that invitation. "Wasn't planning on it. Everyone thinks I'm a loser, so that will probably make things awkward."

"You're not a loser."

"The entire school thinks I'm a loser, Brynn. According to this town, I will die a loser. My tombstone is going to say, ‘She was a loser. And she lost.'" I shrug, feigning indifference, even though my heart wilts a little. "It's fine."

"That's so dramatic," Brynn replies through a laugh. "Screw them. I think you're cool."

A soft smile stretches on my lips just as the bell rings.

Brynn hauls her book bag over her shoulder as she skips toward me. "It starts at eight. I can pick you up if you need a ride." Before she runs off to class, she pulls a gel-tipped pen out of her ponytail, reaches for my wrist, and scribbles seven numbers onto the underside of my forearm. "Add my number to your phone. Text me any time!"

I'm so taken aback by the gesture, by the token of friendship, that a response jumbles on my tongue and all I do is nod.

Her smile brightens twofold before she whips around, her hair following like a tail of pale honey, and she drags McKay with her down the hallway.

Max doesn't look at me as he shoves the pack of cigarettes into his pocket, grabs an armful of textbooks, and trudges behind them.

While the rest of the students disperse from the halls, I peer down at the writing etched onto my skin in violet ink. I tilt my arm from side to side as the numbers shimmer with glittery specks under the fluorescent lights.

A friend.

I haven't had one of those in over a year. Not since everyone abandoned me after the news broke about Jonah. My mother, Candice Sunbury, owned a well-loved equestrian farm and was a highly respected horseback guide before the entire Nashville area put my family under the proverbial microscope and dragged our name through the mud. And yet, that was nothing compared to what we went through in those subsequent months.

Vandalism. Threats.

Even violence.

I had to carry pepper spray in my book bag as I walked the school hallways during the remainder of my sophomore year, after a friend-turned-enemy shoved me down on the school's running track so hard, I dislocated my ankle.

We didn't press charges. Mom was too busy trying to bail Jonah out of jail to worry about a busted ankle.

And that was fine by me. The last thing I wanted was more negative attention.

Sighing, I drop my arm and make my way over to the vending machine to retrieve the Dr Pepper as I try to shove the barrage of bittersweet memories aside.

Sliding a few dollar bills into the machine, I make my selection and glance at the wall clock, already knowing I'll be late to class. Not a big deal—I'm sure no one will even notice.

I watch as the soda can jerks forward and prepares to fall.

But then it comes to a stop, making a grinding sound and jamming before it can slide loose.

Of course it does.

I kick the machine a few times, begging for the can to wriggle from its entrapment. I smack it with my hand. I even growl at it, hoping it will sense my rage and slither free with fear.

Nothing.

Great. Even the Dr Pepper loathes to be associated with me.

Closing my eyes, I press my palms and forehead to the glass face and inhale a long, tired breath before blowing it out with a miserable groan.

I make a quick stop at the water fountain before plodding to my next class.

***

Monster .

It's a book written by Walter Dean Myers that we're reading for English class, and it's exactly how I feel when people look at me these days.

Even my teacher, Mrs. Caulfield, has punitive action in her beady eyes as she wields a metaphorical gavel and aims it right at me. My thoughts scatter, and I imagine her adorned in a judicial robe while slamming the gavel down on her desk as stacks of assignments go flying.

"Guilty on all charges," she announces to the classroom.

Everyone claps and cheers as I'm handcuffed and hauled away in an orange jumpsuit.

Fair enough; I love the color orange and the sentence is valid.

I'm guilty.

I'm guilty for not believing in his innocence like Mom does.

I'm guilty for still loving him, despite it all.

Most of all, I'm guilty for not loving him hard enough to keep him from pulling that trigger. He must not have felt the strength of my heart or known how much I'd miss him. He made a choice that night and it wasn't us.

He didn't choose us, and sometimes I feel like that's my fault.

"Miss Sunbury."

My chin is propped up on my hand as I stare blankly to the left, my mind still padlocked in a jail cell. I don't hear Mrs. Caulfield right away. I also don't realize I'm staring directly at Max Manning with a smidgen of drool dribbling from the corner of my mouth.

"Miss Sunbury," she repeats, louder this time. "I've been told that Mr. Manning is quite the catch here at Juniper High, but that is what Instagram is for. Please be respectful and ogle on your own time, during after-school hours."

Everyone laughs.

I straighten at my desk and start frantically swiping at my chin. My mortified eyes meet with crystalline blue across the classroom and my face heats to an inferno level, mimicking my own personal hell. "Sorry," I fluster, inching up on my elbows. "I spaced."

Max continues to watch me from his adjacent seat, leaning back against the sepia plastic chair, both hands twirling a pencil around in aimless circles. His jeans are ripped, his hair is dark. He's tall and lean, towering well over six feet and a head above the guy seated behind him. A tattoo made of black ink ropes around his right bicep and his skin is bronzed from the Tennessee sun.

He runs a lot, remains unattainable and mysterious, and has perfected the smolder. I'd say he stands out among the rest of the uninspiring student body…except he has that same look everyone has when they stare at me.

The look of pity because I'm washed-up and unworthy.

The look of annoyance because I don't belong in this town or at this school.

The look of revulsion because my blood swims with the same blood as Jonah Sunbury's.

At the end of the day, Max is still one of them.

I dart my gaze away and focus on Mrs. Caulfield, who is now half-sitting on the edge of her meticulously organized desk. Her flaxen-blond hair is sprinkled with silver and tied up in a harsh twist, enhancing the narrow peak of her head. She's a missus instead of a miss , which means someone liked her enough to marry her. Good for her, because I sure don't. She's the one teacher who's been a jerk to me, and if I didn't want to draw more negative attention than I already have, I'd probably report her to the school board.

"You know, Miss Sunbury," the teacher drawls, one of her tawny eyebrows lifting with mock consideration. "The literature we're currently reading has some striking parallels to your own personal history."

Her words hit me like a silver bullet to the chest.

My throat closes up. Oxygen is hard to catch.

Shifting in the squeaky chair, I part my lips and release a soundless whisper. All I do is shake my head, feeling all eyes on me. Feeling the judgment, the persecution, the slew of gavels hammering down on particleboard desks.

Guilty, guilty, guilty.

I brave another quick glance in Max's direction, unsurprised to find he's still boring holes into me. Boring holes into my holes. I bet he wishes that if he glowers at me long enough, my cracks and gaps will stretch so wide that there will be nothing left of me.

Poof.

Sometimes I wish that, too. Especially right now.

I'm sure Max regrets ever being friends with me in the first place.

I clear the misery from my throat and find my voice, looking back at Mrs. Caulfield. "I wouldn't know," I lie. "We've only just started reading."

True enough, but I know exactly what the book is about. The blurb is on the back.

"Yes, well, has anything stood out to you thus far?" she probes, and I can almost hear the smirk on her face. "Anything you'd like to discuss and share with the class, while pulling from your own real-life experiences?"

"Not really. That's personal."

"It made national news. Your brother's trial was publicly broadcast."

My chest tightens to the point of near suffocation.

This is ridiculous. It's cruel and invasive.

Heart galloping with indignation, I start stuffing books and pencils into my bag, then zip it up as I prepare to bolt. "That's what Instagram is for," I fling back, using her own words against her. "Please be respectful and meddle on your own time, during after-school hours."

Gasps ring out all around me as I push up from my chair and haul my backpack over one shoulder. I don't spare the teacher another glance, but I do catch Max's eyes for a split second before I storm out of the classroom.

He's still staring at me.

Still watching.

Only this time, I swear the ghost of a smile flickers on his lips.

As I race out the door, knowing I'll be headed for detention after school, I jog toward the far end of the hallway, where the vending machine still taunts me with that elusive Dr Pepper. It's basically holding it hostage and the notion manages to heighten my anger to an unhealthy level.

I want that soda.

It's mine, I paid for it, I want it.

Mostly, I want to be mad at something other than Jonah for once.

A snarling sound fizzes in the back of my throat as I stomp forward and stare down the machine. I kick it again. Bang on it with both hands, then turn my hands into furious fists and pound some more.

It doesn't move.

Doesn't budge.

I'm pretty sure I hear it laughing, but that could be my own inner voice.

With a final knock with my sandal to the base, I shout, "Fuck you, Dr Pepper!"

My words echo through the empty hallways, ricocheting off the walls and immortalizing themselves in the ugly blue lockers and even uglier tile. I'm embarrassingly close to tears when—

Thwap!

A yelp flies past my lips.

I jump back when a fist whips by me and slams against the front of the vending machine. My heart leaps, and I glance up with wide eyes, watching as the can of Dr Pepper wobbles free and drops into the dispensing slot.

Plop.

I lift my chin.

My gaze locks with Max Manning's.

He doesn't say anything. Doesn't smile, blink, or even breathe. He just stares at me for a heavy beat, his chocolate-dark hair falling over his forehead, his pale-blue eyes blank and unreadable.

Then he takes a step backward.

Turns around.

And disappears down the hallway.