21. Frankie

Avoidingsomeone is never just about being out of sight, out of mind. It's about dodging a past that clings too tightly. Today, I'm dodging Dorian and our burdensome lunches—not out of choice, but necessity, as I'm bound for a class with Mr. Mercer that, coincidentally, saves me from our uncomfortable routine.

Nerves tickle my spine as I shove my head in my sweater and pull my damp hair out. The mirror on my closet door taunts me with reflections of a clouded morning sky visible through my small window, casting a gray light over my room. As I shut the mirror, I sit at my desk with my shoes. For some reason, today just feels heavy, like the air itself is saturated with a storm yet to break.

Days like today dredge up the past in a way that's hard to ignore. Memories creep forward unbidden, rising like floodwater, with flashes of my former life spilling behind my eyes. It feels as if the past claws its way into the present, refusing to be buried in the recesses of my mind. As I gaze into the mirror, the reflection doesn't show the woman I'm striving to become. Instead, it reveals the frightened little girl I once was—her eyes too large for a harsh world, hiding her vulnerability behind a fa?ade of bravery. Each image is a shard of glass, a reminder of the relentless heartbreak and the solitude of my childhood.

No matter how many times I try to kill that inner child, she just won't die, and I need her to die. I need her to go away so I can look myself in the eye and say I did what I could to save her. The truth is, I couldn't save myself then. The fabric of my sweater feels like a thin barrier against the flood of emotions threatening to spill out of me.

All that pain bubbles up and drags me down beneath the waves of memories better left forgotten. The sensation is like drowning, with the past pulling me under. As I tie my shoes, the simple action feels monumental, each loop a small victory against the sorrow that tries to sweep me away.

I stareat the woman before me, her dark hair cropped close to her head, reflecting the sterile office light. Her red nails clack on her keyboard as her dark eyes scan her computer screen meticulously. My backpack is at my feet, made of canvas with fading mushrooms on the front. The fabric is stained and frayed, but it's mine, given to me a couple of years ago by the one family I thought would keep me.

Turns out they couldn't.

They were the first ones to send me back. They didn't want a broken little girl. They didn't want me. It hurt that first time, it hurt the second, and now, as I sit before Ms. Barnes once again, that age-old hurt tries to bubble back up. The air in the room feels heavier, as if laden with the unspoken truths of countless similar meetings held here.

They can't hurt me if I don't let them.

"Alright, Francesca." She leans forward, her eyes warm but holding a professionalism that forms a subtle barrier between us. "I think I found the perfect family for you."

I swallow. Perfect is subjective. At least that's what my favorite foster mom said—the one I wanted to keep me. "I still don't understand why I can't go back to the Davies." My voice sounds scared, and I hate that I let that slip through.

Licking her lips, Ms. Barnes gives me a soft smile, her attempt to ease the tension palpable yet inadequate. "I'm so sorry, Francesca. They lost the ability to foster," she tells me gently.

I can't look at her, so I look at the window behind her. If I keep looking at her, tears will drip down my face, so I just nod and clench my jaw to keep from speaking to her.

"Now, I think I found a good family. They currently have four kids, and you'd be the fifth." She beams at me before grabbing her phone. "You can let them in."

The door creaks open, and standing there is a tall man who smiles at Ms. Barnes, then he looks to me with his blue eyes. "Hello there, Francesca," he says while crouching down to look me in the eye. "We are very excited to have you as a part of our family."

He says all the right things, they always do, but he feels wrong, cold, and something else I can't quite put my finger on. I don't like it, and I don't like the way he's looking at me.

Luckily, he looks over his shoulder, and a boy with ice-blue eyes steps in. His smile is wide and welcoming, unlike this guy.

"Hey!" he says, holding out his hand. I just look at it. "You're supposed to shake it," he whispers.

I don't give him my hand.

The man beside him chuckles. "Give her some time, Bishop." He turns back to me. "In no time, you two will be the best of friends."

As these thoughtsswirl in my mind, there's a sudden interruption. The click of the door signals a shift back to reality. Tori steps into the room, freshly showered with a full face of makeup. Her belongings hit the desk with a soft thud. She seems hesitant, shifting from foot to foot as she turns to face me. It's a jarring but necessary return to the present, pulling me out of the depths of my reflections.

Rolling my eyes at her, I say, "Spit it out, Tori."

Huffing and tossing her hair over her shoulder, she places her hands on her hips. "Do you want to walk to crypto with me?"

I blink at her. Is she serious? "You hate me."

"So?" She sniffs. "Doesn't mean I want to walk alone."

I should tell her no and maybe see if Matteo is nearby, or even Leo, except I blurt out, "Why not." I groan internally. Fuck, I'm going to regret this.

"Perfect." She glances at her watch. "We should go now."

Why do I get the feeling this is going to end badly for me?

Grabbing my backpack, I sling it over my shoulder and gesture to the door. "Lead the way, oh noble one."

"Don't make it weird, Frankie." She grabs her things and pushes past me. When she opens the door, the hall's chatter filters in. Everyone is awake now since it's later in the morning.

I shut and lock the door behind me and follow Tori out of the tower, feeling awkward.

The brisk morning air hits us as we step outside, and I tighten my jacket around me. Tori strides ahead, her pace clipped and purposeful, almost like she doesn't exactly want to be seen with me even though she is the one who asked me to walk with her to class. The silence between us stretches, and I half expect her to shatter it with something cutting or dismissive, but she remains silent, her eyes focused straight ahead.

I clear my throat, unable to bear the quiet any longer. "So why don't you want to walk alone?" I ask, my voice betraying my curiosity.

Tori's shoulders stiffen, and for a moment, I think she'll snap at me. Instead, she lets out a long sigh, weary and deep. "It's... this stupid thing with Chloe and the others. They are mad because I skipped the party last night. Now, I'm apparently not committed to the squad," she mimics in a high-pitched voice with air quotes, her usual mask of indifference slipping.

"That sucks," I respond, surprised by the sympathy warming my voice. It feels unfamiliar, almost foreign, to offer her comfort.

"Yeah, well, whatever." She flicks her hair back, a gesture that might have been dismissive but lacks its usual sharpness. We take a few more steps in silence before she speaks again, her voice softer, almost hesitant. "You ever feel like you're just playing a part? Like you have to be someone you're not just to fit in?"

Her question catches me off guard, and I glance at her, noting the genuine uncertainty flickering in her eyes. "All the time," I admit, finding it easier than I expected to open up. "I thought I was the only one who felt that way."

"No, I... Yeah, it happens to me a lot too." She meets my gaze, and for a moment, there's a real connection, something honest and raw, before she looks away, almost embarrassed.

I decide to push the conversation a little, driven by the surprising sincerity between us. "It's like you're constantly switching masks, trying to figure out which one will stick, huh?"

She nods, biting her lip. "Exactly. And the worst part? Sometimes I forget who I am underneath all those masks. It's like I'm more them than me most of the time."

"That sounds... really exhausting," I say, my voice softening further. It's a revelation, seeing this side of her. "Do you ever wish you could just drop all the pretenses?"

"All the time," Tori answers with a small, rueful laugh. "But then I think about what would happen if I did. Would anyone still be around if I was just... me?"

I nod, understanding more than she might realize. "It's scary, thinking you might end up alone just for being yourself, but maybe it's worth finding out to find people who like you for you."

She looks at me with something like wonder in her eyes. "You think that's actually possible?"

"I have to believe it is," I say with a smile. "Otherwise, what are we even doing, right?"

Tori smiles back, a genuine smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes but suggests it could someday. "Yeah, what are we even doing..." Her voice trails off, carrying a mix of resignation and newfound curiosity.

As we approach the building, the looming presence of her friends reminds us that our moment of honesty can't last, but something important has shifted between us, a door cracked open that might lead to something real. Her friends are laughing and oblivious to her inner turmoil, while I'm left with hope and apprehension. Maybe Tori and I could find a way through the masks to something resembling a real friendship.

The entrance to our cryptography class looms ahead, an imposing structure that echoes the uncertainty of our truce. As we near the door, I see a group of Tori's friends clustered nearby. My stomach tightens as I watch Tori's demeanor change. She straightens, her face smoothing into its usual unreadable expression, her steps gaining a rehearsed grace.

"Well, here we are," she says, her voice cool and detached. "Thanks for the company, I guess."

"Yeah, sure," I reply, trying to mask my disappointment as she heads over to her friends, reverting to the Tori I know in public.

My brief moment of hope evaporates under the scorching gazes of Tori's friends. Chloe, leaning against the wall with a smirk, eyes me like I'm something stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

"Ew, are you following Tori?" she taunts, her voice dripping with disdain.

"Nope," I mutter, trying to walk past them without another word, but the corridor suddenly feels narrower, their laughter and sneers trailing me like a bad smell.

"What the hell, Tori?" Amanda chimes in, her voice sharp and accusing. "Did you ditch us for her?"

I hear Tori's response, a harsh, mocking laugh that doesn't reach her eyes. "She wasn't even home last night," she declares, and even though I know it's all an act for her friends, her words sting. I feel the bite of betrayal, shallow but unmistakable.

I quicken my pace, wishing I could block out their voices, their laughter echoing off the walls. It's cruel, the way they twist the knife, and I hate that it gets to me. I hate that I thought, even for a fleeting moment, that Tori could be different.

"Seriously, Tori, why would you even talk to someone like her?" another voice adds, laced with mock confusion.

"Yeah, what were you thinking? Lowering our standards now, are we?" Chloe remarks, her laugh sharp as glass.

Tori's reply is noncommittal, a mumbled something that placates them but doesn't reach me. I don't look back. I don't need to see her expression to know the kind of balancing act she's playing—keeping up appearances while perhaps, somewhere deep down, regretting them a little.

As I push through the door to my class, their voices finally fade away, but their words linger, nasty and biting in my memory. It's a clear reminder of the gap between us, a chasm widened by their cruelty. Still, as I sit down at the back of the room and pull out my books, part of me can't help but replay our earlier conversation, clinging to the thread of understanding we shared.

The contrast between that brief, honest interaction and this public mockery leaves me reeling, confused about the real Tori. Who is she when she's not performing for an audience? The question hangs over me, heavy and unresolved.

Despite everything, a stubborn, naive part of me wants to find out. Maybe not today or even soon, but eventually. I tuck that thought away, a small ember of curiosity in the back of my mind, as I prepare for class. The real work, I realize, isn't just in the cryptography problems I'm about to tackle—it's in deciphering the complex code of human relationships, especially those as encrypted as the one with Tori.

Chatter rises as people fill in, and I had almost forgotten that this is Bishop's class—almost.

He looks good. He always looks good. Tall and dark and handsome. As he smiles at his students, I'm reminded of him becoming my first friend, my first enemy, and meeting here and him becoming my first real lover. Maybe that is why I chose to sit at the desk he roughly fucked me over only days ago.

His soft gaze remains the same as he looks at everyone in class, then at me. When he looks at me, his gaze shifts to indifference. Another pang of hurt jabs my heart.

You are a strong badass, I remind myself.

"Is this seat free?' Matteo's voice cuts through the classroom din, an unexpected yet not unwelcome interruption. As he settles into the seat beside me with a conspiratorial grin, he murmurs, "Consider it claimed." His presence, so close and casual, sparks a rare warmth in me.

I stifle a smile, facing forward with a new thought. Perhaps I'm not as isolated as I felt this morning.