Bookmarks & Burnouts

Quinn's POV The house is too quiet. I move like a ghost across the thin carpet of my bedroom, careful not to let the floorboards complain. Cheryl and Randy finally passed out sometime after three — I heard the last bottle clink against the coffee table and the wet, heavy snoring that followed. Now the silence feels fragile, like it might shatter if I breathe too loud. I pull the oversized hoodie over my head first, the worn gray fabric swallowing me completely. Then the jeans — two sizes too big, the waistband gaping until I thread the frayed belt through the loops and yank it as tight as it will go. The leather digs into my hips. I prefer it that way. Anything that keeps the shape of my body hidden is worth the discomfort. Bare feet silent on the floor, I ease the bedroom door open just wide enough to slip through. The bathroom is only four steps away. I take them slowly, listening for any shift in the living room. Nothing. Just the low drone of the television left on and the occasional wet snore from the couch. I relieve myself as quietly as possible, then brush my teeth with the cheap toothpaste that always tastes like chalk. The mirror shows the same face it always does: pale, tired, curly brown hair shoved into a messy bun, thick glasses perched on my nose. I look away quickly. Back in the hallway, I hesitate. The living room is the shortest path to the front door, but Cheryl is sprawled across the couch, one arm dangling, mouth open. Randy is somewhere nearby — floor or recliner, I don’t check. Crossing that room feels like walking through a minefield. Instead, I turn back to my bedroom, ease the window open, and slip one leg over the sill. The drop to the overgrown grass isn’t far. I’ve done it enough times that my body already knows the motion. Cool morning air hits my face as I land softly, pull the window mostly shut behind me, and start walking. Sable Creek High is twenty-three minutes on foot if I keep a steady pace. I have a granola bar in my hoodie pocket and exactly forty-seven dollars hidden in the lining of my backpack. One more day. Then another. And eventually, enough of them stacked together that I can leave this place behind for good. Sable Creek High is already half-full by the time I slip through the side entrance. I keep my head down, hoodie up, shoulders curved inward like I can fold myself into something smaller. Invisible is the goal. It always is. It doesn’t work. I’m halfway to my locker when I hear the familiar click of heels and the sweet, poisonous lilt of Sloane Whitmore’s voice. “Well, look who decided to show up. Did Mommy finally unlock the door, or did you crawl in through the window again?” Brie laughs on cue. Kota smirks, arms crossed. Ty Langston leans against the lockers like he has better places to be, but he doesn’t stop them. I don’t answer. I never do. I open my locker, swap the books I need, and close it again without looking at any of them. My hands only shake a little. “God, she’s so pathetic,” Sloane says, loud enough for the hallway to hear. “Those clothes look like they came out of a dumpster.” I walk away before the heat in my face can turn into something worse. Their laughter follows me until the bell rings. The morning passes in the usual blur of classes I actually like and people I carefully avoid. When lunch comes, I head straight for the library. It’s the only place they rarely bother with. I claim the same table in the back corner, pull out my apple and the small carton of milk I bought with the change from my last shift, and open my history notes. It’s not much of a meal. It’s what I can afford if I still want to keep adding to the hidden cash in my backpack. I’m halfway through the apple when the library doors open and the temperature in the room seems to drop. Silas “Havoc” Crowe walks in like he owns the place, all six-foot-five of muscle and bad attitude. Tatum “Red” Vaughn is on his right, fire-red hair impossible to miss. Riot “Joker” Vaughn trails them, already grinning at something he just said. They move through the library the way people move through a minefield in reverse — everyone else steps carefully around them. I keep my eyes on my notes, but I track them in my peripheral vision anyway. They claim a table on the opposite side of the room, close enough that I can still hear the low rumble of Silas’s voice and the occasional sharp laugh from Red. I stay exactly where I am. Cautious. Quiet. As far from that particular kind of trouble as the library will allow. Last period is Mr. Harlan’s class — the one I usually look forward to because the material is actually interesting and he doesn’t tolerate much nonsense. I slip in early and take my usual seat near the middle of the room, close enough to the front to hear everything, far enough from the back to stay out of the way. Silas, Red, and Joker claim the entire back row like it’s reserved for them. They don’t even pretend otherwise—boots on the floor, low voices, the occasional scrape of a chair. I don’t look at them. Looking feels dangerous. I’m arranging my notebook and pen when the familiar click of heels announces Sloane’s arrival. Brie and Kota flank her. Ty trails behind and drops into a desk near the windows. They’re bored. I can feel it the second they notice me. Sloane’s voice carries easily. “Aww, look. The little charity case is already prepared. Did you do the reading for the rest of us too, Quinn? Or are you too busy digging through dumpsters for new outfits?” Brie snickers. Kota leans in and stage-whispers, “I bet she smells like one.” Heat crawls up my neck. I keep my eyes on the blank page in front of me and force my shoulders to stay still. Reacting only makes it last longer. Sloane isn’t finished. “Maybe if you actually—” The door opens hard enough to cut her off. Mr. Harlan walks in carrying a stack of papers and looking like he’s already had a long day. The room settles in that automatic way it does when a teacher who actually means business arrives. Sloane sits back with a sweet, innocent smile. I finally risk a full breath. Class starts. He launches straight into the lesson, and for a while the only sounds are his voice, the scratch of pens, and the occasional shuffle of paper. I take careful notes. It’s easier to disappear when I’m focused. Near the end of the period, he sets the stack of papers down and clears his throat. “All right, listen up. We’re starting a major project next week. It’s worth a significant portion of your final grade, so I suggest you take it seriously.” He glances around the room, lingering a second longer on the back row. “You’ll be working in pairs. I’ll announce the partnerships and give out the full guidelines on Monday. Until then, no questions, no complaints, and no trying to switch partners in advance. Clear?” A few groans ripple through the class. Sloane looks irritated. In the back, I catch the low sound of Joker muttering something that makes Red huff a quiet laugh. I keep my expression blank and my hands folded on my desk. Pairs. The word sits heavy in my stomach. Working with anyone means attention. Attention is the last thing I need. The bell rings a few minutes later. I gather my things quickly and slip out the door before anyone can decide they’re still bored enough to follow.