Bookmarks & Burnouts

Chapter3

Quinn

The week drags.

I do everything I can to stay gone. I claim a table in the library after the last bell and stay until the librarian starts giving me pointed looks. I pick up every extra shift the diner will give me, even the late ones that leave my feet aching and my clothes smelling like grease. I walk the long way home. I sit in the park until the streetlights flicker on.

Anything is better than being in that house.

But I can’t stay away forever. The money from the extra shifts still isn’t enough to rent a place of my own, and the hidden cash in my backpack has a limit. Eventually I have to go back.

Sunday night I push the front door open as quietly as I can. The smell hits first — stale beer, cigarette smoke, and something sour. The television is on but muted. Cheryl is on the couch. Randy is in the recliner, shirt half-unbuttoned, eyes already sliding over me in a way that makes my skin crawl.

Cheryl sits up the second she sees me.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Work,” I say. My voice comes out flat. I keep my backpack strap tight in my hand.

“Work.” She laughs, sharp and ugly. “You owe me money. Rent. Food. You live under my roof, you contribute.”

I don’t move. “I already gave you what I could last week.”

“Not enough.” She stands. Her eyes are glassy, mean. “Hand it over.”

“No.”

The word is out before I can stop it. I almost never say it. I know better.

Her face changes.

The first hit catches me across the cheek. The second drives into my ribs hard enough to steal my breath. I try to curl in on myself, to make a smaller target, but she doesn’t stop. My wrist screams when she grabs it and twists. Another blow lands under my eye. Pain blooms bright and hot.

I end up on the floor at some point. I stay there, arms over my head, waiting for it to be over.

When it finally is, Cheryl is breathing hard. She points a shaking finger at me.

“Next time just give me the f*****g money.”

She storms down the hall. A door slams.

Randy chuckles from the recliner like none of it was serious.

“Damn, girl. You really know how to piss her off.” His eyes drag over me again, lingering too long. “All that fighting makes you look all flushed and pretty. Bet you’d calm down real nice if someone—”

He cuts himself off with a laugh, like it was just a joke. Like the way he’s looking at me is funny.

I don’t answer. I push myself up, grab my backpack, and lock myself in my room. My hands are shaking so hard it takes three tries to turn the deadbolt I installed myself last year.

I sit on the edge of the bed and carefully pull the hoodie off. The mirror above my dresser shows the damage: a darkening bruise under my left eye, another blooming across my ribs, and a raw ring of red around my wrist.

I stare at them for a long time.

Then I dig the little bottle of foundation out of my drawer — the cheap kind that never quite matches my skin — and start covering what I can. Tomorrow is Monday. Partners will be announced. I can’t afford to look like this. I can’t afford to look like anything at all.

I just have to get through one more night.

I wake up stiff and sore, the bruises on my ribs protesting every time I breathe too deeply. The deadbolt is still locked from last night. I sit up slowly, listen hard for any movement in the rest of the house, then ease the door open just enough to check the hallway. Silence. Cheryl and Randy are still out cold.

I slip into the bathroom as quietly as I can, lock that door too, and take inventory under the harsh fluorescent light. The mark under my eye has darkened overnight. Foundation only does so much. Anyone who actually looks at me will see it. I cover what I can anyway, pull the hoodie strings tighter, and sneak back to my room.

Window. Overgrown grass. The same escape route as always.

School feels louder than usual. Every hallway seems narrower. I keep my head down and my pace steady, trying to stay in the edges of the crowd where it’s easier to disappear.

It doesn’t stop me from noticing Silas.

I feel his eyes on me twice before first period even starts. Once by the lockers. Once when I’m turning the corner toward English. Both times his expression is hard, almost angry, like the sight of me personally offends him. I don’t understand it, and I don’t want to. I just look away and keep walking.

I spend the morning doing what I do best — staying out of sight. I take the long way between classes. I eat lunch in a different corner of the library. I move like a shadow and hope it’s enough.

It’s not.

I’m in the ladies’ room between fifth and sixth period, washing my hands, when the door opens behind me. Sloane’s reflection appears in the mirror first. Brie and Kota follow.

My stomach drops.

“Well, well,” Sloane says, voice syrup-sweet. “Look at that face. Did someone finally get tired of your pathetic little existence, or did you just walk into a door again?”

I shut the water off and reach for a paper towel. My hands are steady only because I’ve had years of practice.

Kota steps closer, blocking the exit. Brie giggles.

“We’re talking to you,” Sloane continues. “It’s rude to ignore people, Quinn. Didn’t your worthless mother teach you any manners?”

I stay quiet. It’s the only strategy that ever shortens these things.

Sloane’s smile sharpens. She reaches out like she’s going to grab my hoodie—

The bathroom door opens hard enough to hit the wall.

Tatum “Red” Vaughn stands there, arms crossed, fire-red hair impossible to miss. She takes in the scene in one flat glance — me backed against the sinks, Sloane’s hand still half-raised, Brie and Kota flanking her.

“Move,” Red says.

Sloane scoffs. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Red’s head tilts just a little. Her voice stays mild, almost bored. “I’m suggesting you leave. Now.”

Something in the way she says it makes the air change. Sloane holds her ground for two more seconds, then clicks her tongue and steps back.

“Whatever. She’s not worth it anyway.”

Brie and Kota follow her out. The door swings shut behind them.

Silence settles.

Red looks at me. Her eyes are sharp, assessing. “You know they’re only going to keep doing that as long as you let them, right?”

I stare at the floor. My throat feels too tight to answer.

She waits a beat, then sighs. “Suit yourself.”

She leaves without another word.

I stay where I am until my hands stop shaking, then slip out of the bathroom and straight into the flow of students like nothing happened.

The bruise under my eye throbs in time with my heartbeat.

One more class.

Then partners.

Then I can leave.

I stay in the bathroom until my hands stop shaking, then slip out and join the stream of students heading to last period. Mr. Harlan’s class. The one I’ve been dreading all day without fully admitting it.

I take my usual seat near the middle. My ribs still ache every time I breathe too deeply. The bruise under my eye feels like a spotlight even though I covered it as well as I could. In the back row, Silas, Red, and Joker settle into their usual places. Sloane and her group claim the desks by the windows. I keep my eyes on the scuffed surface of my desk and wait.

Mr. Harlan walks in carrying a clipboard and the same tired expression he always wears. He doesn’t bother with a long introduction.

“All right. Project time. This is a major grade — written report and an oral presentation with visual aids. You’ll be analyzing a specific event in U.S. history: what happened, why it happened, and what could have changed the outcome. Partners and topics are non-negotiable. I don’t want to hear complaints.”

He starts reading names off the clipboard. Each pairing lands like a small stone in the quiet room. I track them without really hearing them, waiting for the only two names that matter.

Then I hear it.

“Quinn Keller and Silas Crowe. Topic: the Salem Witch Trials.”

The words hit the air and stay there.

For a second I think I misheard. Then Sloane’s soft, delighted laugh floats from the window side of the room. Someone else snickers. In the back I hear Joker’s low whistle.

I don’t look up. I can’t. My fingers are locked together so tightly the knuckles hurt.

Silas Crowe.

The boy who looks at me like I’ve personally ruined his day. The one who takes up space like he was born to it. The one I have spent months carefully staying away from.

Mr. Harlan keeps reading like he hasn’t just handed me a sentence. More names. More topics. Titanic. Dust Bowl. Something about the railroad. None of it registers.

When the list is finally finished he sets the clipboard down.

“Guidelines and research expectations are on the handout I’m about to pass around. First check-in is in two weeks. Presentations start the week after that. Use your time wisely.”

Paper begins moving up and down the rows. When the handout reaches me I take it without lifting my head. The words swim. Salem Witch Trials. Written report. Oral presentation. Visual aids.

I feel eyes on the side of my face. I know exactly whose they are.

I keep my gaze locked on the paper and try to remember how to breathe.

This is going to be a disaster.