Laughter in Heels
1346 Words
POV: Isla
By Monday, everyone knew.
Not just that Blake and Isla were over.
That part would have been survivable.
No, what Blackthorn knew—what it enjoyed—was the story.
That Blake had finally “moved on.”
That Isla “hadn’t taken it well.”
That there had been “a scene.”
A scene.
As if heartbreak were vulgar when poor girls did it in public.
Isla walked through the main quad with her tote bag pulled high on her shoulder and her eyes fixed straight ahead.
Her phone buzzed every few minutes.
Unknown numbers. Group chat leaks. Screenshots Naomi kept intercepting before they could do more damage.
A post from the anonymous campus account had gone up at seven-thirty.
REMINGTON UPGRADED.
Under it: blurry photos from the donor brunch.
One picture showed Blake talking to Celeste.
Another showed Isla turning away, face tight, eyes shining.
The comments were filth in expensive fonts.
She really thought she had a chance.
Confidence can’t fix everything.
Men level up. Women should too.
Cry quieter next time.
Naomi had already reported the post three times.
It was still up.
Of course it was.
In the student union, conversations softened when Isla entered.
Then sharpened again after she passed.
At the coffee stand, two sophomore girls looked her up and down with the concentration of art critics.
GIRL ONE: I mean, he was nice to date her at all.
GIRL TWO: Shh.
GIRL ONE: What? I’m being honest.
Isla stopped.
Just stopped.
Her coffee order forgotten.
The girls froze.
ISLA: And how’s honesty working out for your face?
Naomi made a choking sound beside her.
GIRL TWO burst into startled laughter before she could help it.
Girl One went scarlet.
GIRL ONE: Excuse me?
ISLA: You heard me.
Then Isla turned back to the barista.
ISLA: Large black coffee. Please.
Her pulse was pounding when she took the cup.
Outside, Naomi caught up with her.
NAOMI: That was the hottest thing I’ve seen before noon.
ISLA: I’m having a bad day.
NAOMI: I’m having a wonderful one. Keep going.
But the small victory didn’t last.
Nothing did, not at Blackthorn.
By afternoon, the real attack came.
Communications Seminar.
Professor Hawthorne again.
Half the class already seated.
And Blake.
In the second row.
Celeste beside him.
Not secretly. Not ambiguously. Beside him.
Their shoulders almost touching.
Isla stopped in the doorway.
The room noticed.
It always noticed blood in the water.
Professor Hawthorne looked up from his notes.
PROFESSOR HAWTHORNE: Miss Marquez. Are you joining us?
A few scattered laughs.
Isla walked in.
She could feel them watching to see where she would sit, whether she would tremble, whether she would pretend not to care.
Blake glanced back once.
Their eyes met.
For one wild second she wanted him to look sorry.
He didn’t.
He looked uncomfortable.
Which was not the same thing.
She sat in the back row and opened her notebook.
Then Celeste turned halfway around in her seat.
CELESTE: Oh, Isla? I hope this isn’t awkward. Blake and I are partnering for the campaign project. Professor Hawthorne said chemistry matters.
The word chemistry made three girls smile.
Isla said nothing.
Celeste kept going.
CELESTE: But if it helps, I’m sure you and… someone… can work something out.
Even Professor Hawthorne didn’t intervene.
That was the thing about elegant cruelty.
It passed for manners if delivered softly enough.
Blake finally spoke.
BLAKE: Celeste.
Not a warning.
A performance of decency.
Isla’s fingers tightened on her pen until they hurt.
ISLA: You should be careful.
Celeste blinked.
CELESTE: About what?
ISLA: If chemistry is all it takes, eventually he’ll leave you for the next pretty laboratory accident.
The class went silent.
Even Blake stared.
Celeste’s face cooled.
CELESTE: You really should learn grace.
ISLA: And you should try originality. Stealing other people’s leftovers is such a tired look.
This time the laughter was bigger.
Not cruel.
Real.
It came from students who weren’t supposed to be on Isla’s side but loved a good cut when they heard one.
Celeste turned forward so sharply her hair snapped across her shoulder.
Blake never looked back again.
After class, he caught Isla by the staircase.
BLAKE: What is wrong with you?
She laughed in his face.
ISLA: What is wrong with me?
BLAKE: You’re making this uglier than it needs to be.
ISLA: This? Blake, you upgraded your seat before my body was cold.
BLAKE: I’m serious.
ISLA: So am I.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
BLAKE: You need to stop lashing out. It’s making people talk.
ISLA: People were already talking.
BLAKE: Because you give them material.
ISLA: No. Because this campus feeds on girls like me.
His expression flickered.
For the first time, maybe, something like guilt appeared.
BLAKE: I didn’t mean for it to get like this.
ISLA: That’s funny.
ISLA leaned in too, so only he could hear.
ISLA: I think you meant exactly enough.
She started to move past him.
His hand closed around her wrist.
Not hard.
Not gentle either.
BLAKE: I’m trying to talk to you.
She stared down at his hand until he let go.
ISLA: Then next time, try doing it before you humiliate me in public.
BLAKE: I said I didn’t—
ISLA: And I said let go.
He did.
From the landing above, heels clicked.
Celeste.
Watching.
Of course she was.
CELESTE: Everything okay down there?
Isla looked up at her.
Beautiful. Untouched. Triumphant.
The kind of girl the world handed instructions to.
ISLA: Tell me something, Celeste.
CELESTE: If I must.
ISLA: Do you ever get tired?
CELESTE: Of what?
ISLA: Building your whole self-esteem out of being chosen over other women.
Celeste smiled.
Cold and perfect.
CELESTE: Only when the other women make it too easy.
She turned and walked away.
Blake rubbed a hand over his jaw.
BLAKE: Just go home, Isla.
Home.
Meaning hide. Disappear. Stop bleeding where people could see it.
She looked at him for a long moment.
Then she smiled.
A strange smile. Thin. Bright in all the wrong ways.
ISLA: You know what, Blake?
BLAKE: What?
ISLA: One day, I’m going to walk into a room and you’re going to wish you had died before letting me go.
His face changed.
Not because he believed her.
Because part of him wanted to laugh, and part of him wasn’t sure he should.
That was enough for now.
She walked away before he could answer.
By evening, the anger had burned through everything else.
Not healed it.
Not eased it.
Just burned hotter.
Naomi found her in the dorm room sitting cross-legged on the floor, still in her clothes, staring at her laptop without seeing it.
NAOMI: Okay. That expression says arson or transformation. Which one?
Isla looked up slowly.
ISLA: What if I changed everything?
Naomi leaned against the doorframe.
NAOMI: Everything how?
ISLA: My clothes. My hair. My body. The way I talk. The way I walk. All of it.
Naomi went quiet.
NAOMI: You want revenge.
ISLA: I want power.
NAOMI: Those are not always the same thing.
ISLA: Then I want both.
Naomi crossed the room and sat beside her.
NAOMI: And when you get it?
ISLA: Then no one will laugh at me again.
Naomi studied her face for a long moment.
NAOMI: That’s not true.
ISLA: What?
NAOMI: People always laugh. Especially when they’re scared. The question is whether you’ll still care when they do.
Isla looked away.
Out the window, the lights of Blackthorn glittered over stone buildings and manicured lawns and rooms full of people who had never been made to feel grateful for crumbs.
ISLA: I care now.
NAOMI: I know.
Silence.
Then:
NAOMI: Do you want me to help you?
Isla turned.
NAOMI smiled. Slow. Dangerous.
NAOMI: Because if we’re doing this, we’re not doing it halfway.
And for the first time since the breakup, something inside Isla steadied.
Not healed.
Not softened.
Sharpened.
ISLA: Yes.
NAOMI: Good.
She stood and held out her hand.
NAOMI: Then let’s make them choke.
- Writer
