VIOLET
Imeet Willow in the student center. We’re wearing the requisite blue and white, our jackets open to expose the colors—mainly so the coordinator doesn’t yell at us. The coordinator, a staff member in Activities, stands at a booth and checks people off.
There’s a whole group of us going.
“Heads-up,” the coordinator, Lauren, calls. “We’ve got two buses. The first is the party bus, which will be full. Then we have room on the team bus.”
My stomach twists. “We have to get on the party bus.”
The doors open, and Paris strolls in with her minions. Dance team girls she won in what Willow calls the divorce. I haven’t so much as glanced at her since she dumped a drink on my head. Not that I’ve wanted to. I get the urge to rip her hair out when I think of her.
And, yep, it’s worse when I
