Burn me slowly

Chapter 10: Public Sting

Faye

The New Orleans morning sun filters through the campus quad’s live oaks, casting dappled shadows on the cobblestone path as I hurry toward the English Lit building. My backpack thumps against my shoulder, heavy with my laptop and notes for today’s Wuthering Heights presentation with Ezra and Jude.

My head’s a mess, still reeling from yesterday’s library encounter—Ezra’s hand on my cheek, our breaths mingling, the almost-kiss shattered by a scraping chair. His confession about his controlling father and Vivienne’s blackmail video cracked something in me, empathy battling the raw hurt of his high school cruelty. Vivienne’s expulsion history, dug up in my research, sits like a weapon I don’t know how to wield, her and Khloe’s jazz club taunts, looping with that anonymous V on Jude’s phone.

I’m early, hoping to claim a quiet corner in the lecture hall to review, but the quad’s buzzing, students clustering in tight knots, their whispers sharp as I pass. My skin prickles, a familiar unease from high school when Vivienne’s clique would turn eyes on me. I catch my name—Faye—hissed low, followed by giggles. A guy from my poetry workshop glances at me, then away, his lips twitching. My stomach twists. Something’s wrong.

Inside the lecture hall, the air’s cooler, but the tension follows. A group of sorority girls—Vivienne’s crowd, no doubt—lean together in the back row, their eyes tracking me as I slide into a seat near the front. One of them, with Khloe’s brunette curls, smirks, whispering to her friend. My pulse quickens, Vivienne’s voice echoing: Oh, ghost, you’re drowning. I pull out my laptop, pretending to focus, but the whispers grow louder, words like cheated and exam slicing through the hum.

My breath catches. Cheated? I’ve never cheated—my grades are hard-earned, late nights bleeding into my poems and essays. I twist in my seat, scanning the room, and spot Jude lounging a few rows back, his hazel eyes meeting mine, narrowing slightly. Ezra’s not here yet, and I hate how much I’m looking for him, hoping he’d… what? Defend me? After his silence in high school, after yesterday’s raw plea, I don’t know what to expect.

The professor’s late, and the whispers swell. A guy two seats over mutters, “Didn’t think she’d stoop that low,” loud enough for me to hear. My hands shake as I open my email, finding a forwarded message from an anonymous account: Faye Arden cheated on her midterm. Proof’s with the dean. Attached is a blurry screenshot of my exam, marked with answers I don’t recognize. My blood runs cold. Vivienne. It has to be her, her and Khloe’s cruelty escalating, using her sorority reach to spread this lie.

Anger flares, hot and sharp, drowning the fear. I’m not her ghost anymore. I stand, my chair scraping, and face the back row where Khloe’s smirk gleams. “Who started this?” I demand, my voice cutting through the chatter, louder than I feel. The room stills, eyes snapping to me.

Khloe leans forward, her voice syrupy. “Started what, Faye? The truth?” Her friends giggle, but I catch a flicker of surprise—she didn’t expect me to push back.

“Stop playing,” I snap, stepping into the aisle. “You and Vivienne think you can spread lies and I’ll just take it? I’m not your punching bag.” My heart pounds, but the words feel right, each one a rebellion against the girl who cowered in high school.

The door swings open, and Vivienne strides in, blonde hair catching the light, her red lipstick a s***h of confidence. Khloe straightens, like a soldier at attention, her loyalty to Vivienne palpable. Vivienne’s blue eyes lock on me, her smirk curling.

“Oh, Faye, making a scene? That’s new.” Her voice drips mockery, but I see the calculation—she’s testing how far I’ll go.

“You spread this rumor,” I say, voice steady, though my hands tremble at my sides. “I didn’t cheat, and you know it. What’s next, Vivienne? Another note? Another video?” I throw in the last part, a jab at her blackmail over Ezra, and her eyes narrow, a crack in her facade.

The room’s silent, students leaning forward, some nodding like they’re seeing me for the first time. A girl from my writing class mutters, “She’s got guts,” and my chest swells, a flicker of respect I didn’t expect.

Vivienne steps closer, her heels clicking. “Careful, ghost,” she hisses, low enough for just me. “You don’t know what I can do.” Khloe’s right behind her, smirking, but I hold my ground, my anger a shield.

“Try me,” I say, louder, for the room. “I’m done running.” The words echo, and for a moment, she falters, her smirk twitching. She turns, signaling Khloe to follow, and sweeps out, leaving a wake of whispers.

I sink into my seat, shaking but exhilarated, my strength growing like a flame. The professor arrives, oblivious, starting the lecture, but I barely hear him. Jude’s suddenly beside me, his chair close, his hand brushing my back, too firm, too possessive.

“That was bold, Faye,” he murmurs, his voice low, intense. “You okay?”

I stiffen, his touch stirring unease, his V text flashing in my mind. “I’m fine,” I say, shifting away, but his hand lingers a second too long before he pulls back, his hazel eyes searching mine, a mix of concern and something darker.

A heckler from the back row snickers, “Cheater’s got a bodyguard now?” Jude’s head snaps up, his jaw tightening, and he’s on his feet, crossing the room in three strides.

“Say it again,” he growls, looming over the guy, who shrinks back, muttering an apology. Jude returns, his hand grazing my shoulder, a claim I don’t want, his intensity feeling like a cage.

My eyes dart to the door as Ezra slips in, late, dark hair messy. He slides into a seat across the aisle, his gaze meeting mine, then flicking to Jude’s hand on my shoulder. His jaw clenches, but he says nothing, his silence a sting sharper than I expected.

Class drags, our presentation a blur—Jude’s charm, Ezra’s sharp insights, my steady voice masking the storm inside. But Ezra’s silence lingers, his clenched jaw the only sign he’s affected. I catch myself imagining him crossing the room, pinning my wrists gently, his lips hovering, whispering he’s sorry—a mild fantasy that leaves me flushed, the tension between us amplifying despite his inaction. I shove it down, angry at myself for wanting him to act, for wanting him at all.

After class, I head to my dorm, the quad’s whispers quieter now, some students nodding at me with respect. I’m stronger, but Ezra’s silence cuts, and Jude’s possessiveness unsettles me, his V text a shadow.

In my room, I drop my backpack, and a folded note slips from the side pocket: Back off, or you’ll pay. The handwriting’s sharp, anonymous, like Vivienne’s Stay gone, but colder. My blood chills. Vivienne, Khloe, or someone else? The twist tightens my chest, her threat escalating.

I sink onto my bed, the note crumpled in my fist. Vivienne’s rumor, Khloe’s smirk, Jude’s hand, Ezra’s silence—they’re a storm, but I stood up today, and people saw.

I text Mom: Stood my ground. Scared but proud. Love you.

Her reply pings: My brave girl. Keep shining.

I cling to it, the anonymous note a weight, Ezra’s inaction a bruise, my strength a spark.

I’m not that ghost anymore, but Vivienne’s game is far from over, and I’m ready to fight back.