We blame society but we are society. 

Monachopsis 
(n.) the subtle, but persistent feeling of being out of place 

Monday — September 4, 2023 

Seventh Period is tolerable, mainly because Destiny and I are sitting right beside each other, not paying attention to a single word of what is being taught as she silently fills me on the latest gossip of BCA. 

I'm interested only in the ones with a kick-ass plot because I'm damn sure the number of names she's listed off would be enough to create a mini-army. So yes, I don't remember a single name. 

But forty minutes pass by rather quickly when you're immersed in picking out details of other people's lives for literally no reason. 

And that's why I'm standing outside the girls' changing room after having changed into a pair of white shorts and a black T-shirt with BCA's crest etched in golden streaks in the upper left corner. The school's sense of fashion is flawless, I have to admit. 

Destiny's probably setting herself on fire right now — she has Chemistry — so I'm on my own. Again. 

How depressing. 

Girls around me chatter in groups, talking about their summer vacations, and I could have sworn I heard one of them say that she found a python on her mother's private island and made it her designated pet. 

I hope for her sake it's just a ball python and not something that'll swallow her whole. 

Loneliness ripples through me as my eyes scan the room. I hadn't realized how much I relied on Destiny. 

And Chance, the corners of my mind whisper. 

I lock the thought away in a trash can in the deepest recess of my mind. 

I keep my face buried in my locker and absent-mindedly fiddle with the contents, rearranging them over and over again as if each item is a replica of one of my thoughts and I'm trying to sort them out, except I've got no idea of where to put what. 

I need to talk to Chance. 

I might as well go crazy since whirlwinds of maybes and what-ifs assault my head every time I think of him, think of what I could have possibly done to make him hate me. Sometimes I wish I never left at all. 

I linger behind the rest of the crowd and step out after everyone else, building up the nerve to get through the next forty minutes before I can hole up in my room in peace. Preferably with food. Waffles, perhaps. I make a mental note to ask my housekeeper to make some for me. 

A low whistle sounds from behind me. 

I turn around. Of course, it has to be him. 

A girl with ash-blonde hair stands to his right, leaning her head on his arm, and to his left is a brunette with crimson highlighting a few strands of hair. 

I narrow my eyes at Blondie. 

He lifts his hands in mock surrender and shakes his head. "Not me," He points at the guy next to him, "Slap him if you're looking for your next victim." 

"And she knows Valentino." The guy hums. "You didn't tell me you were acquainted with the newbie, Drake." 

Drake Valentino, huh, my eyes say as I glance at him for a fleeting second before returning my gaze to the brunette. 

"Ryder," he says pleasantly with a smile that wipe away everything else from his features — if there had been at all. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance." 

"So you're the newbie." My gaze moves to the girl draped over Drake. She lets her eyes scan my body from head to toe. "Cute enough," she mumbles after. "Name's Hazel." 

I raise an eyebrow. "The newbie?" 

She shrugs. "Word gets around." 

I look at Drake. He returns my gaze with a casual gleam until he realizes mine is a death stare. 

"Why am I being blamed for everything?" He throws his hands up in the air. "Sabrina's the one bitching around, don't look at me like that." 

Sabrina? 

"Lopez?" They nod. Crap, I've really fucked up. My eyes widen. "What do mean bitching around?" 

"Getting defensive, are we?" Ryder says with faint amusement. I push back a scowl. 

"Nothing life-threatening, don't worry." Hazel assures me, brushing off Ryder. 

"Unless you've got something to hide." Ryder adds, clearly enjoying himself. Drake hits him lightly on his shoulder. 

I roll my eyes, hiding the relief that spreads through me. "There's nothing to hide." 

Hazel looks up at Drake. "How do you know each other?" 

Drake opens his mouth at the same time as I do but we're both cut off when a shrill whistle echoes through the premises. I wince as the sound pierces my ears. 

●⁍●⁍●⁍● 

Destiny had promised me a ride back despite my house being conveniently within walking distance of the school. Against every shred of sensibility, I find myself wearily eyeing my surroundings every other minute as my feet head toward the Lexus. I disregard it as apprehension. 

It took Chance less than an hour to turn my senses inside out. 

A long sigh escapes my lips. 

I don't know where to start, what to say, or how to say whatever it is that I'll end up telling him. My head is a chaotic mess. 

I stumble with a tiny shriek when a hand loops through mine all of a sudden. 

"Hey," says Hazel as she appears beside me, her firm grip the only reason my ass isn't planted on the ground right now. My eyebrows raise with surprise and masked suspicion. 

"Hi?" 

She either doesn't hear the question in my tone or simply chooses to ignore it. 

We've exchanged probably two sentences during the day, none of which have hinted toward the possibility of probable friendship. 

"So—" She drags out the syllable, steering me away from my designated path toward her own, very much against my will, "Since Valentino has deemed you worthy enough to be spoken to, I suppose I could let you on the way things work around here." 

"Excuse me?" 

Ignored again. 

"I believe you're living with your father," she mumbles, unlocking her iPhone and holding out her hand in a request for my own, "Given your parental status— oh, don't give me that look, a little illegality never hurt anyone." 

I eye her warily and wrench my hand out of her looped one, brushing away the other that's held out. "For whatever reason you're here, no thank you." 

She rolls her eyes — a color somewhere between amber and hazel — and says, "You're going to want to take that back. Hierarchy can be brutal and you really don't want to end up as the scraps that are fated to be walked upon by us." 

She points her chin toward beyond the gates where a girl with French-braided hair is scurrying away with her head hung low. Laughter bellows from an Aston Martin before it charges out the gates, right in her direction. My eyes widen. 

I turn to face Hazel and let every bit of the disdain I feel paint my features. 

"You're horrible." I say to her face, "Every single one of you." 

"That's the way life works, darling. A little bit of fun never hurt anybody. " she drawls. "Now, you can either walk away and become one of her kind, or you could give me your address and I'll have a car waiting for you at 7." 

My tongue itches to say fuck you, bitch, — because I want nothing more than to curl up with Destiny on the alcove bed by my window with brownies and catch up on three years' worth of talk — but instead, the words that leave me are, "And it'll take me where?" 

She smiles, seemingly pleased with herself. "You're going to find out just how the upper half of the social pyramid spends their weekday evenings." 

And without question, Chance and Sabrina, residing at the peak of the pyramid, would grace the crowd with their presence. 

And their presence plus mine equaled my funeral. 

"Generous of you," I say sweetly with a fake smile, "But I don't think the upper half of the pyramid would appreciate the scraps trying to worm their way up their ranks. Better to be content with being tossed aside than walked upon." 

Hazel shrugs and says, "You do you," and then she's gone. 

I spot Destiny leaning against the trunk of her car, music blaring from the headphones slung around her neck even from across the ground. 

I don't spare Hazel's retreating figure a second glance before walking toward Destiny, throwing myself into the passenger seat of the Lexus, and slamming the door shut. 

●⁍●⁍●⁍● 

I can't sit still. 

Not with the large coffee I'd downed earlier sloshing in the pits of my stomach doing nothing to stop my mind from quieting. 

I peer at the polished wooden wall clock at the other end of my room. The minute hand strikes quarter past six. 

Perhaps I should have given Hazel the benefit of the doubt and let her whisk me into whatever she'd be out doing. Maybe I should stop relying so much on Destiny and on the possibility of Chance and do something on my own, make friends of my own. 

Practical decision-making, however, I know, isn't my strong suit. 

"Just why?" I groan, kicking the carpeted floor with my socked feet. I push open a window and perch my arm on the ledge, dropping my chin on it. Fresh air drifts into the room. 

A sudden wave of longing hits me. 

A month ago, had I been feeling this exhausted, all I had to do was walk out of my room and head downstairs to find either my mother or my stepfather, Carlos, somewhere around the house. 

My mother might have been tending over her newest addition to her small yet wild little garden in our backyard, crawling with the most impossible colors, colors that emerged from every nook and cranny. 

Or maybe she'd be humming to the tunes of those 90s hits she liked so much, dusting the glass and crystal trinkets she couldn't stop herself from buying. 

Maybe, I'd walk into the kitchen for a glass of water to find her and Carlos there, cooking together as if the presence of the other was all they needed in the world. I'd seen how she smiled at him, seen the way he idly looked at her. 

I hated the divorce, but that was probably because I hated the fact that she had married my father in the first place. With Carlos, though, she was truly happy. Never had I seen so much light in her eyes, not even in what I thought was the happiest memory I had with her and my father. 

Back when all was right. Back when I thought it was. 

In the past few months, I'd come as close to regarding Carlos as a father as I could, because, god, he tried. He tried so hard to be there for me. To try to ease himself into my life; to become a figure I knew I could rely on, even though he didn't have to. Even though it would have been fine with just being civil. Even though some part of him feared I would blame him for the separation of my parents and my having to leave behind the only life I'd ever known. 

Even though some part of me feared what he feared to be true. 

I didn't realize just how much I actually loved him. Loved him truly, as a daughter does a father. 

Settling into a new life had been frighteningly easy, and being thrust back into the past was terrifyingly not. 

Now, if I were to walk downstairs, I'd find the place hollow and empty; a house so large yet housing merely two individuals. The housekeeper, Briar, was welcoming enough. Polite and kind, that's what she's been. 

But I can't talk to her. Can't hope for motherly advice. 

Because my mother is dead, whispers the corners of my mind I generally choose to keep locked up. 

And, of course, my father isn't around. Just as he hasn't been around for the greater part of my life. Just as he hasn't been around for the past week. 

Three sentences were all that was exchanged once I'd been picked up from the airport by the personal driver he had sent. 

The first was a bland set of words arranged together that said it was nice to have me back and that he apparently missed me. 

Second was that he had enrolled me in BCA, and I basically had no choice otherwise. 

The third one said that if I needed anything else, I could inform or ask the housekeeper. 

And that was it. 

Nothing else, no concern about how I was after three goddamned years, no mention of my mother, no question about whether I was fine with living here or fucking not. 

Not even another appearance. 

I would have thought I was the sole person who lived here if it weren't for the empty cup of black coffee I had seen on the kitchen island on my fourth day back when I had woken up an hour earlier than usual. 

It is bleak, truly. 

Just as bleak as the fact that black coffee even is a thing. It does not deserve to exist. 

And then there's Chance. Chance. 

Ugh. I want to plaster his face to the wall and throw darts at it for the amount of time he's occupied my thoughts in a single day alone. I should ask Destiny if she's still up for the dartboard idea. We could share. 

Shame creeps up my spine when I recall the afternoon; shame and embarrassment and utter humiliation. Adrenalin has worn off and so has the sensation in my stomach and now I feel nothing but dread and discomfiture thinking of it. 

Why did I let him do that? 

Why am I blaming myself for every fucking thing? 

I can still feel the stretch of the sore muscles in my jaw and the terror that had accompanied it. The terror of being completely powerless. And yet, I'd still defended him from his own words. Said things I know I shouldn't have and yet didn't regret. 

And I hate that all my thoughts and actions are slowly beginning to revolve around him despite it having been only, what, 40 hours since I'd seen his face again? 

Reminiscing and debating my present life has stolen fifteen whole minutes. 

The minute hand strikes 6:29. 

I grit my teeth. 

Fuck Ambrose for treating me like shit, fuck my father for treating me as if I didn't exist, fuck Destiny for giving a shit about her Mom and deciding to stay with her on her birthday today while mine was dead, fuck Drake Valentino for being blonde, fuck that Ryder guy for even daring to look at me, fuck Sabrina Lopez for fucking daring to look at Chance, and fuck me for bothering to fuck them. 

I am going to that shit Hazel invited me to. 

●⁍●⁍●⁍● 

Thanks to my instant refusal about the specifics of the evening, I opt for a pair of baggy sage green pants and pair it with a red cropped, full-sleeved velvet top with a kind-of plunging neckline, not wanting to overdo or underdo my clothing since I'm clueless about the dress code. 

I walk over to the vanity opposite the floor-length mirror at the other end and adjust the circular mirror to face me. 

With a swift flick of my wrist, I have a smooth, perfect trail of eyeliner curving from my eyelids to a little before my temples. 

It's the one skill I don't hesitate to pride myself on. 

Since I'm not in the mood — and lack the energy and patience required— for glamorizing myself up more than that, I pick up a clear lip gloss to swipe across my lips, but my hands halt inches away from my lips. 

I shut my eyes as the memory assaults me once again. 

Fingers brushing my lips; fingers smearing the gloss; feral, obscene thrusts leaving smudges of wax on his length, glistening under the lights, on my lips, on his fingers, on his— 

Lord, cleanse my soul. 

The stick slips out of my sweaty palms and clatters onto the vanity with a resounding clank. I make no move to even touch it. 

I don't think I'm going to be able to touch it for the next few days. At the very least. 

I settle for a soft, nude Chanel lipstick. 

I just hope Hazel wasn't joking about the car she'd have waiting for me otherwise this would all have been for absolutely nothing. 

I peer out of my window toward the lush front yard, streaks of orange shimmering against the stillness of the artificial pond. It looks heavenly. 

Beyond the gates, on the road, I look for a sign of any vehicle. This part of the town doesn't have many houses, and the ones that are around stand on a vast expanse of land each, — because, money — making them all appear a good distance apart from each other. 

Vehicle passing is minimal, from what I've observed in the past week. 

But when I see a silver Maserati parked a few feet down from the front gate of my house, I instantly know it's the one waiting for me not because it's the only one on the street, but because leaning against the door of the driver's seat stands Drake Valentino, hands hung lazily in his pockets he returns my gaze with a twinkling one of his own.