CLEO
AGE 15

I QUIT CHEER A FEW MONTHS AGO.

The skirts were too short. I can't leave my house in anything that reveals my arms or legs. I only wear long sleeves and long pants. Even when it's eighty degrees out. Brookes thinks I'm crazy.

He doesn't know what I'm trying to hide.

I used to believe in love songs. In damsels who would be saved. And dragons that could be slayed.

If only I could still be that girl.

There's no such thing as a fairytale life. A bitch can grow up in a beautiful mansion. Earn good grades for a good college. Date the right guy from the right family. Smile perfect for the perfect Instagram post. But reality is never as shiny as it seems.

Shit just appears that way from a distance.

I know what you're thinking. My problems are trite compared to others. I have a ten million dollar roof over my head, food prepared by a private chef on my table, and Louboutins lining my closet. I'm Cleo Fitzgerald, after all. One of Fairmont High's prettiest, most popular girls, and I happen to be dating one of Fairmont's hottest, most eligible guys.

Everyone says that Trav and I were made for each other. Someday, we'll inherit our families' legacies and bend the world to our will. That's why I keep shit to myself. No one wants to hear me bitch and moan. I get it. Poor little rich girls don't need sympathy. 

Today is Monday. Trav brought me back to his place again after football practice. It's almost 9 pm. We're in his bedroom. Alone. His parents are never home. Much like mine.

I'm sitting on his bed, tapping away on my laptop. We're supposed to be doing homework. I keep my eyes glued on the screen and try not to draw attention to myself. But my boyfriend moves to sit beside me, anyway. All two-hundred pounds of him. The mattress sinks under his weight. Burly arms come around me, trapping me against an unyielding chest.

He slams my laptop shut.

Damn it.

He rasps in my ear, "You look hot as fuck right now, Cleo."

I didn't get to save my work.

Trav's arms tighten around my waist, reminding me of a giant snake constricting his prey. I can feel his dick pressing into my ass. It's growing harder and more insistent. I force my muscles to relax. I don't recoil from him even though instinct screams to kick him where it hurts and run.

There was a time when a mere smile from Travis Reynolds would've sent me over the moon. Like the other girls in our class, I had a huge crush on him throughout elementary school. That was when I still believed in fairytales. I thought I was the luckiest bitch in the world when Trav asked me out on our first date.

Not anymore.

His hand slides under my shirt. He starts groping my breast. Disgust crawls up my throat. With a feigned laugh, I slide away from his grasp. "Not now, baby."

I try to keep my tone light. Playful. But his expression immediately darkens as though he can see through my bullshit. 

Trav growls in a low, threatening voice, "How long are you going to make me wait, Cleo?"

Alarm rises in me. I've started developing a sixth sense for Trav's moodiness. He's slipping into a bad way again. My pulse is racing, but I try to stay calm. Whatever I do, whatever I say, I need to keep him calm.

Ignoring the sick feeling in my stomach, I force myself to kiss Trav's cheek and smile like I mean it. "I told you, I want to make it a special night for us. We can do it on my sixteenth birthday."

I turn sixteen in exactly one week.

"Seven more days," I whisper as though I'm not dreading it. "Then I'll be yours."

Trav's hold relaxes around me. I relax a little, too. I don't think he's going to lose his shit anymore. Not this time. Thank fuck.

He grins like the Trav the rest of the world gets to see. A golden retriever of a guy. But it'll only be a matter of time before his scary side seeps out again. "You promise?"

"I promise," I lie.

"I love you, Cleo."

"Love you, too," I sigh.

He then draws me into his arms, and I don't put up a fight. We cuddle on his bed. A picturesque image of a young couple in love. When Trav and I first started dating, I thought he was the perfect boyfriend. I believed everything between us was normal. Ideal even. I adored how he insisted on having a say in every aspect of my life. He told me I was special, precious, not like other girls, and my dumb ass ate that shit right up.

But then he started asking questions every time I went out with friends.

Where are you going tonight, baby?

So many questions.

Who will be there?

He started tracking me on my phone.

Be home by ten.

I couldn't go anywhere without him giving access to my GPS location. I couldn't talk to anyone without letting him scroll through my messages. Eventually, I couldn't do anything without his permission, and there's nothing cute about dating your own stalker.

More than anything, I want to end this nightmare between us. I've tried twice before and failed both times. Miserably. The first time I suggested a break up, Trav lost his shit and nearly broke my ribcage by slamming me into a table. I hid the injuries under my clothes. They never saw the light of day. The second time, Trav yanked me around by my hair and left a bruise on my wrist when I asked if we could take a breather.

The morning after our fight, my mom walked into my room while I was coming out of the shower, wrapped in nothing but a towel. I didn't have sleeves to hide the ugly purple mark on my wrist. When my mom asked about it, I told her that I accidentally slammed a car door on myself, and she believed me.

Everyone always believes me.

Maybe the truth is too ugly, too inconvenient, and too unbelievable. No one wants to hear it. Especially when my boyfriend is Travis fucking Reynolds. Captain of the football team, student body president, and heir to the multimillion-dollar Reynolds empire. He can do no wrong in their eyes.

Our fathers approve of us being together.

Our mothers are already planning an epic Reynolds-Fitzgerald wedding in some gaudy Parisian chateau.

My brother, Brookes, is having too much fun fucking up his own life to worry about mine.

After college, everyone's expecting me to become Mrs. Travis Reynolds. Whether I like it or not. No one knows how I really feel about Trav. No one knows how he treats me behind closed doors.

Trav is smart.

He never touches my face.

He treats me like a princess around everyone else.

In the beginning, I used to fight back. I would claw and kick. I would scream. I would cry. Real ugly, messy tears. After a while, though, I realized that no one cared about my pain, so I gave up. Fighting back only made him madder, and, whenever he got madder, his blows hit harder.

The tears don't come anymore. No matter how badly he hurts me. I simply close my eyes whenever the real Trav comes out swinging. My threshold for pain has gotten quite high. I imagine that I have my earphones on. The music in my head helps me escape. Silently, I sing, visualizing notes, melodies, and lyrics, until Trav tires himself out. Sometimes it takes a whole goddamn playlist before he's done.

I wish I knew how to make him stop.

I wish I could run from him.

But the spotlight on us feels too bright. There's nowhere to hide. For now, I don't know if I have a choice but to keep living the lies in this fucked-up fairytale of mine. I can't let my smile slip. People only like girls who look happy.

They hate the ones who cry.