LILLY'S POV
The ice cream hit me before consciousness did.
One second I was dead asleep, face-down on my desk in the back corner of Advanced Literature—because of course I'd fallen asleep, I'd worked until 3 AM at the café—and the next, freezing cold vanilla soft-serve was sliding down the back of my neck, soaking into my already-ratty sweater.
I jerked upright with a gasp that was absolutely not dignified, and the sound of cackling laughter exploded around me.
"Oops," Brittany Chen said, her voice dripping with fake innocence as she held an empty cup. "My hand slipped."
Yeah, and I'm the Queen of England.
I wiped ice cream off my neck with shaking fingers—from rage, not cold, though the cold wasn't helping and turned to face my tormentors.
Brittany stood there with her little pack of hyenas, all designer clothes and perfectly applied makeup and daddies who could buy their way out of any consequence.
"You think that's funny?" I asked, my voice coming out deadly quiet. The kind of quiet that should've warned them I was about two seconds from going full feral.
"Hilarious, actually," Madison Cooper chimed in, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder. "Almost as funny as your name. Ill Luck." She said it like it was some kind of punchline.
"Were your parents trying to manifest your entire personality, or were they just really bad at naming kids?"
The whole class—because of course everyone was awake now, watching the show—snickered. Even Professor Morrison, that useless waste of tenure, just looked up from her desk with mild irritation before going back to her phone.
Thanks for the support, teach. Really feeling that educational environment.
"At least my parents gave me a name," I shot back, standing up even though ice cream was literally dripping down my spine and into places ice cream should never go. "What's your excuse? Did Madison come free with the trust fund, or did they have to pay extra for the basic bitch special?"
Brittany's smile turned sharp. "Careful, scholarship trash. You're already on thin ice here. One more complaint and you're out."
"Right, because God forbid the poors get uppity," I muttered, grabbing my bag. My sweater was ruined—not that it had been nice to begin with, but still. It was mine, bought with money I'd earned serving coffee to assholes who didn't tip.
"What was that?" Brittany stepped closer, and her friends flanked her like well-trained attack dogs. "You got something to say?"
I had a lot to say, actually. I had approximately twenty years of pent-up rage and frustration just begging to be unleashed. But I also had exactly $3,000 in savings that I could not afford to lose by getting expelled for assault.
So instead, I smiled. Sweet as arsenic. "I said, thanks for the makeover. Really brings out my eyes, don't you think?"
I reached down, scooped up a handful of melting ice cream from my desk, and before anyone could process what I was doing, I smeared it right across Brittany's designer blouse.
Her shriek could've shattered glass.
"You BITCH—"
"Problem, ladies?" Professor Morrison finally decided to acknowledge our existence, looking up with an expression of deep exhaustion. Like dealing with us was such a burden on her soul.
"She attacked me!" Brittany screeched, gesturing wildly at her ruined shirt. "She just—she assaulted me! I want her expelled!"
"She dumped ice cream on me first while I was sleeping," I pointed out, my voice remarkably calm considering I was vibrating with fury. "I was just returning the favor."
"That's not what happened," Madison jumped in immediately. "Brittany accidentally knocked over her cup and it fell on Lilly. And then Lilly went psycho and attacked her for no reason."
I looked around the classroom, at all the faces carefully looking anywhere but at me. Not one person was going to back me up. Not one person was going to tell the truth.
Typical.
"Is this true?" Professor Morrison asked, but I could already see it in her eyes. She'd already decided. I was the problem. I was always the problem.
"She's lying," I said flatly. "They all are but you're going to believe them anyway because they're rich and I'm not, so why am I even bothering?"
"Ms. Lucky—"
"Winters," I snapped. "My last name is Winters. Lucky is just the pathetic nickname I gave myself because apparently 'Ill Luck' wasn't traumatic enough for my classmates to work with."
Professor Morrison pinched the bridge of her nose. "Just... go clean yourself up and try not to cause any more disturbances."
"Sure," I said, grabbing my bag and heading for the door. "I'll just go be disturbed somewhere else. So much easier that way."
Behind me, I could hear the whispers starting up again. Freak. Psycho. Trailer trash. All the greatest hits.
God, I hate this place, I thought as I shoved through the bathroom door and caught sight of myself in the mirror. Ice cream in my hair, my sweater soaked through, mascara—the cheap kind that wasn't waterproof because I couldn't afford the good stuff—running down my cheeks.
I looked like exactly what they thought I was. A mess. A disaster. A girl whose own mother had named her Ill Luck and apparently cursed her to live up to it.
"Get it together," I muttered, splashing cold water on my face. "You've survived worse than vanilla soft-serve and some mean girls. You can survive this."
Except I wasn't sure I could. Not anymore. Not when every single day felt like drowning, like trying to breathe underwater while everyone else got to float along the surface without even trying.
I cleaned up as best I could, changed into the spare t-shirt I kept in my locker—thank God for paranoia and always being prepared for disaster—and headed home. There was no point staying for the rest of classes. I'd just be the entertainment, the cautionary tale, the girl everyone loved to hate.
The bus ride took forty minutes because of course I couldn't afford to live anywhere convenient. By the time I climbed the stairs to our shitty third-floor apartment, I was exhausted down to my bones.
Please let Mom be home. Please let her have taken the day shift so Roger isn't—
I opened the door and the apartment was silent.
"Mom?" I called out, already knowing she wouldn't answer.
"She's working late," Roger's voice came from the living room, and my entire body went rigid. "But I'm here. We can keep each other company."
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.
"That's okay," I said, backing toward the stairs to my room. "I actually have to get ready for work. So I'll just—"
"Stay and talk for a minute." He appeared in the living room doorway, and the smile on his face made my skin crawl. "We never get to spend time together. Just you and me."
"Because I don't want to spend time with you," I said bluntly, taking the stairs two at a time. "No offense, but you're not my dad and I'm not interested in bonding."
I made it to my room and tried to slam the door, but his hand shot out, catching it before it could close. The force of it made me stumble back.
"That's not very nice, Lilly." He pushed the door open, stepping into my room like he had every right to be there. "I've been nothing but good to you and your mother. The least you could do is show some gratitude."
My heart was hammering so hard I thought it might break through my ribs. This was the moment I'd been dreading since Mom married this creep six months ago.
"Get out of my room," I said, trying to sound brave and probably failing miserably. "Now."
"Or what?" He took another step closer, and I could smell the beer on his breath. "You'll tell your mother? She won't believe you. She never does."
He was right. I'd tried to tell her, tried to explain why I locked my door at night, why I flinched when he got too close. She'd accused me of being dramatic, of trying to ruin her happiness, of being jealous that she'd finally found someone.
"I just want to get to know you better," Roger continued, reaching out to touch my arm. "Is that so wrong?"
His fingers brushed my skin and something in me snapped. I slapped his hand away so hard the crack echoed through the room. "Touch me again and I swear to God—"
I didn't finish the sentence. I just reached into my bag and pulled out the taser I'd bought last week with money I'd been saving for textbooks.
Roger's eyes widened as I held it up, my finger on the trigger.
"Get out." My voice was shaking but the taser wasn't. "Get out right now or I will light you up like a Christmas tree, and then I will call the cops and tell them exactly what you tried to do."
For a long moment, we just stared at each other. Him calculating whether I'd really do it. Me praying he'd just leave before I had to find out if I was brave enough to follow through.
Finally, he backed toward the door but the smile on his face made my blood run cold.
"This isn't over, Lilly," he said softly. "I'll be back. And next time, you won't see me coming."
Then he was gone, his footsteps heavy on the stairs.
The second the apartment door slammed, my legs gave out. I slid down the door, taser still clutched in my shaking hands, and burst into tears.
I can't do this anymore, I thought as sobs wracked my body. I can't survive here. I can't keep fighting. I can't—
But I would. Because I always did. Because the alternative was giving up, and I'd be damned if I let them win.
I'd survived twenty years of being named Ill Luck. I'd survived bullies and poverty and a mother who resented my existence.
I could survive this too.
I had to.