A bright blonde swath of hair catches my eye. Felicity’s about ten steps ahead of me. There are three equally blonde girls huddled around her. Part of me wants to run up and hide in that group of girls. The other part of me knows Felicity would bite my head off and then step on my bloody, exposed neck. So I trail behind.

I’m not sure why she hates me, but she does. I’m positive it has something to do with Easton, possibly something to do with Easton and me. Were they dating at the time that I slept with him? Of all the things that bother me about my loss of memory, the sex one is the worst. I can’t remember who saw me naked. Who laid their hands on me. Who I touched in return. I can’t remember any of it. But they do. Some of the boys that walk by have seen me—my bare chest, my stomach, the private place between my legs.

And it makes me feel sick and violated even though I must’ve given them all consent. So, yeah, of all the things I despise about my amnesia, this is at the very top of my list. It keeps me awake at night, makes my stomach churn and my head ache. I scan the passing boys, straining to find some kind of recognition, some kind of familiarity, but there’s nothing.

My gaze swings back to Felicity. She didn’t even try to hide her glee last night as Kyle and she took turns detailing Easton’s sins. Easton’s a pill-addicted drunk who will stick his dick into any available hole. The only reason he’s popular, swore the two of them, is because his father owns this town. I’d wager it’s because he’s wickedly attractive and has a smile powerful enough to knock a statue off its copper base.

As for me, I’m a cheat and a liar. I cheated on Kyle. I cheated in math. Felicity even implied I cheated to get into Astor. I don’t really understand that one.

I’m not convinced everything they’ve told me is the truth. They both have an ulterior motive, one that I don’t fully understand at this point. I’m guessing, based on the not very well subdued violence in Kyle’s voice, that his beef with Easton has to do with an ex-girlfriend—the one that Easton screwed in the pool. The reason for Felicity’s hatred may also stem from an Easton-related incident, but her happiness at my circumstances makes me believe that her anger is related to me in some way.

One thing I feel must be true is that I did hook up with Easton, which seems the most improbable of all the things Felicity has laid at my feet. God created a billion men, developed the perfect face, and stuck it on Easton Royal. It’s unfair the way his dark hair droops slightly over his right eye, making your fingers itch to brush it back. It’s criminal how blue his eyes are. Dark-haired boys should have unthreatening and bland eyes, not piercing blue ones that make you think of oceans and seas and skies on the sunniest, prettiest days. His chest is broad and his arms are defined, but not bulging in a gross way. He’s the vision that you conjure up in your dreams at night.

It’s hard to comprehend that a specimen of male beauty like Easton would ever be interested in me. It’s not that I’m a dog in the looks area, but there are leagues that a person plays in. My league is not the same as the Royals’. The Royals date girls in college, the ones who are the head of the cheer squad or president of their sorority. The Royals date girls with money, girls who are listed in the Daughters of the Revolution directory, girls who are beauty queens or television personalities or Instagram models. They do not date dumpy, round-faced girls who live with foulmouthed sisters, DA dads, and social-climbing mothers.

Me dating Easton Royal is about as likely as me hooking up with one of the members of BTS—in other words, not likely at all.

But he showed up at the French Twist last night. He gave me his jacket when I shivered, not from the cold, but from anxiety. He looked at me in a way that’s too tender and too familiar for people who are only acquaintances. The cold that seemed to have set into my bones began to thaw under that intense blue gaze. I wanted to crawl into his embrace and ask him to hold me until this nightmare was all over.

But when we talked about his partying and the things I’d heard him being accused of, his words all sounded like half-truths and it seemed like he was dodging a bit. I think he was lying to me about stuff. And withholding stuff. But telling the truth about other stuff. It was so confusing. Felicity’s and Kyle’s words swam around in my head until it ached and all I wanted to do was go home and hide. Since I don’t remember anything, I don’t have any way to counter their accusations.

And he’s not here this morning. Did I really expect him to keep his promise? I rub my hands together and give myself a short pep talk.

Rely on yourself. You can do this. It’s just school. This won’t last. You can do this.

Maybe not everyone is staring at me, but it feels like it. It’s as if I’m standing on stage giving a big speech with no clothes on and everyone in the audience is pointing and laughing.

Is she the one who lost her memory? Is she the one who put Sebastian Royal in a coma? Is she the one? Is she the one? Is she the one?

Yes, I want to scream. I’m the one. I’m the one who caused you to trip on the flat sidewalk, the one who copied your geography notes, the one who stole your boyfriend. It’s me! I want to scream, because I just don’t fucking know.

Mentally exhausted, I pin my chin to my chest and make my way up the stairs of the massive three-story structure that appears to house most of Astor Park Prep. Long wings stretch past either side of the main building. The sidewalk leading up to the front doors is wide enough to drive two semis down. Surrounding the buildings are acres of pristine, carefully cut grass that is still green despite the late November cold. The benefits of living in the South, I suppose.