The party was on Sunday.

And the rumors started on Monday.

“I heard she told him no because she thinks she’s better than him.”

“Well, I heard that she came onto him and he said no.”

“I’ll do you one better, she drugged him by putting something in his drink, and even stole his phone.”

“Yeah, rumor has it, the phone is in her backpack right now.”

I felt the straps of my backpack snap before I was drug backward and knocked to the ground. “Let’s see if it’s true!” An ominous voice coming from the school jock, Bradley sent a shiver down my spine.

After all, he was the reason that I was almost—

No.

I don’t believe it.

I don’t believe myself.

There’s no way that he tried to—

My stomach lurches and bile rises in my throat.

I’m gonna be sick.

Leaving my backpack, I duck into the bathroom and spew whatever was left inside of me into the toilet.

By Tuesday, the rumors still swirl.

This time, I’m pregnant and don’t know who the father is. I can’t say I can give them any points for creativity, the pregnancy rumor goes around St. John’s every sunrise.

No one talks to me in the halls, they all just whisper, and look at me with those eyes.

Some pitying, others condemning, but all of them kill me a little every day.

Wednesday comes and goes, the teachers have gotten a hold of the rumor by now, and they all give me parental pity. “You okay, Chelsea?” “Administration is here for you.”

Tell a trusted adult praddle that never means anything.

Thursday is horrible.

He finds me in the stairwell alone, pushes me against a wall and threatens to kill me if I tell anyone.

I haven’t because no one’s asked me, and if they did, they wouldn’t believe me.

Then, the principal tells me my presence is becoming a distraction and I’m slapped with a three day suspension.

Way to victim blame, very saintly of you.

My dad downs a bottle of beer when I tell him and hits me, my mom watches.

That night, I find his 22-caliber pistol and fire one round into my head, ending it all right there.

A blow hits my shoulder from Daniel, Chelsea’s old best friend. “Dude, that’s not what the rumors say!”

I ignore how perfectly he can recall that Sunday night party, and how he laughs when he gets to the part about Chelsea’s suicide.

This ravenous rumor has been roaming the halls of St. John’s for a year now.

But no one ever learns.

I let them call me by my new name, Cassie, and listen to them talk about me—I mean—Chelsea.