I wake up gasping. Cold air hits my face as my blanket whips off of my face. It's just a nightmare, I think to myself as I turn to see the digital clock that sits by my headstand. The clock's red glare comes off in beams.

6:28 AM. Thirty-two more minutes and I'll have to wake up. Thirty-two minutes until I can escape. I can still hear the screaming from last night.

I can still feel the sting of the slap across my face.

I decide that I'll get up. The house is completely quiet. "Harley?" comes a whisper and I flinch. My room door creaks open and in the crevice stands my mom. I sigh in relief. Her haggard frame makes me want to shrivel up and cry. She didn't always look like this—no, she used to be beautiful—but it was over the past eight years that she'd worn down into this diminished version of herself. So weak. So frail.

"Yes?" I murmur back, not daring to speak any louder.

"Why're you up so early?"

"I couldn't sleep."

A shuffle comes from down the hallway and her eyes widen in fear, mirroring my expression. "Jennie!" At the voice, we both tense.

"You better go," I whisper to my mom.

She gives me an apologetic smile and then brightens to go attend to Jake. I get ready for school and walk into the bathroom. I turn around to lock the bathroom door and then stop myself. No, I'll get in trouble.

I leave it closed but unlocked and then look at myself in the mirror. My cheek has a mark on it and I pull out some foundation. As I'm applying it, a loud name shouts my voice. I jump as my bathroom door is shoved open. "Harley!" Jake's uncomfortably warm arms wrap around me, squeezing my rib cage.

I don't even struggle, I just wait for him to roughly pull away and hold me by my shoulders. I smile nervously when he does so. His fingers wrap around my shoulders and stretch towards my collarbone, digging into the hollow space there. He looks at the foundation on the counter and the gleam in his eyes becomes dangerous.

"What's this?" Jake picks the bottle up and inspects it. "Makeup?"

I stammer for an answer. "I-it's to cover up t-the mark," I manage to whisper.

"Hm," he says before setting it down sharply. The glass makes a loud noise, making me flinch. "I'll give you a ride to school."

The thought sends terror skyrocketing through me but I know better than to refuse. "Thank you."

A pat—more like a rough slap—on the back, and he leaves. I sigh in relief and then reach shakily for the foundation.

Jake is my stepdad. My mom married him after my dad died. He was nice enough in the beginning and then his true colors bled out.

I finish coating my face with the foundation and then pile books into my backpack. I don't bother grabbing breakfast and walk out to get in the back of his Rolls-Royce Wraith. I clutch the bag to myself and look at my hands. As he gets into the driver's seat, he slams the door.

"What do you think?" His sudden question—and loud voice in the silence—startles me. My reaction causes him to laugh, an obnoxious sound.

"What…what do I think of what?" I ask, my voice soft.

He tosses back two pamphlets. "Bali or Fiji?"

I pick them up from the car floor and study each one. "I-I like Bali," I answer.

Jake grunts and slams a hand down on the wheel as we turn out of the white stone driveway. "Okay."

I look at the time on the dashboard.

7:26. Ten more minutes and I'll be able to escape. Just keep the duct tape on, I repeat in my head.

My school comes into view and I try not to show my desperation to get out of the car. As the car slows, I grab my bag and get up. "Not so fast," Jake says, grabbing my wrist. I turn around, feeling my heart rate spike up. "What do you say?"

"Oh, sorry. Thank you," I say.

His grip loosens and I slip out of the car, trying to calm my hummingbird heartbeat.

The last year at this flea ridden middle school, and I'll be transferred to a highschool different from everyone else. But for now, it's fine.

I make my way down the loud hallways, trying to avoid getting thrown into a locker from the rough housing, and walk into my first class—Spanish. "Harley," the teacher looks at me as she calls attendance.

Another girl takes her seat next to me in the back, laughing from whatever joke she'd shared with her friend.

"Homework?"

I look and shake my head. "I'm sorry," I whisper, my larynx not allowing me to go any louder.

She moves on to the next desk. I bring out my notebook and open it to the page we were last on. "Ew, is that blood on your notebook?" the girl beside me asks, her nose wrinkling up.

My eyes move down the stain on the page.

"Uh, no, it's paint," I answer softly.

Hopefully, she buys the lie. She shrugs and goes back to decorating her page.

I rip the paper out of my notebook and ball it up. I'll throw it away at the end of class. "Okay, title your page…"

An hour later, I'm packing up and hurrying off to my next class. "Harley!" I spin around at the sound of my name, tensing up. "Jeez, chill out, it's me." My gaze finds Leila.

"Oh, sorry," I mumble.

Leila has been my friend for a few months now—my only friend. "You're so jumpy," she jokes, looping her arm through mine. "What do you have for lunch? Something your chef made?" Leila smirks.

I feel a laugh bubble through my lips. "Shut up, no."

"Then what?"

"Nothing."

"Why? You're not hungry?"

I shrug as her dark blue eyes study me.

She sighs and then says, "I still can't get over the fact you have a chef." She only knew because Jake "suggested" she come over and went around bragging about everything. I still felt horrible about it. "You don't look like a snobby rich kid, though."

As we make our way into the orchestra room, our conversation becomes quieter. "I'm not rich," I mutter, getting my violin. I'm not particularly good at it, but I like playing anyway.

"Chromatic scale!" Ms. Sallow announces, sitting on her piano bench.

I position my violin on my left shoulder and play the half notes starting from open G.

Leila is much better at playing than me, and when we start playing the sheet music, she seems to be one with the piano.

"So," Ms. Sallow starts as the noise quietens, "our concert is coming up." Excited murmurs spread throughout the room. "Before you get too excited," she says, barely maintaining her excitement, "I need everyone to sign a slip."

The paper pile gets thinner as it makes its way around the room and I'm the last to take one. "Wow!" Leila exclaims from beside me. "We're going to play in the high school hall!"

I pretend to share her excitement, not knowing the big deal. "Cool."

"We should practice together after school," she suggests, blue eyes filled with exhilaration.

Smiling back, I nod. "I'll have to ask Jake."

Her eyes narrow and she tilts her head. "Why not just ask your mom?"

"Yeah," I say, not wanting to say anything that'll get me in trouble. "We better pack up." The bell rings in two minutes.

"Bye," Leila says as we head off to different directions. "Let me know what your mom says!"

"Okay." I wave bye and walk to my next class.