2.

ALORA 

Head high, chin up, one steady foot in front of the other.

Remember, direct eye contact. Always.

A flawless smile, and don't flinch.

Don't let them see her again.

It’s a new you. The perfect Alora. 

Don't let them near those walls you've struggled to build.

The words echo in my head as I walk into the administrative building of St. James University, a prestigious private college filled with people I am not ready to face.

Classes are about to start, and I am on the verge of a breakdown. Before coming inside, I was certain I spent more than thirty minutes sitting in my car, trying to decide whether to drive home, bury myself under the covers and sleep, or call Ronan so he can tell me to start next week.

Instead, I choose the third invisible option, which is to suck it up and find my first class. I know what I sacrificed to get here, and it is too much to back down now. I had told Ro and Tris that yesterday, and I meant it.

I resist the urge to check my reflection in the glass I walk past. I’m wearing a blue low-rise skirt with a white halter-neck top, white sneakers, and a custom-made tote bag, which was a gift from Mama. My butterfly locs are gathered into a high ponytail with the curls framing my face like a bang and decorated with cowries and shell hair accessories. I finished the look with the clean girl makeup I spent weeks trying to perfect.

Stares follow me down the hallway. I tug my skirt lower, growing uncomfortable under the attention.

Mama told me things would get better when I became skinny.

But I don’t feel better.

I steal a glance around. There are faces I recognize. St. James draws people from the same social circle, and some of them had gone to high school with me. Some of them are staring as though they’re trying to work out whether I’m the girl they loved to bully back in high school.

The same girl they loved to call Alora the pig.

Aww,

Little Alora thinks she’s prettier than everyone else now that she has a great body and a face to die for. 

Keep dreaming. You are still the old you.

My steps falter as the familiar voice cackles in my head.

No. Not today, please.

“I won’t listen to you. I won’t let you get to me,” I mutter, trying to fight the panic rising in my chest.

I am you, Alora. You can’t get rid of me.

You need me to function, to remind you how pitiful and miserable you will be for the rest of your useless life.

My eyes sting. It doesn’t matter how often I hear those words. There’s no getting used to something that harsh.

My hands tremble, and I grip the hem of my skirt to hide it. I keep my head high and try to copy the easy smile on the faces around me.

Then I see the last person I want to face.

Dilora Andrews stands outside my lecture hall with a frown on her face as she watches me approach.

My palms turn clammy, and they fly to my stomach out of instinct.

It’s flat beneath my fingers.

I let out a breath of relief. I’m still not used to my new body.

  

"You are not the same fat girl she used to bully," I whisper.

The reassurance does little to steady my knees, which buckle when I remember the last time I saw her.

I study Dilora with an envy I hate admitting to.

Our names are almost alike, but that’s where our similarities end.

Dilora Andrews is every bit the perfect girl I wanted to be back in high school. Her long brunette hair is straightened to perfection. Her clothes scream high-end stores, and her makeup is flawless in a way I may never be able to attain.

I can’t remember Dilora ever looking anything but pristine and classy.

A stunning spawn of the devil.

Seven months, and she can still make my stomach feel as though it houses rocks in its pits.

I exhale, put my armor back in place, and approach the door.

I’ll ignore her. I won’t give her the chance to bully me. This isn’t high school anymore.

Just as I reach the door, her hand reaches out to touch me. I flinch before I can stop myself, then quickly mask the fear on my face.

“What do you want?”

My voice comes out cold. At least, it doesn’t sound like the wreck I am inside.

Dilora’s brows lift, and my boldness nearly crumbles. She steps back and lifts her hand.

“I’m sorry for scaring you, but I wanted to make sure it was you,” she says, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. “When I saw you enter the building, I thought you were someone else. You dress and talk differently now. Alora, you’ve changed a lot.”

Her gaze flicks to my septum piercing, and I tense.

“Is that why you stopped me? To tell me how much I’ve changed?” I asked, crossing my arms across my chest. “I have a mirror at home. I know I’m not the pig you used to bully.”

She looks surprised. “Alora, look. I promise I’m not looking for trouble. I just want to apologize.”

I scoff. “Do you think I’m a fool? You want me to believe that? You made my life a living hell because you thought I shouldn’t be allowed to exist in the same space as you.”

“I promise I’m not lying.” She says quickly. “You can ask Ronan. I tried contacting you, but when I couldn’t, I called him, but he wouldn’t give me your new number.”

I raise a brow.

This is news to me. Ronan never mentioned her, though I’m not surprised. After everything that happened in high school, everyone became overprotective. They wanted to keep anything connected to that part of my life away from me.

“You’re serious?” I ask, and she nods.

I can’t help it. I laugh.

“I’m sorry for laughing, but this is funny.” I gesture between us. “I just can’t believe you’d apologize to me. So, spill it. What do you really want?”

“I mean it,” she insists. “I want us to be friends.”

If I didn’t know better, I might believe her.

But this is Dilora. The girl who hated my guts. She wants me to lower my guard so she can strike.

Unless…

“I get it now." I fold my arms across my chest. “You want us to be friends now because I lost weight. Now, you can add me to your rich circle of obnoxious friends. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to be friends with someone as terrible as you.”

She sighs in defeat. “I understand why you feel that way, but I promise, I’ve changed.”

She reaches for me again, but I move back before she can touch me. Her hand falls to the side.

“I know I did a lot of childish things back then, but believe me, I regret them, and I want to make it up to you.”

I stare at her, unconvinced.

I don’t trust her. I doubt I ever will. But if she is claiming to be a different person, a part of me wants to keep her close and see how long she can maintain the act.

After all, keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

I loosen my folded arms. “I guess I could give you a chance,” I mutter.

She breaks out into a big smile and tries to hug me, but I flinch away.

She doesn’t seem bothered by my reaction. “I promise you won’t regret forgiving me, Alora.” She says, smiling broadly.

I don’t return it. “I hope so,” I murmur.

"Stupid Alora," the whispers sneer.