Book Two: Epilogue

Lex

14 Years Old

Something whizzes past my face, startling me out of a daydream. I blink and look around; everyone’s head is down, but a few people snicker quietly. As I scan the room, I lock eyes with a boy sitting a few stools down. His hair is mussed, his eyes are dark, and he glares at me with such hatred that it makes my stomach flip and my cheeks flush. I return my eyes to the paper before me, unable to stomach the intensity.

The science lab has a lingering scent of propane and formaldehyde. The smell hangs thick in the air, regardless of when we last burned something or dissected baby animals. The words on my test jumble together. I swear I knew this when I studied last night.

What is the function of the mitochondria in a cell?

True or False: DNA is found in the nucleus of prokaryotic cells.

What is an example of a biotic factor in an ecosystem?

Someone stands, walking their test to the front of the room and placing it on the teacher’s desk. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, willing my brain to catch up to what I’m reading. At the same time, I hear a quiet ‘psst’ and lift my head again. He’s still staring at me, a wicked sneer on his lips. Goosebumps spread across my skin, and I push my brows together, silently asking him, ‘What?’ His lips twist, stretching and spreading most maniacally, revealing his white teeth. This guy has the sharpest canines I’ve ever seen outside of some Hollywood vampire movie.

Shifting my gaze, I look to see if anyone else is seeing what he’s doing, how he’s acting. I can see from here that his test sheet is blank; he hasn’t even started. The room is filled with the tops of heads; his eyes are the only ones I can see. When I return to him, he slowly shakes his head back and forth. The motion is so subtle, but it’s a clear warning: do not look away again. My heart pounds wildly, creating a thunderous noise in my ears. I immediately fell in with many kids when I transferred to this school. I just as quickly fell out with that group, landing myself uncomfortably in the ‘outsider’ category and spending my lunch hours alone in the far end of the yard.

Overall, the girls I spent a few weeks hanging around act like I don’t exist. Occasionally, I’d hear them snicker, discussing my second-hand clothes or my mother’s most recent escapades in the school office. No one has paid me the type of attention I’m currently receiving from this boy. The teacher stands, and the scrape of his stool has every head in class swiveling toward the front—every head except for one. I can feel his gaze drilling a hole into the back of my head. It creates prickles on my skin that feel like fleas, and I nervously lift my hand to scratch my scalp.

“Ten-minute warning, kids,” the teacher announces as he walks down our aisle.

Ten minutes?

Fuck.

I’m nowhere close to finishing this, and it might as well be in French, which I’m also failing, because I’m lost. Flipping through the pages, I focus on the multiple-choice options, quickly filling in the options that feel like they make sense. I’m most certainly going to bomb this test. Another blur rushes past my face, and this time, I’m fucking angry. I slam my pencil down on the desk and turn on my stool to face the boy. His smile is gone, his expression like an ice sculpture. I open my mouth to ask him what the fuck his problem is, but he moves first, leaning forward in his seat, pushing in front of the small girl beside him. She pulls back, exclaiming, “Hey!”

“Fuck. You.” He grits out.

My eyes widen, and my mouth drops open in shock. This time, every head in class points toward us. My mind scrambles for a response, and simultaneously, my body screams for me to run away. I draw a complete blank. I don’t know this boy. I think he’s also in my drama class, but we’ve never exchanged words. While I’m trying to conjure a response, he continues to push toward me. Instinctively, I lean back, trying to escape him, and bump into the girl beside me.

The teacher is on the other side of the room and hasn’t noticed our altercation intensifying by the second. The girl I bump into doesn’t even comment. She stares at us. The boy is up, taking slow, measured steps toward me. With each step, I’m required to tilt my head up to see his face. I glance from his face to his hands. He halts when he’s just inches away from me. I can smell his body wash; it smells like that terrible Axe shit all the boys started wearing recently. He has the word ‘FUCK’ written in sloppy, bold black letters across his knuckles on one hand. On the other hand, it says, ‘KILL.’

He pushes his hand across the tabletop, using it as leverage as he leans over me, bringing his face too close to mine. My breaths come short, like the air is too thin, and I can’t get enough oxygen.

“What the fuck, Aaron?” the girl next to me spits at him. “You’re such a freak. Sit down.”

He doesn’t even look at her. His eyes don’t so much as flinch away from mine. Sweat forms in my palms and armpits. He feels like a train barreling toward me, and I can’t move or look away. I can’t get out of the way. My face must still be a complete vision of shock and horror because his eyes drop to my mouth, and he huffs out the cruelest-sounding laugh.

“Shut your fucking mouth, Morgan,” he growls. “Or I’ll assume it’s an invitation to put my fucking dick there.”

This gets the teacher’s attention.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Aaron. Principals office. Now!” he screams at him, hand outstretched toward the door.

Aaron doesn’t move. He doesn’t blink. His left hand, the one that says ‘KILL,’ slowly lifts. I can’t lean any further back. I’m pressed so hard into the girl behind me as it is. More kids around the class are starting to whisper.

“Aaron, don’t touch that fucking girl!” the teacher yells as he storms across the class.

Aaron doesn’t retreat or stop. His hand continues toward my face, and I brace myself for what I have to assume will be a painful experience. When he’s millimeters away, I slam my eyes shut, squeezing them as tight as possible.

Maybe I’m dreaming.  

I feel his finger brush my cheek as he collects the wisp of hair that frames my face and pushes it behind my ear. My heart vibrates in my chest, the beats so rapid that the sensation reminds me of a video I watched on hummingbird wings. The teacher reaches us seconds late, and my eyes fly open when I feel the impact. Aaron is taller than the teacher—taller than anyone else in class. The teacher grabs him by the back of his black hoodie and drags him toward the hall.

“I’m too fucking old for this shit, Aaron. Too close to retirement.” he’s livid; his voice echoes through the room.

Aaron’s eyes remain fixed on me until he’s pulled into the hall and out of sight. Only then do I take a deep breath. My body is tense, muscles clenched tight. The girl beside me nudges me slightly, standing up and shoving her books into her backpack, shaking her head in disbelief. The bell rings, and the class empties, but I can’t move. I sit hunched over awkwardly until older kids filter in for the next class. Rushing, I gather my things in my arms, realizing my test is still sitting on the desk and my teacher still hasn’t returned. In a flash decision, I jam the papers into my backpack. I’ve never been one to cheat, but I can’t fail this test.

English is a blur; I can’t stop thinking about the interaction with Aaron. During lunch, for the first time, I feel the weight of eyes on me as I move through the cafeteria. Groups silence as I pass, only to resume whispering when they think I’m out of earshot. Typically, I would eat outside, but when I reach the doors, the sky is filled with ominous dark clouds, and the pavement is splotchy with the first few raindrops. The ugliest feeling of defeat settles into my belly as I turn back to the rows of tables that line the large cafeteria. Predefined friend groups sit, chattering among themselves.

I walk, carrying my tray, toward the back corner, where the tables are empty. The fluorescent light over the table I sit at flickers, creating a desperate ambiance. My food has no appeal, and I push it around the plate for a few minutes before I drop my fork and look up, relieved when no one is paying any attention to me. Twenty minutes later, the room starts to clear, and I spot a girl sitting alone. Something about her keeps my attention.

Her brown hair cascades in gentle waves over her shoulders. She sports wire-rimmed glasses and is engrossed in reading The Bell Jar. I can’t help but smile as I observe her nibble on fries while flipping through the pages. When the buzzer alerts us to the start of the third period, she starts, knocking her mostly empty slushy over, and looks at her watch, rolls her eyes, shakes her head, and gently puts the worn book into her bag. I follow her when she stands and walks out of the cafe, staying far enough back that she doesn’t pick up on my presence.

She’s small, at least 5-6 inches shorter than I am. She has a delicate bone structure and walks with her head down, her backpack slung over one shoulder. She turns into a classroom, and I see other kids from my classes as I walk by. She’s my age. I quicken my pace, rushing through the school to drama—my second late class of the day. When I rush in the door, everyone mills about. With his wild and wiry hair, the teacher, Mr. Roberts, shuffles through pages on his desk. His glasses are pushed onto his forehead, a typical move that makes me smile every time. How the hell do they stay there?

I’m still smiling when a girl, who I’m pretty sure is named Jennifer, steps aside and reveals Aaron. Between the girl in the cafe and Mr. Roberts, I’d been able to forget about this morning. My mood instantly shifts, and anxiety crashes into me all over. Aaron stands next to a guy named Mike. Beside Aaron, he looks so tiny. They are caught in a tense conversation, speaking in hushed tones. Mike’s eyebrows shoot up as Aaron speaks, and somehow, I just know it’s about me.

I can’t believe they let him come back to classes after what he said—what he did.

I sit in the back corner, putting as much room as possible between him and me. Mr. Roberts rises to his full height and claps his hands, signaling he’s ready to begin. There’s an audible groan when he speaks.

“We’re starting scene work, and I’ve selected Mac-B.” his voice is rough, like sandpaper. I always imagine him chain-smoking his way through the eighties. “Don’t start. Shakespeare is a requirement, and Mac-B has options for every skill level. Or lack thereof, Aaron.”

He’s fixed his gaze on Aaron, who’s been talking to Mike without pause. Aaron turns his attention to the front.

“Whatever, man. Macbeth. Got it,” he says in the most defiant tone.

Mr. Roberts winces.

“It’s bad luck to say that. Try to remember.” he returns his attention to the broader group and continues. “Pick a scene. Monologue, group, whatever. Pick something that’s under ten minutes. You’ll have a month to work on it and present it to the class.”

Great.

Everyone rises, and again, I watch as natural groups form. Some of the girls giggle and hug their group. The guys form into small groups, jocks with other jocks, academic kids with other academic kids. I shift back and forth. I know the scene I’d love to do, but I need a few other girls and a guy. Mr. Roberts approaches me; his eyes are soft and kind as he hands me a beaten-up copy of Macbeth.

“Going it alone, Morgan?” he asks.

I shrug and smile.

“Guess so. I love the witches’ scene, but everyone has settled into groups. I’ll find a monologue.”

He looks around the room. For a minute, I think he'll ask some of the other groups if I can join. Instead, he puts a warm hand on my shoulder, lightly squeezing it before walking away. I spend the rest of the class flipping through the pages, ultimately settling on Act 1 Scene 7. Lady Macbeth accuses Macbeth of being a coward, and I could really use some of her bravery.

The bell rings, and I stand up. My focus is on tucking my book into my bag rather than on the people around the room. I don’t notice him until we collide. He’s solid. He doesn’t even budge when I bump into him. My gaze moves from his feet, taking in the drawn-on tattoos that have faded since this morning, up to his dark hoodie, and finally to his dark eyes. He glares down at me, his lips twisting into that sneer again. If he didn’t look so intensely evil, he would be beautiful, with a splattering of light freckles across his nose and a silvery scar that intersects his eyebrow.

“Morgan,” he snarls. The sound vibrates through my chest.

I start to step back, my flight response at an all-time high, but he grabs my arm, holding me in place. Something about him makes it impossible to look away. I want to avert my eyes. I want to scream out for Mr. Roberts to help me—for anyone to help me—but I’m frozen.

“You got me in trouble,” he seethes. “They called my parents.”

I open my mouth to respond. To tell him that he got himself in trouble, but before I can, he continues.

“There you go again, inviting my dick into that mouth.”

A chill spreads down my spine. No one has ever talked to me in such a vulgar and explicitly sexual manner. I slam my mouth closed. If I can’t speak, I won’t give him any excuse to terrorize me. His grip on my arm tightens so much that I wince. His eyes roam over my face and continue down my body, lingering on my chest as it heaves with my rapid breaths. I’m powerless to resist when he pulls my arm, crushing our chests together. He lowers his head slightly, putting our mouths so close that I can smell the faint hint of a cigarette mixed in with the peppermint of his gum. My stomach churns. I hardly ate anything at lunch, but it feels like it might come back up.

“You,” he breaths against my lips. “are fucking worthless.” I suck in a breath, the words feel like being slapped. “You aren’t worth the dirt on the bottom of my fucking shoe.”

With that, he pushes me back, releases my arm, and turns to walk out the door.

Any confidence I had leaves with him.

Thanks for checking out the epilogue for book two in Lex and Adrian's story!

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© 2025 Meg McLean. Words, chaos, and caffeine-fueled storytelling. All Rights Reserved.