All of Your Scars First Chapter

One

Ember

August

My mom blames herself.

Since the day I was born, she’s questioned every decision she made during her pregnancy. Maybe if she had changed her diet or exercised more, I would’ve turned out normal. When in reality, I was just unlucky. The doctor said something like this happening was one in a million.

I was that one.

The doctor told my parents it could’ve been worse… much worse. Blindness. Brain damage. Death.

But my mom didn’t care about what could’ve happened because, to her, this was worse. My appearance was compromised because her body never finished piecing me together. And the scar that travels across my face is a constant reminder of her greatest failure.

On the bright side, one good thing did come out of my mom’s pregnancy—my twin brother Campbell.

One of us grew up to be a golden child. Surrounded by friends and popularity.

The other one was me.

Shamed by even my own mother.

My mom blames herself, but not because she feels bad for me—

But for herself.

The first day of school has never been my thing, and it’s only gotten worse since starting college. And it doesn’t help that today, my body decided to wake me up five minutes before my alarm.

I turn my alarm off before it can go off, and the second I do, there’s a tap on my door.

“Em?” Cam pushes it open before I have a chance to respond. His eyes are closed like he’s worried I might not be decent.

“You can open your eyes.”

“Right,” he says, but he still hesitates before he does.

“You realize this can be avoided if you didn’t come into my room?”

“How else can I annoy you?” he wonders, and I roll my eyes. “Plus, I wanted to make sure you went to class.”

He knows me too well. I hoped college would be a fresh start, but it’s just more of me hiding in my room while my brother has the time of his life.

“You don’t have to worry about me so much,” I respond.

“Someone has to.”

I drag myself out of bed as he leans against my doorframe.

“Speaking of, have you talked to Mom recently?”

“Nope.” I sort through the clothes in my closet, trying to find the best outfit to swallow me up.

“You should give them a call.”

“Yeah, I will.”

I won’t.

Do you know how most kids want to go to college to have more freedom to party? I came to college to escape my mother’s constant scrutiny.

It got to a point where I wasn’t sure if she did it to hurt me or if the pain she caused went right over her head.

“I know it might not always seem like they care, but they do,” he says.

“Easy for you to say,” I reply. “You’re the golden child.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re much cooler than me.”

He messes up my hair before leaving me alone to get ready.

Cam has always treated me like a kid. He thinks he’s my big brother because he was born two minutes and fifteen seconds before me.

And he’s not the only one who sees himself as the big brother and me as the kid. Which is the only reason my parents let me go away for college. Because Cam got a full scholarship to Rockford. And if I went to Rockford, he could look after me. Which is the only reason I got out of going to the community college up the road from our house.

“Em, your food is getting cold!”

“I’m coming!” I lie, but he already knows that. Most kids are nervous for their first day of school; it’s not uncommon. It’s a different feeling, though, when there are constant stares and whispers. When your biggest insecurity is now the thing that gives you away.

When you no longer know why they’re staring because there’s no longer just one reason.

“I was starting to think you were going to ditch today.”

“If it were up to me, I would.” I walk into the kitchen and grab a piece of buttered toast off an otherwise empty plate. “Where’s breakfast?”

“I honestly thought you’d gone back to bed, and I was still kind of hungry, so I ate it.”

“Cam.” I laugh. “I swear you’re a human garbage disposal.”

“I’m a growing boy,” he says smugly.

He wasn’t wrong; he might not be physically growing anymore, but at 6’4, he eats more food in a day than I’d need in a week.

I finish the rest of the toast as my stomach grumbles.

“We should get going if you wanna find a seat in the back of the class.” Cam grabs his bag off the back of the bar stool. “Your class starts in half an hour, and the closest parking lot is on the other side of campus.”

“Why do you know more about my classes than I do?”

“I looked at your schedule. And a couple of our classes line up, so I can walk you. We can even meet up for lunch.”

“Cam.”

“I know, I know, I’m going all dad on you. But I just don’t want a repeat of freshmen year.”

My stomach sinks.

“We don’t talk about that,” I mumble, turning to grab a banana off the counter.

“I just don’t—”

“Cam, seriously, drop it. You’re right; we should go.”

_________

I sit in the back of the class because it’s harder for people to stare at me if I’m looking right back at them. It’s one of the only things I’m grateful for when it comes to college—no seating charts.

“Welcome to Economics 436.” Our professor, Mr. Randsen, writes the name of the course across the top of the whiteboard. “If you know what you’re getting yourself into, then you already know this class spans two semesters.”

He drops the Expo marker into a cup on his desk before leaning against it to face the class.

“Like biology majors who need to take a lab and a lecture, our economics students do the same. However, the looks of our lab are a little different.”

He grabs a pile of papers off his desk and hands them to the students closest to him to pass back in their row.

“No matter what your career path is after you graduate, you’re here because you need to be. This isn’t a class you’re taking for shits and giggles; this class could determine whether or not you graduate. And I don’t care who you are—”

The door flings open, slamming into the wall, as everyone turns to see the person walking into the class almost ten minutes late.

Why am I not surprised?

Out of everyone, the world just had to throw Declan Sanderson at me.

I would’ve assumed they had difficulty finding the classroom if it was anyone else, but that’s not the case. Declan probably wondered if this class was worth getting out of bed for but then decided he should grace us with his presence.

As he walks to the closest open seat, about three rows away from the very front, every girl in the class follows him with their eyes. I can practically see the drool spilling from their mouths.

It’s disgusting.

“Ah, Mr. Sanderson,” our teacher tosses Declan one of the thick packets he was just handing out, “thank you for gracing us with your presence.”

He returns to his desk and rests on the edge, “And you couldn’t have arrived at a better time. I was just telling the class about the lack of special treatment I give to my students. I don’t care if your practice runs late. Hell, I don’t care if you were saving a goddamn kitten from a tree. My class starts at nine-thirty, so I expect you to be seated at nine-thirty.”

“Got it.” Declan glances at him, then directs his attention back to the paper.

I’ve had the great pleasure of knowing Declan Sanderson for most of my life, and I can thank my brother for that. But I’ve been lucky enough to avoid having classes with him until now.

“At nine-thirty, that door will be locked from this point forward. If you’re not in this classroom, you’re absent. There’ll be no making up assignments unless you have contacted me personally, and I feel your reason is valid.” He walks around the room, making eye contact with everyone. “And please know, I’m not stupid. Remember that when coming up with your excuses for not being in class.”

I’ve heard about Mr. Randsen being strict, but I’m hopeful he might be one of the few teachers who doesn’t let Declan pass just because of who he is on the ice. Most professors on this campus would never even consider failing one of our hot-shot hockey players; after all, they’re the ones who put this college on the map. Failing them would be blasphemy.

The hockey players could break the law, and our Dean would look the other way.

He stops in front of Declan’s row and looks right at him. “Understood?” He receives a universal nod and then returns to the whiteboard. “Then let’s get started.”

Mr. Randsen picks up one of the remaining packets off his desk and quickly starts reviewing the information. Which is nothing new from what I’ve seen as a college student. Grading, late work, extra credit, missing class, the basic and boring list goes on and on.

“Any questions on what I’ve covered in the syllabus?”

The room is silent. Probably, because, like I said, this isn’t new information for anyone in this room.

“Alright, now let’s move on to groups.”

Groups?

My throat feels like sandpaper. I knew Mr. Randsen was a hardass. Every rate your teacher I read about him said he gives no shits what you’re going through; all he cares about is submitted assignments. But it also mentioned that the class doesn’t require group work… or at least didn’t.

“Groups?” Someone takes the question right out of my mouth.

“Yes, groups,” he says, turning back to us. “We’re a professor down this semester in the Economics department, which means our class sizes are larger than typical. We don’t have the time for you guys to each present your projects next semester, which means teaming up to complete them in a fraction of the time.”

Just my fucking luck. The year I take this class, they have to switch things up.

“Before you get any ideas, I have a list of partners already put together.” He grabs a sheet from his desk and examines it carefully. “We were supposed to have fourteen groups of three, but we’ve already had a student drop the class. So, one of the groups will only have two students.”

I sigh, waiting to hear my name off the list. I tap my pencil against my notebook as he rattles off the students’ last names. Even though I hate working with other students, the fact that he’s picking the groups is a weight off my shoulders. Because there’s only one thing I hate more than working in a group: being the last person chosen because no one wants to work with you.

“Williamson, Martin, and Stevens. Miller, Rivera, and Clarke. Diaz, Lewis, and Rutter.”

I count the number of groups in my head. Ten, eleven, twelve. And as we get to the last groups, the realization of who’s left hits me in a wave. I sit up, my pen tapping at a more rapid pace.

The world can’t hate me that much, can it?

“Andrews, Mercer, and—” he glances up at the class, and I pray the following words out of his mouth are Bowman. They have to be Bowman. “—Marshall.”

I close my eyes, releasing a long anguishing breath. You’ve got to be kidding me. Out of all the people in this class, I had to get stuck with him—the one person I’ve done such a good job at avoiding.

“Which leaves Bowman and Sanderson.” He puts the paper back on his desk, looking up at us. “Alright, guys, I’ll give you five minutes to find your partners.”

I don’t even have to open my eyes to feel another pair already on me. This is going to be a long year.