No Sympathy For The Fake Victim

Melanie Landry, my housekeeper’s daughter, had what you might call a pathologically thin skin. Not physically—though she acted as if a gentle breeze would bruise her—but emotionally.

On her very first day at Briarwood Prep, I approached her desk. As student council president, I figured it was my job to make her feel welcome. "Hey, Melanie," I said, keeping my tone warm. "If you need anything at all, or just want a tour of the campus, let me know."

Her eyes welled with tears instantly. She bit her lower lip, staring up at me with a look of pure, concentrated betrayal.