“And who, exactly, are you?” the girl, Avery, says and I startle when I realize she's talking to me. “Lips. Lips Anderson. I'm a freshman.” A smile dances around the edge of her painted lips, but her eyes aren’t amused. “What sort of degenerate names their child Lips?” the boy drawls and, weirdly, it makes me feel kind of boneless. He turns to face me, and I’m struck dumb by the sight of him. That is until I see the disgust on his face. He looks at me like I'm a venereal disease. I choose not to answer him and push away from the wall. I brush past the group to pile all my paperwork up on the
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