CHAPTER FOUR

SUPEREGO

( — that part of the unconscious mind that acts as a conscience. )

— ♡ —

          RHIANNON WOULD PAY TO SEE THE LOOK ON HER PARENTS' FACES WHEN THEY FIND OUT WHAT SHE'S THINKING ABOUT DOING. Granted, she never thought, in a million years, she'd consider signing up for a Psychology experiment, something she has never shown any interest in (she cares about the brain on a biological, neurological way; the behaviors she studies are all influenced by synapses and the studies she can tolerate are the behaviorist ones for obvious reasons), but, then again, neither did they.

          Breaking the rules for once is strangely exciting, even if she isn't particularly thrilled about forcing herself to go through something like this just to prove a point to a) them, as she's perfectly able to live her life outside of their shadow and b) Matteo, as she finally got him to shut up once she said she'd really think about it.

          She'd pay to see it, but she can't afford to spend money on potentially useless things, as she isn't sure whether she'll sign up or not or, if she does, if she'll even make it past the interviews stage. She's not good at speaking in public (her valedictorian speech back at her high school graduation was a true disaster, with her often stumbling over her own words and having the audience laugh at her, not with her), regardless of the size of her audience, and can almost predict how everything will work out.

          A tiny voice, lodged in the back of her head, reminds her she'll find a way of screwing things up if there isn't one directly available. It doesn't startle her, as it has been there for so long it already has its own room, but, God, she wishes she was a little bit stronger, strong enough to overpower it and move on with her life.

          So, when she steps inside one of the tiny cafés scattered around the campus, she decides to pay for coffee herself—both for hers and for Jude's. The place is packed, even though most of these people should have already gone to class, but, considering Rhiannon's (and, therefore, Jude's) first lecture is at ten, it gives her plenty of time to wait for a vacant table.

          There is, in fact, an empty seat, but there are four other people sitting at that table—three blondes (complete with a strawberry-blonde and a platinum-blonde) and a brunette—and, even though Rhiannon doesn't want to be the type of person who thinks the whole world revolves around her, she's almost certain they follow her with her eyes when she walks past them, feeling awfully self-conscious.

          Hailey laughs, sending shivers up Rhiannon's spine as she stands in line, waiting for her turn to order, and she wishes Jude was here. Isla gets along with them just fine and Matteo has plenty of other friends to hang out with, not to mention he must be stuck in some lecture, and, while Rhiannon truly appreciates their company, it's different with Jude. It has always been.

          Sighing quietly to herself, Rhiannon steps forward and shoots a quick glance towards the door when a bell chimes. When the wind whooshes, Rhiannon shudders, crossing her arms to conserve as much heat as possible, and internally groans after noticing it's not Jude, even if she knows who it is.

          The girl is in some of her classes, including Brain and Cognition, but they've never talked; all Rhiannon knows about the girl is her first name—Zelda—and that she used to mix her and Hailey up all the time, as they're similar from the back, with the same shade of ginger hair, but Zelda is, at least, two inches taller.

          Zelda sees her and, right after her eyes dart away from Rhiannon's when she briefly turns around, the latter's stomach twists into tight knots as she realizes who Zelda is grinning at.

          Staring at Jude feels like staring at the sun, except it doesn't hurt and doesn't nearly blind you, but still leaves you feeling pretty warm nonetheless. Rhiannon knows this because she feels the same way, finding it incredibly hard not to smile when he doesn't the same, as he never does it out of malice; it's easy to like him, but it's hard to maintain those feelings, with him rarely ever fully committing to something.

          She watched it happen throughout middle and high school. She saw him break hearts and get his own heart broken a few times, which was when she had to step up and try to stitch it back up; it didn't always work, though, as it was a temporary fix for things that probably needed stronger, permanent solutions, but, when it was good, it was great.

          When it was bad, it was abominable. He'd go MIA for days, nearly flunking out of high school, and no one ever managed to contact him, not even through his family, who simply refused to let anyone see him in such a miserable state. Jude went through packs of cigarettes like children go through bags of candy on Halloween and, at seventeen, he got shoved into a psychotherapist's office to finally fix things.

          "I think there's something messed up about me," he'd tell Rhiannon, slumped on her bed, and she'd run her slender fingers through his hair. "I don't know what it is. I think something disconnected."

          "You're here," she'd reply, in a whisper, knowing he knew she was on the verge of tears. A weakling, that's what they called her. You have no backbone. "You're here. This is real."

          "Are you real?" She'd nod. "God. God, Rhea."

          He was always her Jude, in a way. Though there were two Judes once, hers and one that felt more like a stranger (Rhiannon doubts he was able to recognize himself at his worse, often feeling like there were two separate realities), she knew he'd be able to find his way back from wherever he was, trying to rediscover himself.

          She told him he had to find a constant in those two realities, something to anchor him down in the true one, even if he wasn't completely absent from it—as in, it was never a psychopathological condition. He needed a constant and he found it in her; despite it being likely to leave them too dependent on each other, they made it work.

          That doesn't mean she has ever had any ownership over him—and she hasn't. She let him live his life, as he and his family certainly knew what was best for him in the long-run, and she was simply kind of there, like a ghost stuck in the limbo. She wasn't that much better than him, constantly stressed out almost to the point of no return, and felt on the verge of a meltdown.

          Never saw one without the other, people used to say, even when the train wreck that was high school happened. If that failed to tear them apart, there probably isn't anything that ever will.

          Rhiannon wants to see him as happy as he can possibly be, remembering for how long she didn't hear him laugh, but there's something bitter rising its way up her throat, burning like bile, when Zelda playfully slaps his arm. She's not the type of person to be jealous or possessive—really. The problem here is that her social circle and group of close friends, the people she can actually trust, is so minuscule it terrifies her just thinking about ever having it break, whether by losing someone or letting another person join.

          Nevertheless, Jude throws her one of the brightest grins she has ever seen him flash anyone when their eyes meet and she can't help but return the smile as he joins her, standing in line next to her. He quirks an eyebrow when she tells him she'll pay for everything, but stuffs his wallet back inside the back-pocket of his jeans, while Zelda clears her throat, waiting for him to properly introduce them to one another.

          He doesn't get the hint, unfortunately. Zelda sighs, deciding to take matters into her own hands, and takes a step forward, arm outstretched in front of her.

          "Hi," she greets, throwing Rhiannon a tiny smile. "Zelda Berry."

          "Rhiannon," Rhiannon replies, accepting the quick, firm handshake. This time, Laura Palmer is the one who laughs, but she doesn't look their way. "It's nice to meet you."

          "Jude was just saying wonders about you," Zelda continues, letting her order the drinks for the three of them and handing her ten dollars. "My treat. Don't worry. I have plenty to spend."

          Rhiannon scowls. "Lucky you."

          Zelda's cognac eyes widen, lips forming an O. "Oh, no, I wasn't—I mean, everyone knows about what happened to you, but I really wasn't trying to rub it on your face, or anything."

          Rhiannon doesn't say anything, deciding to ignore her once more for the time being by ordering the drinks (three cappuccinos with an extra shot of espresso because it's still too damn early). Nevertheless, she sees Jude discreetly shake his head from the corner of her eye, hinting that insisting won't be a good idea, as the damage is done.

          It has been a truly awful day so far. Between running out of hot water in the middle of showering, burning her fingers with her hair straightener (in case it wasn't obvious enough, fingers don't need to be straightened with scorching hot bars) and nearly spraining an ankle thanks to her boots' heels, Rhiannon begins to think maybe it would have been best to stay in bed all the day and skip every single lecture of the day.

          Once they have their drinks, Zelda tries to change the subject by pointing out Beatrice and Frances have already started hanging flyers advertising their experiment around the campus, but Rhiannon thinks it would be nearly impossible to not have seen them or heard about the experiment by now. It's all people talk about, with the theme inevitably popping up in every conversation, as evidenced by this one, and it's slowly, but surely, getting on her nerves.

          They've even given it a fan name, as if it was something to be particularly excited about; they call it Project Oxygen, even if it's not its official name (Rhiannon doubts Beatrice would ever name anything that, as it would look horrible in her résumé), mostly thanks to the monetary reward, because these people need money to survive as much as oxygen itself.

          Rhiannon finds it morbidly funny how literally everything revolves around money—psychological experiments, wars, politics, families. At the end of the day, the more money you have, the better your life appears to be, even if that doesn't quite match the reality of it all. If you have plenty of cash to spend, it gets so much easier to mask the horrors unraveling behind the curtains.

          That's something she also knows through personal, raw experience. Even if word quickly got out when the scandal broke, all those years ago, Christopher and Madeleine Ford still tried to shake it off, making it seem like it wasn't that big of a deal as people found it to be—as if disowning their own daughter wasn't newsworthy when they were as popular as they were.

          Sure, they've regained some of their old popularity as time went by, but Rhiannon doubts things will ever go back to how they used to be when they all knew how to pretend to get along. Luckily, the slap wasn't caught on camera and she didn't dare to press charges, utterly mortified of how worse things could get for her (Christopher Ford's wrath is one for the history books, that's for sure) and how quickly they'd be able to ruin her life even more.

          They're stopped in their tracks by no one other than Hailey Hobbes herself. Standing at a height of five foot seven, the hunched back posture she sometimes sports, thanks to the heavy textbooks she carries inside her backpack, makes her look significantly tinier, but, when she places her hands on her hips, head held high, that instantly vanishes.

          "So, we were talking," she begins, in a soothing, almost musical voice, and Rhiannon and Jude exchange a nervous glance, "and we think you should sit with us. After all, our table is the only one with empty seats."

          "There's only one chair," Jude points out, and Hailey quirks an eyebrow.

          "That won't be a problem. Gabby?" She turns around ever so slightly, throwing Gabriella a quick nod, and the latter stands up to go fetch two other chairs. There's not a designed leader in their group, with the four girls being in charge of that role simultaneously, but there's a subtle hierarchy there, one you only notice if you pay attention to their interactions for long enough. "See? You can sit."

          "Right," Zelda hesitantly says. Gabriella whispers something to Sutton, whose platinum hair has been pulled back into an impeccable bun, and she pushes her glasses up her nose bridge, reminding Rhiannon of Isla. In front of her, there's an open sketchbook, full of quick drawings of long gowns. "Is there something going on?"

          "No, not really," Hailey retorts, returning to her seat. "We just thought you'd want to sit instead of drinking while standing. I heard it's bad for your intestines, or something."

          It's a lie. Hailey, her grades and her IQ know exactly that's a lie, but Rhiannon bites her tongue to prevent herself from saying something stupid—as anyone knows she probably would—and is the first to sit down. Jude mimics her and Zelda follows suit, albeit a bit more reluctantly.

          When everyone has settled down a bit (with Zelda shooting Hailey furious glances and Sutton keeping her eyes glued to the sketchbook she's flipping through), Gabriella leans forward and Rhiannon realizes she has barely heard her speak when the former's ice-blue eyes threaten to freeze hers.

          "We need to talk," Gabriella states, with the faintest hint of a British accent cladding her voice. Her dirty-blonde hair cascades down her back, moving in gentle waves whenever Gabriella herself switches her position. "It's important—"

          Rhiannon never gets to know why it's so important for them to talk or what they want to talk about—hell, she doesn't even know which of them she's talking to, as they're all sitting side by side and she's right in front of them. They're distracted by the front door slamming open, nearly making the bell plummet down to the wooden floors, and Isla storms inside, throwing the place a panicked look as she scans her surroundings.

          Jude's hand squeezes Rhiannon's under the table. She doesn't dare to breathe.

          "Rhiannon," Isla chokes out, with a hand pressing against her side as tries to catch her breath, standing by their table, and Rhiannon's heartbeat instantly spikes. Isla rarely ever calls her by her full name. "We have a problem."

          Rhiannon carefully sets down her cup, as it began to shake when her hand did the same. "What sort of problem?"

          Isla sharply inhales, supporting her free hand on the table. "A problem called Connor Duncan."