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Ariel Beckham. I’m in the academy bathroom, leaning over the sink, letting cold water rush over my hands like it's supposed to wash away how angry I feel. I’m scrubbing my hands too hard, probably because I’m frustrated, annoyed. He said he’d come home that night and like a complete fool, I waited. Now, I am looking at my phone over and over again. I throw my hands in the air to sprinkle the excess water and I use the rest to tame the frizz in my hair. When I look in the mirror, my face is blotched like a strawberry. I pat my cheeks, to calm myself to sense but it doesn’t help. Then my phone buzzes. I jump. And then I squeal a little, reaching for it. But my excitement drains when I see it’s from an unknown number. I frown and pick up anyway. “Ariel?” The voice on the other end stops