by R Holmes
"Jesus, watch where the fuck you're going," I grunt, trying to catch my balance before I end up on my ass in the wet grass next to my bag. Before I can even turn around to see who it was, a small, hooded black figure is sprinting off in the other direction. I was so lost in my own head I didn’t even hear anyone approach.
What the fuck?
Shaking my head, I snatch the backpack off the ground and throw it back over my shoulder, cursing whoever just linebacker tackled me from behind. Shit has been weird lately. Ever since school started, things have just felt off, and while I know it has a lot to do with the fact we're missing part of our brotherhood, it also is the vibe on campus. A feeling I get whenever I'm in the commons, walking back to the dorm. The feeling you get in the pit of your stomach, the one that tells you something is off even if you can't place it? That feeling. It's been hanging around like an unwanted STD and I don't fucking like it.
This is senior year. It's supposed to be the best year of all of our high school years. Parties, drinks, girls, living the dream. Yet, one of us is sitting behind bars, and the rest of us don't know what the fuck to do. Rhys is the same broody asshole as always, if not worse now that Ezra isn't here to brood with him. Alec is just... Alec. I never know what fazes him and what doesn't.
What I do know is things aren't supposed to be this way.
When I walk through the front door of the dorm, I hear Rhys and Alec before I see them.
"Dude, I'm telling you it was on an episode of A Thousand Ways to Die," Alec says.
I hear Rhys scoff as I toss my keys down onto the bar and walk into the living room. We've been in the same dorm since freshman year, and thanks to my father's contributions to St. Augustine, it earned us a permanent suite. Four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen and living room. It was more than most kids who attended got, so it was one of those times where I didn't complain that my father had thrown the family's money around to get something he wanted. He couldn't have a Pierce sleeping anywhere that would cause people to gossip. A purely selfish move of course, nothing my father ever did was out of kindness. That much I know.
"Sup?" Alec says, looking up at me from the TV screen. His long, surfer style hair falls in his eyes and he immediately shakes it out of his face, something he does so much I hardly even notice anymore.
"Yo." I flop down into the free spot on the couch between him and Rhys. Rhys cuts me a look that says out of his personal space, but he can suck it. The guy is like a teenage Jeffrey Dahmer.
"How'd it go with dick head?" Alec asks.
I sigh, resting my head against the back of the couch, "Same shit. Different day. He's on some bullshit about me interning at the New York office over Christmas break. Almost got into a fight over dinner. You know, normal Pierce shit. Same game of ‘who’s dick is bigger’. But as usual, it’s mine.” I grin.
"Your dad is as much of an asshole as Ezra's," Rhys grunts from beside me.
"Speaking of assholes, has he returned any of your calls?"
Rhys shakes his head, "Nope. I'm going to keep trying, then I'm going to show up at his house and he'll have no fucking choice but to talk to me."
Right. Ezra's dad is a piece of shit, nothing more nothing less. That's all he'll ever be. He's lucky we haven't all beaten the shit out of him for the way he's treated Ezra growing up. I mean my dad is a self-righteous pretentious dick bag, but the second he puts his hands on me, it’s game over. Ezra’s dad is perfectly content with letting him sit there and rot, regardless of whether or not he is guilty. He’d let him sit there even if he knew he was innocent. Makes no difference to him.
"Dude, I need Ezra right now. My physics grade is shit. He's always bailing me out of science shit. He’s like Ezra Nye the science guy or something." Alec groans.
"Yeah, I'm getting fucked in English. I don't remember it being so hard to keep up with my shit. If my grades slip the first thing my father's going to say is it's hockey." I shake my head thinking of my father's reaction when he finds out.
"Damn, the new teacher in there is hot. Ms. Ambrose I think? I had to bring something to her classroom the other day for Sister Mary Margaret and I saw her, and almost fell out on the floor man.” Alec clutches his heart dramatically, feigning faintness. “Real shit, I can't believe they let someone who isn't actually a nun or Father teach at St. Augustine. I thought that shit was against the rules or something."
"What new teacher?" Rhys asks. His eyebrows rise as he shoots me a look.
"What?" I shrug nonchalantly, "So what, she's hot. She's also failing me on every single damn thing I turn in, and I can't seem to do anything to please her, so it wasn't worth talking about."
Fuck yeah, I've noticed her. She's all of five feet, strawberry red hair with full, plump, lush fucking lips. Lips I spend most of the hour fantasizing about wrapped around my dick than actually learning about the classics, hence the reason I'm failing, and it's barely been a month of my senior year. Not to mention she walks up and down the rows of desks over and over, and each time my eyes can't help but be glued to the ridiculous amount of ass she shoves in those pencil skirts. All prim and proper and everything I should not be focusing on.
"Mhm, that's why your face is turning red, huh?" He grins, well as much as Rhys grins for anyone.
"Shut the fuck up. Seriously, if she doesn't stop flunking me I'm going to be fucked. I can't lose hockey, or jeopardize my scholarship or my dad will have a fucking coronary over dinner."
"I feel you. Talk to her, see if she'll give you some extra credit. Tell her you'll wash her whiteboard for some bonus points." Alec raises his eyebrows suggestively and I slap him in the back of the head.
"Whatever, I'm going to shower I smell like a rich asshole," I mutter, rising from the couch.
"That's because you are a rich asshole, asshole," Alec calls after me before I slam my bedroom door shut behind me.
Dicks.
2
Presley
The steady patter of rain hits the old glass window beside me in a rhythmic melody that instantly calms the anxiousness inside of me. There's something about storms that has always brought me a sense of peace. While most people fear the loud clap of thunder and the bright strike of a lightning bolt, I find comfort in it.
My mama used to tell me when I was a child that when you hear thunder rumbling in the sky, it is the devil beating his wife. An old wives’ tale passed down from generation to generation. She had a lot of those stories to tell when I was tucked into the covers of my bed, late at night when the rain would fall against the old tin roof of the rickety shack we lived in. As I grew up, I realized it was impossible for that to be true, because there was too much evil in the world for the devil to be hiding within the clouds. I knew he had to be walking the Earth, wreaking more havoc than he ever could in the sky. Now, I realize more than ever how foolish those tales were because I know the Devil, and I know him well.
Still, I found comfort in those storms. They were constant. I knew even if the world fell apart around me, that rain would still come. The sky would still darken, the thunder would still rumble on.
Laying here in this musty, damp cottage, I feel safe. Something I never thought I would feel again. And even with the hole in the roof that's letting the rainwater through and currently dripping into a pot I found shoved in the back of the cabinet, I feel a sense of security I can't remember the last time I felt. So long, I hardly remember what it felt like until it creeped up to me. The warm, blossoming emotion in my chest that I could feel spread down to the tips of my fingers. A physical sense of relief. The full breath my lungs could take without the pressure so heavy on my chest, it stole the same breath before I could get my fill. It was irreplaceable.
I'd take the rundown cabin with the creaky floorboards, leaking roof, and more things broken than not.
It’s given me the one thing I would've died for.
Freedom.
"So, who can tell me exactly how Pride and Prejudice relates to feminist literature?" My heels t
ap lightly against the hardwood as I round my desk to lean against the front. I'm greeted by silence, which is expected from a room full of seniors who could care less about anything involving literature, especially century old literature.
"Anybody?" I ask.
Dozens of heads shake in response to my question.
"Because Elizabeth Bennet thought the idea that a woman should marry simply for the sake of duty absurd." A small voice comes from the back of the class, surprising me.
"Very good. And can anyone else tell me why this was such a movement for a novel written in this time period?"
Silence.
"Aaron, how about you?" I ask the blond, all star quarterback sitting in the second row with his feet kicked back. He looks panicked momentarily but quickly recovers.
"Um, I guess because it's old?" He shrugs.
"It is old, if you consider the eighteen hundreds old, but why was this ideology so shocking? What about it made this novel one of the most talked about novels of its time?"
Trying to get high school students interested in literature written hundreds of years before their time was always going to be a challenge, I know that. I always tried harder than ever to keep them interested despite the monotony of it all. It wasn’t all that long ago I was exactly where they were, sitting at a desk, wishing to be anywhere but stuck in class. My senior English teacher is the entire reason I even became a teacher. I remember sitting in the old wooden desk of my Catholic school wearing oversized plaid skirts and collared shirts, picking at the bright pink nail polish on my fingernails, already damning whoever was about to walk through that door. I was more interested in the nail polish, which I thought at the time, was a huge fuck you to the establishment. We all went through the rebel period. And colored nail polish at an all girls Catholic school was a huge no.
Then, she walked through the door and told us the best story I'd ever heard. The way she wove the lines together made it come alive with each word. I'm convinced she was a wizard. I was hanging on, desperate for the conclusion. Before she could finish, the bell rang, signaling class was over and it felt like I physically couldn't walk out of that room until I knew what happened in their story. A story I never would've never picked up had I not heard it from her. Thus, started my lifelong love affair with literature. With words. With stories that span centuries. And even though most English classes at Catholic school were centered around religion and how it affected literature, St. Augustine gave me free reign to teach what I wanted. It was the reason I decided to teach here. I wanted to teach the same thing that ignited my passion for literature in the first place.
"This story is an important, provocative story for its time because it truly enraptures the unapologetic turn of feminism. Elizabeth Bennett was a heroine who began to question gender roles and ideology. Contrary to popular belief, women do not actually only belong barefoot in a kitchen."
"But don't they? I mean, I'm sayin my woman better make me a sandwich after I feasted on her pus—"
Laughs erupt around the room as Aaron and his buddies bump fists and clap hands. My eyes roll before I can stop them.
"Okay, enough, enough, quiet down. Working hard for detention already, Mr. Blanchard?" I cross my arms over my chest and pause in front of his desk. He gives me a smirk, not bothering to hide his amusement.
"I volunteer, Ms. Ambrose, that is if it's you who'll be handling detention. I expect a very hands on punishment. One that I'll never forget," a deep, gruff voice sounds from the very back of the classroom. Cloaked in velvet, his voice was every bit the definition of gravelly. I don't have to look to see who it belongs to, I already know. It's the same voice I spend the entire hour avoiding.
Although I have only been at St. Augustine a short amount of time, there are two things I know with absolute certainty.
One: There is more happening behind the scenes than I even care to imagine.
Two: I should stay far away from Sebastian Pierce.
He walked across the threshold on the first day of class and I thought he was a staff member I had yet to be introduced to. It took a few moments of stunned silence for me to realize he was actually a student. Instead of an adolescent teenager, a man with eyes so gray, so full of maturity, stared back at me, taking everything I thought I was prepared for and shattering it at my feet.
I wasn't ready for the overwhelming wave of attraction. How could I not when he looked as if he walked off the pages of an Armani ad? Thick, dark hair that was tousled to perfection, the sharpest most chiseled jaw I'd ever seen with permanent stubble that looks sinful. Dark, long lashes framing the same piercing eyes with full, sensual lips. Nothing about Sebastian Pierce was juvenile, at least not his appearance. I knew to keep my distance. And that's exactly what I've done.
Until now.
"Mr. Pierce, see me after class." I force myself to drag my eyes to his, and when his gaze captures mine it causes my body to flush. Heated, full of lust that wrapped its tendrils tightly around my body, holding it hostage. His gaze strips me bare. It unwraps each part of me and lays it out for him.
I feel dirty, like I've been caught doing something wrong.
And therein lies the problem with Sebastian Pierce.
I have an undeniable attraction to him that I spend most of my time pretending doesn’t exist.
The rest of the class passes uneventfully but not without an anxious knot forming in the pit of my stomach. The feeling tightens with every second hand of the clock that ticks by. When the bell finally does ring, the students leave and I sit behind my massive dark oak desk and wait for Sebastian to approach. The last student files through the door, slamming it closed behind them so loud it causes my heart to nearly fly from my chest.
My eyes squeeze shut and instinctively, I put my hand to my chest, clutching my heart, willing it to beat normally again. I wonder if I'll ever stop being afraid. The thought of the past does nothing to calm the erratic beat of my heart.
"Ms. Ambrose?" Sebastian's voice causes me to jump again. In the aftermath of the door, I had forgotten he was still in the room. Suddenly he’s standing right in front of my desk.
"S-sorry, you startled me," I stutter. My eyes meet his and they're full of questions. Questions he'll never get the answers to.
"Are you okay?" he asks, his brows tugging together.
"Yes, I'm fine."
He shuffles from one foot to the other, saying nothing only giving me a noncommittal nod.
I fumble nervously with the stack of papers in front of me before finding the one needed then place it in front of him. The top bears an "F" in angry red ink.
"The reason I asked to see you actually has nothing to do with your inappropriate outburst in class today. While I don't appreciate your blatant disrespect, I think it's important to express that if you spent a fraction of the time you did making jokes into actually applying yourself, you would not be on the verge of failing my class, Mr. Pierce."
"Look, I've been swamped with hockey and personal issues. I can't keep getting these. Can you please cut a little slack?" He slides the paper back towards me. His face is a mask of annoyance, like it’s an inconvenience to even be here speaking with me.
"I understand, but I am only giving you the grade based upon what was earned. Do the work, earn the grade. This wasn't worthy, Sebastian."
I slide the paper back towards him. His eyes meet mine in a stare of defiance and I feel the uneasiness in my stomach fading, replaced by my own fire I haven't felt in so long. Determination settles in my bones. The bright gray of his irises burn with frustration. I realize it may be the first time that Sebastian hasn't had something handed to him. I knew guys like Sebastian, I was surrounded by them for years. The world was handed to him on a silver platter. Maybe now, he'll understand what it's like to be frustrated and embarrassed by his actions and realize that they do indeed have consequences.
Regardless of how attractive he is or the charm he seems to yield like a weapon, he won't skate by my class while not earning
the grades.
"So this is how it's going to be? You're going to flunk the hockey team's goalie?" He grits his teeth together, the muscle in his jaw ticks with the movement.
"That is entirely up to you Sebastian. I'm not singling you out or being unfair. You didn't put an ounce of effort into this, but you have plenty of time to study, to earn the grade you need."
A moment of silence passes between us and he places both hands on my desk, leaning across towards me, so close I get a hint of how sinful he smells. Like the moment you're standing in the middle of a field, praying for rain, desperate for just a single drop against your skin. And then, the sky opens up above you and finally, the first drop of rain hits you, drenching your soul that's been in a drought for so long.
My feeble heart pounds inside of my chest when his lips curl upwards into a taunting grin, revealing perfect teeth. I feel the thrum in the base of my throat as my pulse pounds. I feel out of control, wholly at the mercy of him.
"Listen, I know you're new here... Teach. I get it. New school, you don't know anyone, no allies. No one who has your back. Don't really know how things run around here." He shrugs noncommittally. "We've all been there. But let me help clear this up for you." He leans in further, causing me to inch backwards, "This is my school. You might think you're the one in control, but at the end of the day it's me. You'll learn that quickly, and if I were you, I'd rather not end up as one of my enemies. Your choice how this goes."
He pulls back slowly, the taunting grin now nowhere to be found, grabs the paper marked with bright red ink, and tosses it into the trash then strolls out of the classroom without another word.
Leaving me with my mouth agape and my thighs pressed tightly together to stifle the ache.
Later that night I'm sitting cross legged on the threadbare rug in the middle of the living room of my tiny, desperately in need of love cabin, staring at the streaks of paint on the wall. Each one is vastly different from the one next to it. Bright yellow, alabaster, a shade of gray that reminds me of pebbles along the shore of Cape Cod. When I think of the Cape all I have are happy, simple memories. The midday storms which seemed to happen at least once a day, the thick sand between my toes, running along the shore without a worry in mind.