by Tijan
Taz and I shared a look. Since when did a random teacher know about my principal visits?
But stowing my bag, I grabbed a pen and shut the locker.
“You don’t want your first class’ textbook?” the teacher asked.
Taz now opened her locker, acting as if she suddenly wasn’t paying attention.
She was.
“Nah. You never know how long I’ll be there. Thanks for the concern, Mr. Ortega. Means a lot that you care.”
He huffed, going back inside his classroom.
Cross and the rest were coming in, and he stopped in front of me. “What’s going on?”
I jerked my head to the left. “Your sister will fill you in, and make sure to ask her about next Sunday too.”
“Jerk off!” Taz called once I started forward.
I gave her a grin over my shoulder, then picked up my pace.
“Bren.” Principal Broghers waved a hand toward the chair across from his desk.
He must’ve dyed his hair because his normal half-white frizz with a reddish tint was dark red now. And he’d learned how to manscape. His eyebrows were usually bushy, but today they were trimmed.
He was still skinny, and he was distracted this morning. Though freshly colored, his hair seemed more harried than last week. It was literally sticking up. His gaze was focused on his computer, and he cursed softly under his breath, running a hand over his pointy chin before clicking something, then sitting back and focusing on me.
“Miss Monroe.”
I’d recently watched The Matrix, and I was tempted to correct him by saying, “Mr. Anderson” in return. Or maybe I was just missing Principal Neeon. Who knew. I doubted the latter.
Instead, I gave him a closed-mouth smile. “Let me have it. What am I in for?”
He frowned. “What?”
I motioned from him to me, then around the room. “You. Me. This room. I get called here when I’m in trouble. Remember?”
“Oh!” He blinked a few times. “You’re not in trouble. Well, it’s about your probation, so I guess it’s about what you’re still in trouble for.”
Oh. That.
I stabbed the last principal.
Fun memories.
“I see.” I didn’t.
“Um…” He cleared his throat, his eyes darting back to the computer screen. “So, I’m reading about what happened last night.” He looked at me, his eyebrows arched up slightly.
He didn’t say anything more.
I didn’t either.
He leaned forward. “Do you want to fill me in?”
“About what?”
“Last night?”
Uh...pretty sure I’d watched enough documentaries on Netflix to know what this was. Entrapment. I was going to play the dumb card.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m sure your friends have already updated you about last night.”
Again. Entrapment. Did I need to give him the definition?
“Yeah…” I leaned forward as his eyes lit up in triumph. Resting my elbows on his desk, I shook my head. “I’m still not following you, Mr. Bro.”
His mouth thinned. “Are you kidding me?”
“Seems like you’re going to have to give me the 411 this time.”
He’d forgotten who I was. Crew royalty. My pops was in prison. My resume was packed with experience dealing with authority figures like him. I was on probation.
He muttered something under his breath and leaned back in his chair. He steepled his fingers over his chest. “I’m aware that you and Ms. Bagirianni—”
“The Badger.”
He continued, ignoring me. “—had a discussion a few weeks ago. You expressed interest in fulfilling the rest of your hours through a different means than counseling and the events committee. Correct?”
Oh.
Crap.
That.
He read my face and chuckled. “I can tell by your expression that you remember the conversation.”
I’d tried to wipe it from my memory, actually. I swallowed over a lump in my throat. I hadn’t told anyone. Not Cross. Not Channing. No one. Though somehow, word had gotten out because I’d heard the Hollywood whisperings myself.
“That thing went through after all?”
“Did that thing, as you refer to it—a documentary series that came to Fallen Crest to shoot—get the clear for production? It did, indeed, and…” He leaned forward, his chair squeaking. “They’ve asked to come to Roussou for further footage and interviews.”
This. This whole thing he was talking about was my worst nightmare.
The Badger had brought it up to me a month ago. The original production had been about Mason Kade and his wife, Samantha—their story. She was an Olympic runner. He now had two Superbowl rings. The project ran on ESPN, and it was a hit.
That was fine, dandy even. It wasn’t my problem. It had nothing to do with my life.
Then Badger had said there was enough interest in the town dynamics that another project had been greenlit. The film crew was coming back, but to do a new story on the rivalry between Roussou and Fallen Crest.
Principal Broghers cleared his throat. “Ms. Bagirianni asked to have you to help one of their production teams, to assist with the locals because of your unique connection to Mr. and Mrs. Kade.”
I gritted my teeth. My arms crossed over my chest, and every fucking muscle in my body stiffened. “I have no connection to them.”
He started to speak, but no.
I jerked forward, my arms still crossed tight over my chest. “I have no problem with the football guy or the big-time runner, but I don’t know them. He is friends with my brother. She is friends with my brother’s fiancée. They’re connected to their lives, not mine. Not me. Not my crew. And I told Badger thank you, but no thank you. I asked for a different option because I’m done with counseling, and the events committee is finished for the year. Prom was their last event, and I had nothing to do with that.”
Without waiting a beat, he picked up right after I finished. “And I’m telling you that Ms. Bagirianni is no longer offering counseling as part of your probation hours. And because you chose not to assist with the prom planning, you are ten hours short of fulfilling your obligation.”
Oh…
He wasn’t finished. “I have looked into all the other options, and none of them has an opening for you. So that means you have a choice: fulfill your hours by helping out one of the production teams or go to juvie.” One of those manscaped eyebrows curved. “Your decision.”
I glowered at him. “My brother can find an alternative—”
“No, he cannot.” He was so smooth now. “That would take too much paperwork. I would have to sign off on all sorts of things, and I’m telling you I am unwilling to do that.”
I opened my mouth, an argument ready to spill. I didn’t know what I was going to say, but my God, it would be a good one.
The principal held up a hand. “And I just got off the phone with your brother. I explained the project, the connection to his friend, and sorry to burst your bubble, but your brother’s actually on board with this one.”
Consider my fucking bubble popped. He’d strapped a grenade to it and pulled the pin.
My mouth snapped shut.
My brother. My own flesh and blood. Channing sold me out.
Mr. Bro chuckled again. “I can see you’re upset, but I don’t get it. I really don’t. Why don’t you want to help this camera team?”
I skewered him with a look.
He had to get it, and he was playing dumb right now.
Mr. Broghers might’ve been tentative when he’d first replaced Principal Neeon, but he’d come long strides over the last few months. I saw the calculation in his depths.
Production teams meant attention. I didn’t care who they talked to; if they came to Roussou, there’d be comments and statements about the crew system. It was inevitable, and what then? More attention.
I didn’t know w
hat the cameras would pick up, how it’d be edited, but I did know there was already an audience waiting. The ESPN program had been national. Would this be too?
Having a national spotlight on us was not good, not at all.
“Bren?” he prompted.
A different thought came to mind, and I sat up straight. “Did you do it?”
His mouth dipped down, just a bit.
I scooted to the edge of my seat. My hands curled around his desk. “That documentary was about my brother’s friends. This, Roussou, has nothing to do with them. Did you do it?”
He swallowed.
“Did you ask them to come do another series on Roussou specifically?”
The dots were starting to connect now.
The school had used cameras last semester to shut down the crew system. Not much had happened, but we worried they were going to target us. Nothing came of it.
Now this. The production team. Me being forced to help them, one of only two girls in a crew…
Maybe I was jumping to conclusions, getting ahead of myself. Maybe it had nothing to do with the crews at all.
“I don’t know, Bren.” Mr. Broghers’ face was devoid of expression, giving nothing away. “I can just tell you you’ll be meeting Miss Sallaway in a moment, because you will be helping her team, and we both know it.”
“Who’s Miss Sallaway?”
Someone knocked on his office door just as he stood up.
“She’s one of the producers you’ll be assigned to,” he said. “She’ll be your go-to for instructions on how to help, and a word of advice?” He went around the desk to the door, but paused before answering. “I would be very helpful to her. If she’s not happy, I’m not happy. You need me happy considering you need me to sign off on your probation papers. I believe the wording in your documents is that you must ‘fulfill all hours to the expectations of your school supervisor,’ and since Ms. Bagirianni has signed off, that person is now me.”
He opened the door, and all I could think was that it was official.
I needed to stab this principal too.
I was kidding.
Kinda.
“And no time like the present,” Mr. Bro said.
I’d started to stand, and hearing the smugness in his voice sent a chill down my spine. I went slowly, but I knew I had to play ball. Courts and juvie were not things I wanted to deal with during the rest of my year.
“Is this a bad time, Kenneth?”
Kenneth.
I turned to see a woman shaking Kenneth’s hand. She looked young, but I’d guess she was five years older than me? My height, slender, sleek auburn hair. Her roots were more red than the regular mane, so it looked like she dyed it darker.
She was dressed in jeans and a white shirt, with a blue infinity scarf wrapped loosely around her neck.
Broghers was pumping her hand, his smile way too eager. “No, no,” he gushed.
I fought hard not to roll my eyes, but kudos to me, I hadn’t yet yearned to pull my knife. Rehabilitation—it was real and at work.
His cheeks were filling with color. “This is perfect timing, actually. You requested a local assistant, and I have the girl right here. We were just talking about the documentary too.”
The woman’s eyes drifted toward me, and I saw a keenness in them. I also caught a flash of a few other emotions, but she masked them quickly. Her eyes narrowed, and she studied my face as Kenneth kept on talking.
Once he was done, she held out her hand. “Hello! I’m Rebecca. You can call me Becca.”
I didn’t say a word.
I also didn’t shake her hand.
An embarrassed gargle rippled up from the principal’s throat, and he took my hand, fitting it into hers manually. “This is Bren, Bren Monroe.” He laughed nervously, complete with a slight hiccup at the end. “And she is delighted to be helping, right, Bren? Right? Or…” He dropped his voice low. “You can always choose the other option.”
“Option?” Rebecca stepped farther into the office, her gaze flitting between us. She pulled her hand back. “Is everything okay?” There was a sharp edge to her tone.
“Yes. Yes! Everything is okay. Right, Bren?”
I needed to have a minute with myself.
There was a storm brewing. My bones rattled with its impending doom. The old Bren was railing against her cage, where I had stuffed her down, locked her up. I hadn’t let her out—not after stabbing Principal Neeon, not after Taz’s assault, not after seeing Cross with a gun in his hand, not after talking him out of doing something that would’ve taken him away from me.
My life had flashed in front of me in those moments, and I’d prayed. I’d bargained. I’d promised.
I did everything possible to talk Cross out of what he was going to do.
He went into that house anyway.
But he’d saved Alex’s life instead of taking it, and it had clicked with me. I’d gotten my bargain, and after that, I’d committed to changing.
It had worked.
Until now—until I was pushed into doing something I didn’t want to do. I knew, I just knew, that somehow this was going to backfire on me and hurt my crew. I knew it, but it was this or juvie.
I’d promised I’d never go to prison. And I didn’t care what the name on the facility was, juvie was prison.
Fuck Kenneth. I made my decision, but fuck him.
Glaring at him, and vowing that when I got the opportunity to hurt him, I would, I cleared my throat and forced a smile to my face.
I felt like I was breaking plaster as I shook my head. “Yes. Everything is fine. Hi. I’m Bren.”
“Hi.” Becca’s smile was easier, relieved. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Monroe’s your last name? Any relation to Channing Monroe?”
“No.” I shot my principal a glare. If he was forcing me to do this, I was forcing him to keep quiet. And it wasn’t actually that I wanted to keep Channing a secret. I just didn’t want to deal with anything else. My brother had been a rakish asshole when he was younger. If she knew him…
“Oh,” she said. “I knew a Max Monroe when I went to school in Fallen Crest.”
Oh… All the fight left me.
“You did?”
She nodded. “He’d be half-brothers with Channing. I didn’t know there were so many Monroes in this area.” Then she upped the wattage of her smile and pulled out her phone. “Okay. Well, I was told that everyone signed their waivers?”
“Yes. They did,” Mr. Bro chimed in. “Everyone. You should have a list of the students in your email. I sent that earlier this morning.”
“Great. Perfect. Can we set up in a back room? Privacy is important for these interviews. We want the students to feel comfortable.”
“Oh yes.” He was close to gushing again, and grabbing some keys, he gestured ahead. “If you go on out, I’ll close the door and show you the way. We have the room already set up.”
I moved aside once we were farther into the front office area, I saw Jordan at the desk, a slip in hand and bruises all over his face.
Becca saw him at the same time, and she gasped.
He didn’t react, just looked at me, his gaze moving to where the principal was locking up.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
I opened my mouth, but Mr. Bro swooped in. “Ah, Mr. Pitts. Your mother called ahead with your doctor’s note.” I felt him moving behind me, and Jordan’s eyes widened, panic flaring as I registered what was about to happen.
Pivoting around, I saw the principal’s hand coming down. He’d been about to touch me on the shoulder, and instantly, the need to fight swept over me. My teeth bared, and my fists were up.
Jordan was at my side in a flash. “Don’t touch her.”
Principal Broghers reacted, following his command. His hand balled up and retracted to his side. He seemed flustered, as if he didn’t know what to do for a moment.
Becca watched the exchange. She had moved to the side, with a bag I hadn’t no
ticed before now pulled to her front. She held it close, but she didn’t seem scared by what had happened. Just curious. She tilted her head to the side, taking me in, and then because Mr. Bro still hadn’t uttered another word, she took over.
Her hand outstretched, she crossed the space, a polite smile on her face. “I’m Miss Sallaway. You can call me Becca. What’s your name?”
Jordan glanced at her hand, shifting more firmly behind me so I was a barrier now.
Noting the movement, Becca cleared her throat, but her smile didn’t dim. She nodded and murmured to herself, “Interesting.”
“This is Mr. Pitts. Jordan Pitts.”
Mr. Bro had finally recovered. He tugged at his tie and moved to stand beside her, his eyes flashing to me. He seemed to have remembered what happened the last time someone touched me against my will.
He tried to muster a smile. I knew that was his apology.
The old Bren, she’d been there. She was getting sick of being tested, and I let out a deep sigh, pushing her back down. She needed to take a seat.
“Is, uh…” Becca asked Mr. Bro, with a discreet nod in Jordan’s direction.
“Ah. No, unfortunately.”
“Is, um…” Another discreet nod at me.
He shook his head, silent. “But she is supposed to assist you in any way.”
Assist?
“She is?” Jordan said. Then he nudged the back of my elbow, dropping his voice so only I could hear, “You okay?”
I gave him a small nod. “Later.”
He nodded back.
The principal had moved around us. He was talking to the secretary, and I knew I’d been right not to bring my first-period textbook. Apparently, we were going to the back of the library, a room barely anyone used unless they wanted to get their rocks off during school hours.
“Camera team?” Jordan asked. “What the fuck?”
“Mr. Pitts,” admonished the secretary as she picked up the phone. “Language.”
Jordan grinned at her, wiggling his eyebrows. “Come on, Miss Marjorie.” He gestured to his face, winking and groaning. “Pity points. I’m thinking and moving slower than normal.” He nudged me again.