I turned into Wera High and parked in the teachers’ car park, so excited I was literally shaking in my seat. It was my first day as a permanent English teacher, something I’d been dreaming of since I was a kid. Prior to today, I’d only worked as a substitute, filling in when other teachers were away, which wasn’t what I wanted. What I wanted was to have my own class, one where I could foster a connection with the kids, and help them fall in love with literature like I had. Then a colleague had mentioned that Wera High was looking for an English teacher. I’d jumped at the opportunity, even more eager since the high school was in South Auckland, a lower socio-economic area in New Zealand, where I felt I could really make a difference.
I flipped the vanity mirror down and checked my appearance, making sure my lipstick hadn’t bled out like a vampire’s victim. I smiled at the metaphor. I was a huge Buffy fan. I not only watched the programme, but read all the books. My husband thought it was hilarious that a Lit Major loved ‘teenage, trash fantasy’, his description, not mine. He’d told me that I should be reading the likes of The Great Gatsby, Nineteen Eighty-Four, and To Kill a Mockingbird, all books he knew nothing about, since his idea of good literature was Sports Illustrated.
My reflection in the vanity mirror wiped the smile off my face. My rose-coloured lippie had indeed attempted to escape my lips, making a beeline for my chin. I licked a finger and ran it under my mouth. One would have thought that by the year 2002 they’d have invented a lipstick that would stay put, but no, it was a constant battle keeping it confined to one area. Or maybe I was just useless at putting it on. Regardless, I applied a fresh layer and smacked my lips together, fixing the problem—for the time being. Happy with the result, I slipped my lipstick away in my tan-coloured satchel and smoothed down my long blonde hair, which I’d freshly dyed to get rid of my naturally mousy-brown colour.
Eager to get the day started, I got out of my yellow Volkswagen, taking in the vibrant surroundings. Wera High was so much livelier than the middle-class and posh schools I’d substituted at in London. The South Auckland kids were louder, bigger, scruffier, and more disorderly. They were streaming onto school grounds, cutting across the road, car park, and grass, one even kicking down a ‘No Walking On Grass’ sign as he headed for a two-storey, cream-coloured building with a green roof.
I slung my satchel over my head, resting the strap across my soft pink blouse and the leather bag on the hip of my darker pink skirt. I went to head for the same building, which held the principal’s office and the staffroom, but quickly flattened my back against my car as three boys bowled past me, almost taking me out. They sprinted across the grass, with a monster of a boy leading the way, his wide shoulders deserving their own postcode.
I shook my head and turned to go, spinning around as a yell rented the air. On the far side of the lawn, the three boys were pushing and shoving another boy, as well as throwing punches at him. Their victim looked like he was struggling to fend them off, his arms and feet moving fast in self-defence. Then the big boy hit him from behind, knocking him to the ground.
I ran for the fight, yelling at them to stop. My right heel clipped a raised patch of grass, almost sending me falling onto my face. I briefly flailed, but righted my footing in time and continued on, closing in on the fight. Two of the attacking party took off as I neared them, while the bigger one remained. He started kicking the fallen boy, one boot connecting with his crotch. The boy cried out and curled up into a foetal position, clutching himself below.
I shot in front of the thug as he raised his boot again. “Stop!” I shouted, holding out my hands.
He lowered his foot, his expression an angry mask of brutality. He had a crooked nose, square jaw, and a prominent brow, his number one haircut finishing off his tough-as-nails look. He was also very tall, well over six-foot, dwarfing my five-foot-three frame. I swallowed and took a step back, realising the danger I’d unwittingly put myself in. I’d read about teachers getting hurt in South Auckland schools. Only the other day, one was knocked unconscious at a school that was barely five minutes from Wera High, and here I was on my first day, jumping into a situation where I couldn’t possibly defend myself.
“Go to the principal’s office,” I said, trying to sound assertive, although I felt anything but, especially with this colossus sneering down at me.
His angry gaze shifted to the fallen boy. “You’re so pathetic you need chicks to save you now. Just stay away from mine—”
“I don’t want your sloppy seconds!” the boy yelled on the ground, the kid obviously having a death wish.
Fury flashed across the other one’s face. The headline FEMALE TEACHER HOSPITALISED DEFENDING STUDENT jumped into my mind. Desperate to diffuse the situation, I whipped out my mobile phone. “I’ll call the cops if you don’t leave now.”
The thug tensed. “You should stay outta other people’s business, lady.”
“It is my business when you fight on school grounds,” I said, trying to sound authoritative. “What is your name?”
“None of your biz, bitch.” A second later he was gone, disappearing inside the school building. I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding in, relieved that I hadn’t gotten killed before the bell had even rung. Behind me the injured boy moaned, pulling my attention back to him. He was still curled up and clutching his crotch, using curse words that would make a sailor blush.
I squatted down and placed a hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”
He mumbled something I couldn’t discern. He had his face turned towards the ground, his black crop of hair speckled with flecks of grass, mud, and a small twig.
I pulled out the twig. “Do you need help to get up?”
“I said, fuck off!”
I whipped my hand back, shocked by his vicious response. “There’s no need to swear at me, I’m just trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help.” He turned around and sat up, his angry gaze going to mine.
I froze, taken aback by his appearance. He was...
Beautiful.
Dark eyes stared back at me, framed by even darker lashes, which matched his wavy black hair. He looked Italian or possibly Brazilian, his olive-skin and sculpted face reminding me of a famous male model I couldn’t remember the name of.
The boy’s glare dropped. For a moment he appeared as struck as I was, then he brought a hand to his brow, breaking the connection. He wiped some blood off it, drawing my attention to a small gash above his left eye. I quickly pulled open my satchel and searched for a tissue amongst the mass of receipts, finding an unopened packet. I removed a tissue and applied it to his wound.
The boy grabbed my wrist, freezing me in place. “I’ll do it,” he muttered, taking the tissue out of my hand. Letting go of my wrist, he placed the tissue to his brow and pushed to his feet, grimacing as he straightened. His other hand went to his crotch, reminding me he’d been kicked there.
I rose up too, feeling small in comparison. Even though he wasn’t as big as the monster that had attacked him, he was still close to six foot. His arms were also defined, the material of his grey short-sleeved, button-down shirt straining against his biceps.
I cleared my throat. “I’ll take you to the sickbay,” I said, feeling ashamed for ogling a schoolboy. Though, he looked like a senior, which meant he was either seventeen or eighteen, which wasn’t that much younger than my twenty-four years.
He shook his head. “I’ll be fine.” He swiped up his bag, which was covered in writing reminiscent of graffiti. There was also a gang patch sewn into the black canvas. My husband had been concerned when I’d told him the position was in South Auckland. After watching the film Once Were Warriors, he seemed to think he was an expert on the area, calling it gangland territory. I’d teased him mercilessly over it, since he’d never even been to Auckland, let alone New Zealand. He was from London. I’d met him while on my OE—an overseas working holiday. We’d been together for a good four years, married for one of those. He was due to follow me in a few w
eeks, his documentation taking longer than we’d anticipated.
Brushing himself off, the wavy-haired boy headed for the main building, discarding me like the tissue I’d given him. I ran after him, holding down my knee-length skirt so it didn’t fly up.
“I think I should take you to the sickbay,” I said, speaking to his back.
He kept on walking. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not; you should get a bandage for that cut and check your—”
He came to a sudden stop, almost causing me to crash into him. I took a step back as he turned to face me, his glare making me take another one. “You better not say balls,” he said.
I snorted out a nervous laugh and waved a hand at him. “Don’t be ridiculous, I was referring to your other injuries.”
“The only thing injured is my pride, so just leave me the hell alone. I don’t need chicks fighting my battles for me,” he said, his accent sounding Maori, not Italian or Brazilian—like he looked.
He turned back around and awkwardly ascended the stairs to the main building, the kick below obviously still hurting, which was no doubt why he was being so grumpy with me. I followed him into the corridor, where other students were milling about, talking, stuffing their belongings into lockers, and generally being noisy, the bustle reminding me of the London Underground, just more suffocating. The smell of teenage sweat, cologne, perfume, and even mud permeated the air, along with the heat their bodies were generating, making the corridor a rather unpleasant place to be on a hot summer’s day.
I pushed past some students, not willing to let the boy get away from me. My husband described me as a pit bull when I was determined to do something, biting in and not letting go until I got my way. “You could at least tell me your attacker’s name,” I said, doing my best to keep up with him, the crush of students impeding me. “I have to report this.”
He shook his head. “Not happening.”
“It is, so I need his name.”
He stopped in the middle of the corridor and turned to face me, giving me another annoyed look. “Cut me some slack, lady. I don’t wanna start off the year in the principal’s office, defending myself, when this isn’t even my fault.”
“You won’t need to, you’re the victim.”
He grimaced. “Don’t call me a victim, I don’t appreciate it.” He turned to go.
I shot in front of him. “I still need to know the boy’s name.”
“You don’t give up, do ya?”
I shook my head, just as determined to get it as before, if not more.
He exhaled loudly. “It’s Ronald McDonald, but if I get called into the principal’s office I’ll deny it. I’m not a nark.”
I scowled at him. “Do I look like an idiot to you?”
His annoyed expression dropped, the first sign of a smile pulling at his lips. “Do ya really want me to answer that?”
My scowl grew. “Don’t be cheeky. And you can’t seriously expect me to believe that boy’s name is Ronald McDonald.”
He blinked, then let out a burst of laugher. “That is his name. His father’s a big fat cunt who loves McDonald’s. Though, we usually call the prick Ron, Ronnie, or Happy Meal. We also call him Burger King or Wendy’s when we really wanna piss him off.”
“Are you playing with me?” I asked, not sure whether to believe him or not. Although he sounded genuine, I couldn’t fathom someone naming their own child after a clown.
He shook his head, his smile drawing my attention to his mouth. He had the most perfectly shaped lips, with a full bottom lip just made for nibbling on. His smile grew into a cocky smirk, alerting me to the fact I was staring.
I ripped my eyes away from his mouth. “What about you, then?” I asked, again feeling embarrassed.
“If you wanna know more ’bout me, I’ll meet up with you after school,” he said, appearing highly amused. “My number is—”
“I don’t want your number, just your name?”
“It’s Dante Rata.” He blew me a kiss, then spun around and disappeared into the mass of students.
Thanks for Reading!
I would like to ask if you could review Crying Out Silent along with any of my other books that you’ve read, regardless of whether you’ve loved or hated them, because every review counts, especially for self-published authors.
Here’s the link to my Amazon author page, where you can find all of my books:
http://www.amazon.com/Marita-A.-Hansen/e/B005H5W79K/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1
Regards,
Marita A. Hansen.
About the Author
Marita A. Hansen is from New Zealand. She loves writing, creating art, watching and participating in football, and running. She ran her first marathon in 2012 and is now planning on completing many more. For more information on Marita check out these links:
Author Facebook Page:
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Marita-A-Hansen/113130742120676
My Masters’ Nightmare Facebook Page:
https://www.facebook.com/pages/My-Masters-Nightmare/167338690126962
Blog Site:
http://maritaahansen.blogspot.co.nz/
Amazon Author Page:
http://www.amazon.com/Marita-A.-Hansen/e/B005H5W79K/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1
Goodreads’ Author Page:
http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5129673.Marita_A_Hansen
Artslant Page:
http://www.artslant.com/global/artists/show/74433-marita-hansen
Patreon Page:
https://www.patreon.com/maritahansen
Twitter Name: @MaritaAHansen
MORE BOOKS BY MARITA A. HANSEN
Graffiti Heaven (Graffiti Heaven #1)
Behind the Hood (Behind the Lives #1)
Behind the Tears (Behind the Lives #2)
Behind the Lens (Behind the Lives #3)
Behind the Secrets (Behind the Lives #4)
Don’t Peek (The Diaries of a Teenage Girl)
Overwhelmed (Blurred Lines #1)
My Masters’ Nightmare Season 1, Episodes 1 – 5
My Masters’ Nightmare Season 1, Episodes 6 – 10
My Masters’ Nightmare Season 1, Episodes 11 – 15
My Masters’ Nightmare Season 2, Episode 1 “Mind Games”
My Masters’ Nightmare Season 2, Episode 2 “Déjà Vu”
Ricardo (The Santini Brothers #1)
Brando (The Santini Brothers #2)
Vincenzo (A Santini Brothers’ Short Story) from the anthology Men of Mayhem
I Love You, Salvatore (The Five Families #1) – This is also a Santini Brothers’ Novella
Sasha & Andriena (Lovers & Sinners #1)
Broken English (Broken Lives #1)
Shattered Poetry (Broken Lives #2)
Jagged Pill (Broken Lives #3)
Love Drunk (Broken Lives #4)
Facing the Music (Broken Lives #4.1) & (A Broken Lives Short Story #1)
Smokescreen (Broken Lives #4.2) & (A Broken Lives Short Story #2)
Crying Out Silent Page 31