Misbehaved

by Charleigh Rose

  I hate depending on anyone for anything. I may not have a car, but I’ve worked since the day I turned fourteen. My dad signed a waiver, much to Ryan’s dismay, and I got a job at the Dairy Queen around the corner—where I reluctantly quit once I found out I wouldn’t have time to work when school started. When I need to be somewhere, I walk or ride my bike. Like I said, I despise being dependent on anyone, but if there’s one thing I hate more, it’s mornings. Specifically, early mornings. And to get to school on time, I’d have to wake up at an ungodly hour.

  I want to say no.

  I should say no.

  But as his rock-hard erection grinds into me violently, I say something else entirely.

  “Fine.”

  Most kids hate school uniforms. I’ve never been like most kids.

  Besides the fact that I won’t have to put any effort into my daily outfit, it’s actually kind of hot—in a naughty, low-budget porn sort of way. Plaid navy blue skirt that ends just above the knees, pressed, white-buttoned shirt with an ironed collar, matching blue blazer, and black knee-high socks. I’m missing the Oxfords that are supposed to be on my feet, but Ryan already shelled out over two hundred dollars for this uniform, and I couldn’t ask him to spring for shoes, too. He’d want something in return even if he did have the money, and my dad won’t be home for another week at least. So I’m rocking my beat-up, trusty Chuck T’s. All I need is fucking piggy tails and an anal bead necklace to make it onto one of those cards littering the strip.

  I walk up the most intimidating set of stairs I’ve ever seen in my life, while unbraiding my hair and letting it hang freely down my back. Ryan miraculously got his bike fixed in time to bring me to school this morning, and riding on the back of a motorcycle means a fuck load of tangles.

  I yank my earbuds out of my ears and pause the Halsey song on my phone as I make my way through the air-conditioned halls of West Point. Everything about West Point is different than Riverdale. Riverdale was full of graffitied tables, old, crappy vending machines, and borderline dilapidated buildings. But, the biggest difference is that West Point is all indoors. At Riverdale, and most schools in Nevada, each class was in a separate building. Forget about even trying to find a lunch table inside—everyone tries to escape the oven that is Las Vegas by eating in the cafeteria. I’d only been lucky enough once. At least I won’t have that problem here.

  I ignore the curious and catty eyes and focus on the slip of yellow paper with my locker number and combination in my hand. 88A. I’m completely out of my element, and I feel naked. Exposed. Like they can all see right through me, like they know that I don’t belong here. I force myself to keep my head high. West Point is the complete opposite of Riverdale, but high school is high school, and these vultures can smell weakness a mile away.

  I locate 88A, and of course, it’s the top locker. I flip my long, brown hair off my shoulder and stand on my tippy toes to work the lock. I half expect them to be electronic based on everything else in this high-tech school. Finally, it pops open and I check my schedule to see which books I can stuff inside for now, because my backpack is heavy as hell. I cram my old school checkered Vans backpack inside, only taking my textbook for my second class, Speech and Debate, my binder, and a pencil.

  Homeroom is basically an hour of taking attendance, daily announcements, and social hour, from what I gather. I hang back, observing the different cliques, and I’m pleasantly surprised when I seem to go unnoticed.

  My second hour classroom is empty when I arrive, and I have my pick of any seat in the house. I pause in the doorway, taking in the shiny, new desks free of crude carvings, and I bet they don’t even have gum stuck underneath. Somehow, this feels like Crossing the Rubicon. There’s no going back now. And I can either hide out in the back or take a seat up front and take what I came here for by the balls. Own this fucking preppy school, Remi, a voice in me commands. A smirk tugs at my lips as I take a seat front and center, directly in front of the teacher’s desk. And I hope he or she isn’t a spitter.

  Students start pouring in, and I busy myself with studying my schedule. AP English Language and Composition, AP Statistics, French, and, of course, Introduction to Speech and Debate. I’m in way over my head, but the dread doesn’t come close to the excitement that rolls through me. I hear everyone settle in their seats around me—my hair falling like a curtain shielding me from their view—but I can still feel their stares and hear their whispers.

  All of a sudden, the chatter stops and a deep, imposing voice assaults my ears. Goose bumps prick my arms, and I’m not sure where it’s coming from, because I’ve never responded to a voice like this in my entire life.

  “Class,” the low voice says. Really? That’s his introduction? No ‘Hello, how was your summer’? I assumed the teachers here were all about buttering up their students and rich parents. Guess Teach here didn’t get the memo.

  “Most of you know each other, but we have a couple of new faces this year. Let’s get this out of the way, because there’s a lot of work ahead of us. Miss LaFirst?” His tone is clipped and abrupt, and why can’t I look up? Jesus Christ, what is going on, and how do I make it stop?

  “Yes?” a hesitant, feminine voice chirps.

  “Care to tell us a little about yourself?” I can practically hear his eyes rolling.

  “I, uh, just transferred from Asher.”

  “Riveting,” he drawls, his footsteps getting closer. “Anything to add?”

  “No.” Her voice is small. Fuck him. I’m already over his condescending ass.

  “Good. Mister…” he trails off, I assume to check the name on his attendance sheet. “Stringer?”

  And it’s my turn to roll my eyes—the correction is on the tip of my tongue—but when I sweep my hair out of my face and get a look at him, the words die on my tongue.

  The word handsome does not do him justice, and for the first time in my life, I am rendered speechless.

  His jaw and cheekbones look like they’ve been carved in stone, quiff haircut, and his narrowed eyes—a fascinating mixture of gray and blue—are scanning me intently. Luscious lips, the bottom lip so much fuller than the top one, and strong, straight nose fill in his carved face. His slightly wavy, thick, black hair is pushed back off his face in a way that makes him look more like a man than any guy I’ve ever seen before.

  Like a young Clint Eastwood, I inwardly muse.

  He can’t be the teacher. He just can’t. How the hell are we supposed to concentrate?

  Irrational anger fills my gut, twisting around a hot ball of lust that’s growing bigger south of my naval. I have to look at this face all year long and pretend to not be affected? But as I throw my silent tantrum, I realize that he is still waiting for an answer.

  “Remington Stringer?” he questions again, his patience hanging by a thread. He’s directly in front of me now, looking right past me. He has one hip propped on his desk, and he is wearing a crisp, white dress shirt—the sleeves rolled to his elbows—elegant, dark denim jeans, and shiny brown shoes. I have to crane my neck to see his face, he’s so close. If nothing else, it snaps me out of my physical reaction to his proximity.

  “Here,” I manage to croak out, and I hate how weak it sounds. His eyes dart to me, and he lifts one disbelieving brow.

  “You don’t look like a Remington.” The smirk on his face is enough for me to snap out of my trance.

  “And you don’t look like a teacher, but here we are.” I hit him with the same sarcasm he so generously serves to everyone else. My eyes grow wide, my classmates snicker, his jaw hardens, and all I want is to reach out and grab those words and stuff them back into my mouth.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  He looks me up and down, and I don’t know if it’s disgust or annoyance coloring his gorgeous face. Whatever it is, it tells me that I’ve already landed a spot on his shit list, which is the last place I need to be right now. God, how do I go from sitting at the front row so I don’t miss a word he says to slingin
g insults? I really am a piece of work.

  “I apologize that I don’t meet your standards,” he mocks. “While we’re on the subject of standards, West Point has a strict dress code. Sneakers are not acceptable footwear.” He sends a pointed look toward my shoes.

  Awesome.

  And just like that, things go from bad to worse.

  “Headmaster Charles’ office, Miss Stringer.” He tilts his head to the door, his face still perfectly composed, devoid of any emotion. His level of self-control is something I have yet to encounter. “Chop-chop.”

  “Please, I can’t…” I clear my throat, hating myself for breaking, and loathing myself even more for my stupid slip of the tongue. Can’t afford shoes. Can’t go home. Can’t fuck this up. But I also can’t say any of that out loud.

  “You can’t…?” He crosses his arms over his chest expectantly.

  He doesn’t know me or my life. To him, I’m just another preppy, rich kid with an aversion to authority.

  “Never mind,” I grind out through gritted teeth.

  I gather my shit and hit up Headmaster Charles’ office—good thing I remember how to get there. I had orientation last week, but this school is huge—and plead my case. His secretary informs me that he’s in a meeting, so I wait on one of the oversized leather couches against the wall. After about half an hour, his door opens and a blond boy with dimples for days makes his exit. He looks around my age, maybe younger, but who knows. His eyes don’t have the hardened look about them like I’m sure mine do.

  “Miss, uh,” Headmaster Charles snaps his fingers, as if my name is on the tip of his tongue.

  “Stringer,” I offer, a polite smile plastered on my face. “Remington Stringer.”

  “Ah, yes, Miss Stringer. What can I do for you?” He motions for me to enter, and I take a seat in front of his desk. His luxurious office does nothing to make me feel like I belong here. He has a fucking tea set and little bronze sculptures on his desk and massive bookshelves that put my local library to shame. The deep brown walls are riddled with decorative frames that boast of his achievements. I bite back the urge to make a joke about rich mahogany and leather bound books, because for some reason, I don’t take him as an Anchorman fan.

  “As you know, I’m new here,” I begin.

  “Yes, I’m aware,” he hedges, steepling his fingers.

  “I was sent to the office because I don’t have proper shoes. I don’t have an endless amount of money, or any, really, at my disposal. I’m lucky to even be here. The uniform alone was enough to break my bank, but I made it happen. I don’t know when I’ll be able to afford a new pair.”

  I decide to get straight to the point because I know I don’t have the luxury to be tentative and overly polite. I think the man in front of me respects that, or at the very least not appalled by that, because Headmaster Charles’ eyebrows knit together as he steals a glance at said shoes, silently assessing the situation.

  “This school and getting into a good college are the most important things in the world to me, sir. And while I promise to get some shiny new Oxfords as soon as I can, I’d hate to think that West Point was the kind of place to kick someone out because they didn’t have the means to buy your fancy shoes. And frankly, I’m not here to put on a fashion show. I’m here to learn.”

  Are my shoes really that offensive? Or did Mr. D-bag simply want to teach me a lesson? I want to strangle him. Just thinking about his smug face makes my heart lose its usual tempo and go crazy in my chest.

  “Enough with the theatrics, Miss Stringer.” He waves me off. “Get proper shoes when you can and return to classes in the meantime. What’s your second period? I’ll let your teacher know.”

  Well, that was easy. Almost too easy.

  “Speech and Debate.”

  “Ah. Mr. James. I should’ve suspected.”

  Mr. James? I didn’t even catch his name before getting kicked out. New record.

  My face must show my confusion, because he elaborates.

  “He’s stern, if not a little cranky. But he’s an invaluable source of knowledge. As you have probably experienced yourself, he is not the type of person you’d like to debate with. All the same, learn to get by in his class, and you’ll do just fine at West Point, Miss Stringer.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I say as I get up from the seat in front of him and turn for the door.

  “And Miss Stringer?” Headmaster Charles calls out. I pause at the door and look back.

  “Your transcripts were impeccable. West Point can open a lot of doors for you. Don’t waste it.”

  “Yes, sir.” I gulp, feeling somehow scolded and complimented at the same time.

  “That’ll be all,” he dismisses me and returns his attention to the stack of papers at his desk.

  Good riddance, I think. And now for the hard part—softening Mr. James’ cold, cold heart.

  The rest of the day is a blur. When I get back to Mr. James’ class, he doesn’t even give me a second glance. Thank you, Baby Jesus. I attend my classes, take notes, and generally lay low, which is exactly what I aimed for when I first got here. I’m kind of relieved to see my second period was a glitch, because, while I appreciate the opportunity to attend this out-of-this-world posh high school, what I really need is a scholarship to a good university. I have no idea what I want to study. I have no clue where I want to be when I grow up. I just know it needs to be out of Nevada. Something that allows me to be completely independent, which means I’m already behind. These kids have had their paths handpicked since diapers—some even before—I’m sure, and I’m just over here hoping I get into college, any college, far away from here.

  Lunch is an affair with a The Great Gatsby flare at West Point High. The cafeteria looks more like a glitzy airport with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Nevadan hills, red-bricked walls, and new and shiny tables that look more like diner booths, only from deep oak. This place is free of the slightly annoying yet very depressing scent of cheap, oily, mass-made junk food. The combination of the swanky space and spotless, ironed uniform makes it feel like I’m walking in a parallel universe.

  I don’t like it and I don’t feel like taking a place near any of the people I’ve met during my periods, so I grab a tray, get myself some fresh medley vegetables and sautéed chicken breast—wanting to yell at the lunch lady ‘IT’S JUST FREAKING CHICKEN, WHY DON’T YOU CALL IT THAT?’—and take a seat at the far end of the room.

  Sitting on the headrest with my feet on the bench, I stare at my lunch and try to calculate my next social move. The general idea is to stay away from trouble and not get into shit that could get me expelled. That means I can play nice with everyone, but I don’t necessarily have to make friends. I simply need to make sure I don’t make any enemies either.

  Still staring at my untouched lunch, I feel something hit the side of my thigh and lift my head up. It’s the blond kid who got out of Headmaster Charles’ office, and he just smacked me with his binder. I quirk one eyebrow in question. He kind of looks like everybody else here. Rich and clean and cocky as hell. Now that he is close to me, I can see that his eyes are royal blue and that he has really full lips—too full, maybe—and hair that would make any respectable boy band envious.

  “Can I help you?” I ask, not able to completely tamp down my attitude.

  “I don’t know.” He tilts his head to the side. “Can you?”

  It’s the tilt of his voice that gives it away. Gay. So gay. I’m talking Cam form Modern Family gay. And I can’t really explain it, but suddenly, I feel a lot less guarded.

  “Depends on what you’re looking for.” I offer a smile that’s also an olive branch. I think he takes it.

  “I’m looking for good company and bad influence.”

  “Then I’m your girl.”

  “Glad to hear.” He tosses himself theatrically onto the seat opposite me and sighs. “Because everyone here looks like a total bore and I’m losing my mind.” His eyes roll, and we both burst into laughter wh
en we look down at the tray he just put on the table, because it’s full of kale salad with apples and other bullshit.

  “Christian.” He points at himself.

  “Remington.” I stub a finger to my chest. “But my friends call me Remi.”

  “Then I guess that’s what I’ll call you, too.”

  Christian tells me that he is another one of the few new students, and he is also a senior, so that practically makes us related somehow. Maybe not the best analogy, because my stepbrother makes a habit out of sticking his tongue down my throat and trying to get into my pants, but I digress. Christian just came back from studying at a Swiss boarding school with a really long, really French name. He was supposed to finish his studies there and go to Oxford University. However, his grandfather, the dude who holds the purse strings in his family, is dying, so his parents decided to move him back here so the whole family could spend some more time with their beloved patriarch. Christian says he doesn’t really mind either way, because he tries to have fun no matter where he is, and I actually believe him.

  The conversation is easy and so is forgetting how this day has started. Maybe that’s why I’m so shocked by the end of it. After lunch—in which Christian and I exchanged phone numbers and promised each other to meet after the last bell rings—I attend my last two classes. The block schedule is yet another thing I need to get used to. We have four classes per day here. Two before lunch and two after. When Christian and I finally meet in the hallway, we make our way to the main entrance of the red-bricked building.

  We’re laughing and talking about Britney Spears’ crotch tattoo when I hear the low rumble of a Harley. I freeze instantly, because the sound is so aggressive and out of place in comparison to the chirping of the birds, the little fountain in front of the entrance, and the low hushes of well-behaved students, and that throws me back to my reality.

  Leather boots.