“Watch where the fuck you’re going!”
Startled, I glanced up into the familiar kohl-lined eyes of our high school’s one and only self-proclaimed introvert, Nicholas Shelton. He was the sole heir to his father’s five-star hotel billion-dollar empire, but you would never know it by looking at him. Instead of the uniform black slacks and dress shoes that were the norm, Nick wore black Dickies with black boots. And while he still wore the same collared white shirt and tie as every other male student, he wore his shirt inside out and his tie hung loose and low around his neck, decorated with safety pins and colorful buttons with band names and logos on them.
His dark hair was long, pulled back into a ponytail midskull, and looked badly in need of a wash. He had small silver hoops in each ear, a hoop in his lip, and a barbell through his tongue. And then there were his eyes, heavily ringed in black eyeliner that was always smeared, giving him the appearance of a raccoon. It was as if he purposely only put it on before bed each night.
He made fun of everyone, always directly to their faces, calling us spoiled rich bitches and brainless jocks whose only future was to breed the next generation of people just like ourselves. Needless to say, he had zero friends at our school. Not that he cared much; he had his iPod always shoved in his back pocket and his earbuds plugged his ears most of the time. I doubted he even knew what people were saying about him. Or if he did, he certainly didn’t seem to care very much, or at all really.
“Walk much, Potter?” he grumbled.
“Sorry,” I muttered as I got to my feet and brushed off my skirt. “I didn’t see you.”
“None of you see very much, do you?” he said. “Not until it’s shoved up in your fucking face.”
Straightening my bag, I sidestepped him and had my foot on the first stair when suddenly his hand wrapped around my forearm. Surprised, I glanced up at him.
“They’re going to eat you alive, Katherine.” His tone was harsh—his tone was always harsh—but the angry look in his eyes was gone. He seemed… concerned.
“I know,” I whispered. “But I don’t have a choice.”
He stared down at me, his expression hard. “Your parents.”
It wasn’t a question; it was a statement. Parents like ours didn’t breed disappointments and failures. Because disappointments and failures made them look like failures, and that was simply unacceptable.
I nodded and a moment later he released me. “Good luck,” he said quietly and then he was gone, up the stairs and disappearing into the hallway I’d just escaped from.
I stood there for a moment longer, wondering what sort of horrors the rest of the day would bring, until a cacophony of high-pitched laughter shook me out of my thoughts. As the laughter grew closer, I bolted down the last flight of stairs and headed straight for homeroom.
Straight to where I already knew he was going to be. He being the sole reason any of this had happened, was still happening, to me.
~~~~
Luckily, I was the first student inside the classroom, and for the first time in my school career I picked out a desk in the back and slid into my seat. Untangling myself from my shoulder bag, I set it on the desk in front of me and as I went to unzip my bag, I locked eyes with my homeroom teacher. Mr. Inglefield was an older man, graying, balding, his hands and face covered in wrinkles and age spots. He was a transplant from England as a child but still retained a light British accent that, along with his deep voice, sounded lyrical and I’d always enjoyed hearing him speak. He’d always been kind to me, always had a smile on his face when we’d pass in the halls or interacted during class.
He wasn’t smiling today. If fact, the moment my eyes caught his, he quickly averted his gaze to the row of windows on the opposite side of the room. I thought I’d been prepared for this, but all I’d really been prepared for was what my peers were going to do to me. I never once imagined that my teachers, adults I respected that had once treated me like a golden child, would ever react that way.
I felt my heartbeat increase and eyes prick with tears, so I began hurriedly digging through my shoulder bag, trying to busy myself by organizing the books and notebooks inside. Around me I could hear footsteps, the slap of backpacks and the thud of books hitting the desks, but still I refused to look up. I had to work up to this, to being in this small, confined space with no ready escape from the giggling and the accusatory stares and the incessant whispering.
Out of the corner of my eye, I sensed someone taking the seat beside me, but still I didn’t look over. Was it someone who was purposely sitting by me in hopes of further embarrassing me? Or was it a friend? Most likely, considering what I’d heard straight from their mouths in the junior hall, I had no friends left. Not one of the girls I’d once considered my very best friends had contacted me during my weeks away from school. No phone calls or text messages, not even an e-mail or a Facebook message.
“Hey. Psst, Katie,” came a hushed voice from beside me. Without thinking, I glanced over and came face to face with Malcolm Widom. He was the prettiest of the pretty boys, a rugby superstar, large and muscular with shaggy blond hair and crystal-clear blue eyes. He was also his best friend.
He grinned at me, all teeth and dimples, and my stomach violently lurched.
“Have you seen this?” he continued in a whisper as he pulled his arm from inside his backpack. I watched in horrified fascination as his thick forearm was slowly revealed and then his hand came into view, holding a piece of paper folded in half.
It was a knee-jerk reaction; Malcolm held out the mysterious paper and I reached out and took it from him, despite the fact that I knew inside my gut it was going to be something I didn’t want to see. Beads of sweat dotted my brow as I slowly unfolded the sheet to its full length.
“Never knew you were so flexible, Katie,” he whispered.
I stifled my whimper with the back of my hand but could do nothing to stifle the laughter that erupted to my right.
“Mr. Widom!”
Mr. Inglefield quickly made his way down the aisle toward us. When he arrived at my desk, he snatched the sheet of paper from my hand, glanced at it, then crumpled it up in his fist.
“Hallway,” he demanded of Malcolm. “Now.”
Still grinning, Malcolm slid out of his seat, grabbed his backpack, and headed for the front of the room. I watched as he passed by… him… and the two boys quickly bumped fists.
Feeling more than embarrassed now, I was humiliated, disappointed, and heartbroken, but most of all I was hurt. I hadn’t been sure what seeing him—actually seeing him—was going to do to me, and now that I was here and he was here and I was staring at the back of his head, it was a hundred times worse than I could have ever imagined. The betrayal felt reborn, the same bitter taste flooded my mouth, my body tensed to the point of pain, and all the breath inside me suddenly evaporated, replaced by scalding-hot fire.
“Miss Potter,” Mr. Inglefield said and I looked up. “I believe we should take a trip to the office.”
Any other day, in another life, I would have been mortified to be escorted to the office in front of my friends and fellow students, but not today. Today I was grateful and relieved.
Trying my best to ignore the blatant stares coming from nearly everyone in the classroom, I took a deep breath and got up out of my chair. Then, with my eyes downcast, I quickly made my way into the hallway.
A brisk three-minute walk later, both Malcolm and I were seated in two of the four plush chairs directly outside the headmaster’s office. Malcolm had pulled out his phone and was busy texting while I sat, legs crossed, my shoulder bag in my lap, my hands holding the side strap with a death grip.
Five more minutes went by and still Mr. Inglefield had yet to exit the headmaster’s office. I could only imagine what they were doing inside with that awful sheet of paper. Were they looking at it? The very thought brought on a shudder of humiliation. The entire staff knew, everyone knew, students, parents, teachers, and probably even the janitorial staff.
The thought of them all looking at me, seeing me… like that… doing those things… with him overwhelmed me.
I fought back the scream that had been building up inside of me for the past three weeks and gripped my bag tighter, trying hard to fight both my roiling stomach and the tears filling my eyes, threatening to spill over at any second—
The door to the reception area slammed open and in walked Nicholas Shelton. Following directly behind him was a very angry Mrs. Halverson, an English Literature teacher.
“Sit,” she snapped at Nick, pointing to the empty seat between Malcolm and me.
Nick’s eyes flashed with an emotion I couldn’t distinguish and the next thing I knew he was barking, literally barking like a dog, alternating from his tongue hanging out while he made spittle-filled panting noises to yammering much the way an overexcited dog would.
Mrs. Halverson’s beady brown eyes narrowed into fine slits. “I will give you one more warning, Mr. Shelton, or it won’t be detention this time but demerits instead.”
“Oh, so now I’m Mr. Shelton,” Nick sneered. “A second ago, when you were treating me like a fucking dog, I was confused.”
Mrs. Halverson, along with both secretaries, openly gaped at Nick. Shrugging, he turned away from them and took the seat beside me.
Shaking her head, Mrs. Halverson leaned over the desk of one of the secretaries and began speaking in hushed tones, during which the secretary’s eyes again found Nick and continued widening until I could see the entire whites of her eyes.
I turned to Nick just as he was cutting his eyes in my direction.
“What did you do?” I whispered.
He shrugged. “Chelsea Nichols called me a dickless loser.”
Beside Nick, Malcolm burst out laughing. “That’s my girl,” he drawled.
I would hardly call Chelsea Malcolm’s “girl”. Maybe his once-in-a-while girl and that usually only lasted a for a week, maybe two, depending on how long it took the two of them to be at each other’s throats.
Grinning, Nick turned his entire body in Malcolm’s direction. “Then,” he said, “I told her in all likelihood I have the biggest dick she’s ever seen.”
Malcolm snorted. “Yeah, sure, freaktard. Whatever.”
Nick shrugged again. “She seemed to agree with me after I whipped it out.”
Malcolm shot up out of his chair at record speed and stood glaring down at Nick, his chest heaving with harsh, angry breaths. “You better be lying,” he spat out.
Slowly, almost casually, Nick pushed himself to his feet and stood to his full height, almost an inch taller than Malcolm. He wasn’t nearly as muscular as Malcolm, but no one else in school was either.
Nick cocked his head to one side and appeared to be studying Malcolm. “I never lie,” he said quietly. “I’m not like you.”
“No fucking shit,” Malcolm hissed. “I’m not a makeup-wearing freak!”
Nick’s lips split into a slow-growing grin that was nothing if not pure menace and vile intent. It was a beautiful gesture turned so blatantly, so deliberately, into something ugly. His angry scowl beginning to waver, Malcolm shifted backward a step.
Just then the headmaster’s door opened and Mr. Inglefield appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Widom,” he called out, crooking two fingers. “Please join us.”
Malcolm shot Nick one last look before grabbing his backpack and storming across the room. Grabbing the edge of the door, he almost violently yanked it from Mr. Inglefield’s grip and disappeared inside the office. Sighing and shaking his head, Mr. Inglefield followed him inside and closed the door softly behind him.
“They didn’t even give you five minutes, did they?”
I glanced up at Nick. “Huh?”
“Before they started in on you. They couldn’t even wait until after homeroom, huh?”
“No,” I whispered. The anxiety that had evaporated during Nick and Malcolm’s altercation suddenly reared its ugly head and my hands began to shake. Nick glanced down at my hands and I immediately gripped my bag as tightly as could.
“Well, Potter, I don’t know about you, but I’m not spending an already shitty Monday getting ripped a new one by Headmaster Alexander. So, what do you say? You want to cut?”
I nearly laughed out loud. Cut school? Me? The idea was ludicrous. I’d never skipped school a day in my life that hadn’t been absolutely necessary and accompanied by parental permission. I’d never even considered it. Not in my entire career as a student had I ever gotten a demerit, and cutting an entire day of school would undoubtedly result in an avalanche of demerits.
But who the heck cared about demerits now? I was lucky the school had allowed me back in, and even luckier if by chance a parent-approved college would actually accept me after this mess. As far as my parents were concerned, they weren’t even speaking to me.
“I can’t,” I whispered, already second-guessing myself. “What if we got caught?”
Nick grinned deviously. “Then, Potter, I guess we’ll be sharing a jail cell together.”
The sound of the headmaster’s office door opening caught our attention. Malcolm came out first and his angry gaze immediately sought me out. “I don’t know why I’m getting demerits because she’s a fucking whore!” he spat.
God, I couldn’t take much more. No, I couldn’t take any more. How could people like Malcolm, who’d slept with half the girls in school, judge someone like me, who’d only been with one person? Once.
“If you continue to be unable to control yourself, Mr. Widom, your punishment will be double,” Mr. Inglefield snapped.
“Louise,” he said, turning toward the still wide-eyed secretary. “Please call Mr. Widom’s parents. Inform them that their presence here is required in an important disciplinary matter.”
“Thirty seconds, Potter,” Nick said under his breath as his gaze slid to the reception door, “before you get called in there…”
Both excitement and anticipation rose in my gut. I knew once I was called into the headmaster’s office, I would be forced to relive every excruciating moment again. I would have to see that vile sheet of paper and know that not only had Mr. Inglefield taken a good look at it, but the headmaster had also seen it. My parents would be called, I would be sent home “for my own good,” but home wasn’t going to be any better than school. There nobody would speak to me, only judge me.
“With or without you,” Nick whispered.
“Miss Potter,” Mr. Inglefield called out.
Nick bolted for the door and Mrs. Halverson shot up straight. “Nicholas!” she shouted, “Don’t you dare!”
My legs were shaking, my eyes were darting back and forth between Mr. Inglefield, Mrs. Halverson, and Nick as he disappeared out into the hallway.
Oh God, who even cared anymore? My life was already ruined as far as my family was concerned. High school was ruined for me, and most likely college as well. I jumped to my feet just as Mrs. Halverson fled into the hallway and grabbed the door before it closed.
“Miss Potter!” I heard bellowed from behind me as my body leapt into action. I ran as fast as I could, my heart pounding in my chest. It took me a couple of seconds to pass Mrs. Halverson. Nick was already at the end of the hallway, nearly to the exit doors, and I pushed myself harder.
“Nick!” I screamed as I slammed into the shoulder of a bewildered student passing by. “Wait for me!”
“Not a chance in hell!” he yelled back, already pushing through the double doors. “‘68 Ford Torino,” he called out. “Red and black!”
Duh. I knew his car. Everyone in school knew Nick’s car. It was the only car in the parking lot that wasn’t brand new with a luxury brand name. I pumped my arms and legs harder, running faster than I’d ever run before. Mere heartbeats later I was slamming open the exit doors, barely able to hear the screams of Mrs. Halverson over the pounding of my heart.
I heard the engine before I saw it, the rough start-up sound I’d only ever associated with muscle cars and motorcycles. Panicking,
I immediately veered left toward the rumbling noise. I wove quickly through the neat rows of shiny Mercedes, BMWs, and Cadillac SUVs until I saw the Torino, heard the squealing tires as Nick threw it into reverse and hit the gas. I watched his white taillights turn red and then he was flying through the parking lot at record speed—away from me—and my heart sank. I slowed my run to a jog and then stumbled to a walk, breathing hard, tears burning in my eyes.
Now what was I going to do? This was infinitely worse than if I’d actually gotten away. The punishment for trying to get away was going to be just as severe, and yet I hadn’t even been able to experience actually getting away.
“Potter!”
I whipped around and found that Nick hadn’t left me at all but had instead circled through the parking lot and was idling at the end of the row I was in.
“Katherine!” came a feminine yell from the opposite end of the row. I shot out, running again, slamming into the passenger door of Nick’s car and fumbling with the door handle. Once I was in, the door barely closed, Nick slammed on the gas and I shot forward, only to be restrained by a strong arm across my chest.
“Seat belt,” he said, pushing me backward.
Still holding me back, Nick let go of the steering wheel, shifted into second gear one-handed, then grabbed the steering wheel and made a sharp, squealing right out of the school parking lot. Holding my breath, I frantically grabbed for my seat belt, yanking it across my body and quickly clicking it into place. Nick pulled his arm from under the seat belt and immediately shifted gears again.
“Grab my smokes,” he said, pointing to the glove box. With shaking hands, I reached forward and pulled open the glove box. But instead of a pack of cigarettes, I found a plastic bag with what I knew was marijuana inside and several rolled joints.
“Potter,” Nick said, holding his hand out. “Give it here.”
Grabbing the bag, I pulled it out and handed it to him. Moments later he was lighting up one of his joints and reaching for his stereo. Loud, masculine yelling poured from the speakers, cursing and growling with what sounded like banging on garbage cans with a wooden spoon.
Stories for Amanda Page 31