A God in Carver (Carver High #1)

by Haven Francis

  “Sure, but we should maybe wait until class is over, or at least until everyone stops staring at us. Or not. Doesn’t really matter when or where, as long as I get to fuck you.” Okay, I thought he was gonna say, Is that an invitation? But still… total meathead.

  I sit up in my stool before scooting it a foot to the right – away from him. “What the hell are you doing in my photography class?” I seethe at him from behind my clenched teeth.

  “Actually, Presley, this is my photography class. Did you not see that in the course description? Photography I, an exciting and intimate journey through all the hard ridges and long terrains of Nash Carter?”

  I shake my head while simultaneously turning it from him. “Ignore him, Presley. He’s not even there. It’s just a… rock. A big, mindless, useless rock next to you.”

  He laughs again. God, I hate his laugh. Everything is a joke to him. Everyone is a joke to him. His ex-girlfriend, my best friend, Tatum is a joke to him. His ex-best friend, Brandon, is nothing but a damn joke. Even Jolee, who I hate but sometimes pity because she worships him and he uses her like a cheap whore, which she is, but still- it’s all a joke to him.

  “If it makes you feel any better, I obviously didn’t know you’d be in this class and the only reason I’m sitting next to you is because it’s the only open seat. I guarantee I’m more pissed about this situation than you are. So if your plan is to ignore me for the rest of the semester – I’m good with that.”

  “Perfect,” I mutter.

  “Excellent,” he agrees. And even though I refuse to look at him, I know his green eyes are sparkling and he’s wearing that stupid, smug half-grin on his face.

  God, what crap luck this is. What the hell is he even doing in a photography class? “What the hell are you even doing in a photography class?” I turn and shoot daggers at him with my eyes.

  “Ignoring each other, Presley… I know I’m irresistible but come on, you can do it,” he says, eyes staring straight ahead, stupid Nash grin on his face.

  The teacher walks in and heads to the front of the room. He’s talking to us, probably sharing all kinds of valuable information that I need to know, but I’m so irritated by the mere presence of Nash next to me that I can’t even concentrate.

  Minutes later, and still no knowledge gained on my part, Nash pushes a syllabus in front of me that has been passed back from the front of the room. I’m still only seeing red so I can’t read the words but Nash is laughing again. The tone of it feels like a thousand well-sharpened blades grading on my skin. I pull out my large glasses, shove them on my face and try to focus, wondering what in the syllabus is so damn funny.

  PHOTOGRAPHY I: Exploring the landscapes of our lives.

  “To photograph truthfully and effectively is to see beneath the surfaces.”

  – Ansel Adams

  I keep reading, trying to find the source of his laughter, but not succeeding. Is he amused by the fact that the focus of the class is landscapes and he’s equating that with his lame comment about the terrain of his body? That’s not even funny. I wonder, like I have a million times, what Tatum ever saw in him. How the hell did he get her to stick around for five years?

  I know what Jolee sees in him because Jolee is a stupid skank who just wants someone to have sex with her. And if all you’re looking for is a boy toy, then Nash fits the bill. He’s most girls’ type with his athletic body and angular face, offset by light green eyes and full red lips. But I respect Tatum. A lot. So I expected way more from her. And now that she’s kicked him to the curb and moved on with a real man, it’s hard to believe she was ever stupid enough to date him.

  Tatum once told me that I get under his skin, that he’s not used to people being opposed to the general idea of him. Which was shocking to me: why isn’t everyone opposed to the general idea of him? Although, I think my perspective on the situation is pretty unique- the kid’s been nothing but nasty to me since day one. This charm that people claim he has has never been wielded on me.

  I’m deep into my commiserating so I don’t know why Nash is practically yelling, “Is it too late to change seats?”

  I look at him, then to my fellow students and teacher, who are all staring at Nash and me.

  “I have to assume, Nash, if you chose to sit next to this young lady that she will make a fine partner.”

  “What?” I blurt out. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  The entire class snickers at me before turning around, and Mr. Photography Teacher takes a seat behind his desk, effectively dismissing us. I have no choice but to turn to Nash, “What the hell is he talking about? Partners?”

  Nash actually looks thoroughly irritated- which is not a look he wears very often. Cool and confident is more his style. “This section,” he mutters, stabbing his finger into the middle of the second page which I have yet to read, “the one about working with a partner for the entire fucking semester, is what he’s talking about.”

  I turn the page, look down at the syllabus and, sure as shit, we are required to, not only explore our own landscapes, but the landscapes of our partner, therefore seeing their life and also what ours looks like through their eyes.

  What the seventh layer of hell?

  “No, this is not happening,” I mutter, pushing back from the table.

  Nash clamps his huge hand onto my thigh, which I promptly tear off me and throw back at him. “Were you paying attention to anything the man said?” he mutters.

  “No. Actually, I wasn’t.”

  “He’s not gonna let us switch partners. Something about foreign landscapes bringing out our creativity and getting better results if the person next to you is not someone you know.”

  “What kind of bullshit is that? And I mean, it doesn’t even apply to you. I believe you are beyond familiar with the landscapes of my life considering you’re sleeping with the girl whose home I’m currently living in.”

  Nash hasn’t looked at me. He’s studying the syllabus with a kind of laser focus I wouldn’t have thought him capable of, assumedly as he searches for a loophole in our little predicament. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m no longer sleeping with your landlord.”

  “Please,” I mutter under my breath, turning my own attention to the syllabus. But, again, my focus has apparently checked out for the day because now I’m racking my brain trying to remember the last time I heard my cousin’s cries of ecstasy seeping through the thin layer of drywall that separates my room from hers. It’s a special kind of puke-inducing torture that, despite the plethora of men who pass through her sheets, only Nash was able to inflict on me. And now that I’m thinking of it, I realize I have been spared her ugly, desperate pleas and moans for a while. Maybe even since before his breakup with Tatum. God, no wonder her bitch level has climbed to an all-time high lately.

  “Maybe I can drop the class,” he mutters to himself as his eyes roam the paper.

  I refocus and see where his discontent is coming from as words like home, work, friends, personal interest, favorite hangouts, places of refuge, childhood haunts, and future landscapes all magically pop off the paper and assault my eyes. I do not want to explore Nash’s places of refuge (probably the bathroom where he keeps his hand lotion and porn) and I definitely don’t want him exploring mine… even though I don’t currently have a personal refuge… if I find one, I’m not letting him in.

  “That’s an excellent plan,” I mutter back at him.

  I watch as his hand crumples up the stapled packet with impressive effectiveness. “Actually,” he seethes, “I don’t want to drop this class.” I look at him with shock and horror. “I think you should be the one who has to change classes.”

  “What?” I sputter, “No. This is my only… last semester I had to take… I don’t even have a refuge… this was supposed to be… No.” Oh my god, I’ve reached a new low. I’m getting emotional over the possibility of having to drop my photography class. And I’m staring at him like a lost puppy dog. Pathetic.r />
  He cocks his head at me, confusion taking over his features. “Ummm…” he mutters, clearly at a loss for words due to my crazy ass.

  But instead of pulling myself together and overruling my momentary insanity, I just drive the case home because he can’t take this away from me – Nash or no Nash, I need this hour in my life. “You don’t understand. My school, the one where I lived, that’s practically all I had were art classes and this and my drawing class are all I have to remind me of it. And I miss it. I miss home. I miss my school and my friends. And I’m stuck in that house with all those people, I live with Jolee and her mom. Do you get that? Do you get how awful that is? No matter where I am, I can’t escape her. And my mom – even when I’m not at that house where she can bitch at me directly, she’s constantly texting me to look at my dad’s Instagram. My dad has Instagram because he’s going through a midlife crisis and I’m pretty sure the woman he cheated on my mom with is now his girlfriend and she’s twenty six. Twenty six… and she has Instagram and now he has Instagram and my mom has Instagram so she can stalk my dad’s Instagram. And the only time I’m truly away from all of them is at work, but I have to wear those slutty uniforms and get treated like a whore and all I can think is I feel just like Jolee and I just want to go somewhere where I don’t have to think about any of them. And that was supposed to be here - this class… and my drawing class and I can’t lose that. I can’t lose either of them.”

  By the time I’m done with my rant, Nash’s hands have made their way to my shoulders and he’s desperately telling me, “Shh, it’s okay. Presley, it’s okay, just… shhhh,” while glancing over his shoulder at our fellow students.

  I make one final plea, “Please, Nash.” And the words feel dirty rolling out of my mouth. Never, not ever, did I think I would be saying please to this man.

  “Yeah, it’s fine. I mean, no, you don’t need to drop the class. I’m sorry. I didn’t know how… sensitive the subject was. I’ll do whatever you want. Just tell me what I need to do to get you to stop crying.”

  Crying? Oh, crap. I’m crying. When I realize this, I take my glasses off and pull my hoodie over my face to wipe the tears away and while I’m under here, I take a deep breath and try to pull myself together. When I feel able, I look up at him. “Can you drop the class? It’s the only thing that’s gonna make this okay.”

  He flares his nostrils and pinches his eyebrows together, clearly not happy with my solution.

  “Please,” I whisper again, out of desperation.

  “Damn it, Presley. Fine.” He gives in and I’m a little shocked. I’ve never played the unstable damsel in distress, and I wasn’t acting just then and I am embarrassed, but damn, I’m not opposed to using my new talent in the future if at some point it’s absolutely necessary. Something’s wrong with me because I bat my lashes at him.

  He lets out one last frustrated breath before standing and leaving the room.

  Despite my pathetic behavior, the second he’s gone, I’m smiling. And twenty minutes later, the bell rings. Which means lunch. Which means the only hour I get to spend with Tatum and Angel.

  When I reach them, not in any way shape or form to my surprise, Angel is saying, “I get that Tatum, but if you do it then we’re gonna have to find a new sports reporter and you know how everyone’s just clamoring for that position. And when no one is willing to take it, guess who’s stuck with it?” School paper talk. Blah.

  “I’ll meet you guys in the cafeteria,” I tell them after reaching between them to get my bag stuffed in my locker.

  “Presley,” Tatum calls after me. “You want a position on the paper?” I don’t bother turning around, I just lift my middle finger to her.

  “Told you,” I hear Angel chiding. “If you can’t even get your best friend to do it…”

  “Shut up, Ivy,” she tells him, suddenly at my side with her arm around my shoulder; her five-ten frame towering over my five-three one.

  “Tatum, I’m not taking your position on the paper. The one you, only months ago, were fighting to keep,” I remind her. After her controversial article about her, now boyfriend, Brandon, she had to beg and plead to keep her position.

  “I’m not asking you to… I just have to make Angel believe I am. Mr. Lawrence will approve my new column and, unfortunately, Angel will be left cleaning up the no-sports-reporter problem whether I help him or not.”

  “Poor guy.”

  “Yeah, poor guy. Kid’s got is super rough,” she says sarcastically. “Accepted to Brown, king of the nerds, making money hand over fist playing music in his garage. And you’ve met his mom. I feel so bad for him.”

  “True.” I agree. I guess he’s got it pretty good. Especially in comparison to someone like Tatum who has to work her ass off waitressing at The End Zone to support her mom, and has to study ten times harder than Angel just to get B’s. She does have Brandon though. That’s gotta make up for most of her problems.

  After filling our trays we head to our regular table, which is slowly getting back to normal. Nash sits on one side or at the adjacent table, Brandon and Tatum sit on the other and the rest of the football players and cheerleaders fill up the spaces in between. Angel and I don’t really fit in with the rest of the crowd but Brandon goes where Tatum goes and where the captain goes, the rest of the players go, and where the players go, the cheerleaders go.

  But for a few minutes, the three of us have it to ourselves. While they’re discussing the paper, my eyes wander to the set of lockers just outside the open cafeteria. Nash is there with Summer. Even from this distance, I can tell from the stance of his body and his hand gestures that he’s pissed. Summer reaches out and squeezes his shoulder as he rakes his fingers through his messy, sandy-blonde hair.

  “Has anyone figured out what the hell is going on with the two of them?” Angel asks, his eyes following my gaze.

  Tatum briefly looks, but just as quickly looks away.

  “I think they’re just friends,” I mutter, unable to picture Summer with him.

  “That looks like more than friends,” Angel gripes. “What is it with that guy?” he asks, his eyes aimed at Tatum. “Does he have a hypnotic penis?”

  Tatum rolls her eyes. I give her credit – despite the way he shit all over her and admitted exactly how evil he was to her and Brandon during their childhood- she rarely talks crap about him or gets involved in any of the gossip.

  “If they were together would it bother you?” Angel asks her.

  “Ummm….no. Why would it?”

  “I don’t know, maybe because you used to date him…. And it’s just weird.”

  “Clearly, I’m over him. And even if I wasn’t, there’s not a chance in hell anything’s going on between the two of them. Summer’s smarter than everyone thinks, and everyone already thinks she’s a genius.” She stuffs a fry in her mouth, her eyes focused on me. With an amused look on her face she tells me, “You look more annoyed with him than usual.”

  “I didn’t think that was possible, but I am.”

  “Elaborate?” she asks, eyebrows raised expectantly.

  “He’s in my photography class.”

  “What?” she asks through her laughter, “Photography?”

  “Exactly, I mean… what the hell, right? But it gets worse. He sat at my two person table.”

  “Eww?” she asks, not impressed with my dilemma.

  “The entire semester is one big group project… with our table mate.”

  “Ha,” she stutters a laugh. “Have fun with that.”

  “Hopefully I won’t have to. We got in a fight about it and decided one of us would have to drop the class. He… volunteered to do it.”

  “That’s not gonna happen,” Angel informs me.

  “What?” I ask, appalled.

  “Knowing him, his saved all his non-manly required classes for his last six months of school. There’s no chance he’s gonna find another open art class during fourth period. Can’t you change partners?”

  “Oh
, god,” I mutter.

  “He’s not that bad,” Tatum says, reaching across the table to grab a hold of my hand.

  Angel and I both glare at her.

  “Who’s not that bad?” Brandon asks, appearing out of nowhere with a kiss for Tatum.

  She kisses him back, beams at him for a few sickening moments, then says, “Nash. Presley’s stuck with him as a partner in photography class.”

  Brandon laughs. “Mr. Conroy’s class?”

  “I didn’t catch his name. Tall guy with bushy black hair and glasses.”

  “Yep,” Brandon confirms with a shake of his head. “No one gave you the heads up? He’s still doing the personal landscape thing, right?”

  “You know about that?”

  He nods. “And Nash is your partner?”

  “No. He’s dropping the class.”

  “Not gonna happen,” Brandon confirms Angel’s earlier assumption.

  His focus shifts to Tatum so I look at Angel, hoping he can help me find a way out of this. “You could drop the class,” he offers.

  For sure I’m not touching that subject again. “I would have taken anyone else.” I think back on phallus with a newfound appreciation for what could have been. “Anyone,” I repeat, shaking my head.

  “Remember when Tatum broke up with him? Remember how excited we were? About the fact that we wouldn’t have to look at him, or think about him, or talk about him?”

  “It was bliss,” I admit.

  “It is bliss. I’m not making this a regular habit with you - wasting minutes of my life talking about him. Figure it out,” he tells me with a pointed glare before kissing me on the cheek, then standing and walking away.

  I watch him go with the same dull yearning that’s always there when I see him. There’s something about him that is so damn irresistible. Could be his clear blue eyes; his I don’t give a crap but, yeah, I know I’m way cooler than you wardrobe; his wavy bleached undercut that makes him look like he just walked out of the surf; the look on his face when he’s mindlessly strumming his guitar; his cocky attitude; his intelligence; his long, lean body… yeah, there are few items on the Why Angel’s Irresistible list.