To a passerby, it probably seems she’s speaking of trying hard academically, but she and I know that isn’t her true meaning. There is a complexity behind her words no one but us will understand. She’s the one person in the world who knows me better than anyone, having taken on the roles of being both my best friend and my confidant. Translated, her words really signify: Don’t do anything stupid, try to fit in, don’t cause too much attention, and make attempts to be included in activities with other students.
Mainly, for once, she doesn’t want me to be a loner anymore. She wants me to have a taste of what an ordinary life would have been like all along, an opportunity experiencing things I should already be familiar with had we not been living such a messed-up lifestyle.
My mood will hardly allow for smiling, but I know it’s necessary in order for her to find truth in my agreement and to soothe her nerves. So, I raise my left hand in a sad attempt to wave and fight gravity to lift the corner of my lips.
Finally, I turn my back to our SUV, to my safety net, and walk up the steps, straight to the front door of Hell itself.
Chapter Two
The inside of Central Valley High is about what anyone would expect. The main entrance leads straight to a spacious lobby sporting utilitarian style tile flooring. On the wall to the left is a cartoonish painting of a bear. The rendering had to have been done by a student and not a professional, this conclusion drawn from the sheer lack of pizzazz. Not that I know much of painting, but it seems to me that the artist had few materials to work with and had surely done their best with whatever had been provided.
The Guidance office is straight ahead, while the front office is to the right of me. Had they failed to advertise which was which by using bold lettering above each door, I wouldn’t have had a clue where to go.
I open the door to the front desk and walk up to an older lady, who has her white hair swirled into a beehive as if it were still the 50’s. She even has red-rimmed glasses that look like they flew straight from that era and landed right on the tip of her austere nose. Her cardigan is buttoned up to the neck, and I almost miss the nametag that sits amongst the multitude of gaudy rhinestones that adorn the material. Mrs. Pearl is her name, or so it would seem, and I secretly wonder if Pearl is literally her last name or if she’s a former Kindergarten teacher and the first-name basis just stuck.
“Hello, I’m your new student, Sloane Monroe, and if you could please find the time and patience someday to teach me how to do my hair like that, I’d be delighted,” I lay it all out there right at once, hoping my attitude and compliment will get her on my good side. She beams at me, so it must have worked.
After a minute or two of impromptu hairstyle chatting, Mrs. Pearl hands me the “new student” packet, assuring me that since Mom already registered for me, there’s very little for me to fill out. Obviously thinking that her job is of the utmost importance, she still feels the need to clarify a few things that aren’t detailed on paper.
“I understand that you’ll be turning 18 soon, which means you’ll be a legal adult and will have more liberties such as signing yourself out, signing your own notes and permission slips, and you can also have off-school lunches as long as you return in time for your next class. Of course, tobacco, cigarettes, and scratch-off tickets are all strictly forbidden and should you, or anyone else partake in these activities on campus or at a school hosted function it will be grounds for expulsion. Just making sure there are no questions about our policies here,” she exclaims pointedly.
I wonder if she gives every new student this pointless speech?
Smiling as warmly as I can achieve, I assure her there will be no problems out of me. Lastly, she goes over my schedule for the year, making me aware of the fact that some of my electives can be disputed in the Guidance Office, should I want to change them.
Sometime during Mrs. Pearl’s speech about vices and other sinfully forbidden activities, the tardy bell rang. So, once she’s finished saying everything on her mind, I’m dismissed with a “Have a great first day and feel free to stop back by if you have any questions or concerns, dear.”
Complete silence swathes me as I step out into the lobby, a grave contrast to the hustle and bustle before class began. Pulling out my handy map of the school, I trudge along in the apparent direction of my first period. I’d been excited to learn from Mrs. Pearl as we went over my schedule minutes before, that I only need to pass Senior English to be on par with receiving my High School Diploma.
Thank God for transferred credits and higher education standards in other states.
For me, this means I have seven elective courses, the fun stuff like art and chorus, throughout the school year. English is my first period class this first semester and once it’s out of the way, everything else will be cake.
In light of this new information, my mood transforms to a livelier and more spirited disposition. Suddenly, the idea of hunkering down in this small town for an extended period doesn’t sound half bad, even if it is out of the norm.
Continuing to follow the map, I round the corner to another wing of the school and run straight into someone who’s leaning against the wall, resting. Papers fly then float to the floor in a scattered mess just as I lose my balance and begin to teeter toward the same fate. Apparently, my victim is un-phased, because two large hands reach and fasten around my waist mid-fall, right at the same time I fling both arms out to avoid face-planting. These hands hold securely to me for a few extra seconds, helping my equilibrium stabilize, before finally releasing me.
Quickly gathering my bearings and righting myself, I turn to face the poor soul who’s had to bear witness to the mayhem ensuing from my unfortunate lack of situational awareness.
Eyes first landing on a pair of work boots, I drag my gaze from the ground upward to a pair of sturdy blue jeans and then skipping straight to the face.
“I am so…” the words die at my lips.
I had full intentions of apologizing and thanking my victim/savior from what would have been a painful tumble, but I stop mid-sentence, completely taken aback when I come face-to-face with the most delicious set of honey-brown eyes I’ve yet to encounter. My gaze drinks in the allure of the intimidating male before me; his rich chocolate-colored hair so thick and soft in appearance, it practically begs for me to run my fingers through it just to muss it up. He stands at least 10 inches taller than my 5’5” frame, causing me to angle my head straight back just in order to see his face. Standing naturally would make me eye to chest with him.
I take a step back to gain a better viewpoint for further appraisal. Even with his height, he isn’t lanky or gangly in appearance but athletic and extremely toned from what I can see of his arms, which I note have tattoos. His white cotton t-shirt isn’t a tight fit, yet pectoral muscles are still prominent. It is because of all these attributes, I deduce he isn’t a student and most definitely not a mere boy, but a full-blown man.
He is a sinewy deity with a rugged air.
Although I may be sheltered and inexperienced, he oozes raw, manly sexiness in such a way that I have never reacted to before. My shallow breaths give way to a stuttering heart as my stomach clenches, sending an eruption of goosebumps all over my arms. Mind blanking, my thoughts become jumbled and scattered to the winds as all concepts of couth and first-impressions are zip.
Studying his face more closely now, I’m captivated at how his five O’clock shadow enhances a set of full, soft lips and the way his strong jawline is the perfect framework to a flawlessly proportioned face. As I gaze back into those piercing honey-eyes, aiming to lose myself in them, I’m lassoed by a strong and durable pull that has never existed between myself and another human being.
It’s in this moment I witness those eyes evolving from concern to something I can’t identify, before finally settling to ice.
The sudden shift in mood pulls me out of my misguided reverence, making way for the dawning realization of the position I had been in only 30 seconds before…
Face down, ass raised in the air, with the hands of the most tantalizing man (probably in the history of the world) gripping my waist from behind. A barrage of filthy thoughts play out even as I futilely try to shoot them down, and I can’t control the widening of my eyes, or how my cheeks burn feverishly hot, involuntarily displaying my humiliation with a color I’m sure rivals that of a Flaming Hot Cheeto.
I swear Mr. Mystery-Man must have mind reading powers, because that icy stare transforms to a look of mischief and amusement, paired with an arrogant smirk that suddenly has me irritated as hell, yet somehow creates an intense awakening throughout my body at the same time.
“Where are you from?” he finally asks, breaking through the silent stare-down. His voice is all roughness and velvet blended to precision over time.
Why he chose that odd question, I’m unsure.
Does he think something is off with me, due to my overawed reaction to him?
He could have asked my name, or if I was alright, or even given a response such as “sorry ‘bout that” (although the colliding mishap was 100 percent on me)…yet, he wants to know where I’m from.
“Why does it matter?” I reply, my tone defensive and bordering on too acidic, as I cross my arms over my chest in a defensive stance.
His eyes narrow slightly, whether at my tone or from my deflecting of his question with one of my own, I can’t be sure.
“I was just wondering what type of place raises up such rude people, so I can steer clear of it in the future,” he says matter-of-factly.
Prick.
That seals the deal. I’m making up my mind right here and now, and I very strongly dislike him in the most irrevocable of ways. To hell with the looks of the century.
“And how the Hell am I rude?” I practically spit at him, nostrils flaring.
As if I’ve just proven a point, his eyebrows rise in response to my colorful word choice.
“Look little girl, like I kinda hinted at already… I don’t know where it is you hail from but I thought ramming into someone and not apologizing was ill-mannered in any language.”
Did he SERIOUSLY just call me little girl?
I’m suddenly on the offensive as I’m not in the mood to defend myself this early in the morning.
I didn’t even have coffee with breakfast for God’s sake!
“Aren’t you familiar with the term accident, or is that too ‘haute monde’ a word to use in my vocabulary around these parts? It means spontaneous or unintentional harm, in case you were needing that cleared up.”
“I have heard of that,” he agrees through clenched teeth, “but accidents are typically followed by an apology from the person who commits said accident. The apologizing aspect is a pretty big part of making it known that it was, in fact, an accident!”
I huff, and roll my eyes, suppressing the childish whim of stamping my foot. Normally, I wouldn’t have the urge to give in to such juvenile emotions. But, this guy though.
“I was winded from our collision and it took my breath. I didn’t have an opportunity to even catch it again, let alone apologize, before you started in, telling me how rude I am. Isn’t it just as rude of you not to ask if I was alright?” I argue, trying to push his buttons, before leaning in to utter the next words in mock confusion as I lay my hand on his taut arm.
“I mean, I thought there was supposed to be, like, some Southern Gentleman thing going on down South… aren’t we in the South?”
His eyes darken as he leans in so closely, the intoxicating aroma of cologne tinged with subtle hints of Pine, beckons to me in a heady combination.
“No one ever said I was a gentleman,” he declares taking a step forward, almost like a threat. A legitimate shiver dances down my spine, but not from fear. The veiled threat in his statement only works to draw me further into his world, despite my growing agitation with him. From the way his caramel eyes roam my body, unabashedly and shamelessly, I’m certain that he speaks the truth.
There’s nothing gentlemanly about his perusal or the multiple feelings, all in opposition to one another, that he’s evoked. After allowing his words a few seconds to hang in the air and surround me, he continues his oratory.
“And anyway, you went from one rude act and straight to the next one. Your second violation was staring, which is impolite. Didn’t your mother ever teach you that?” he snaps the last part at me.
“I could ask you the same! I wasn’t the only one!” I practically yell in return.
My voice bounces off the walls of the hallway, startling me and making me aware of where I am.
A school. My new school.
Stealing a glance around, I’m thankful to note we’re still alone and have managed to refrain from drawing an audience. As irritated and exasperated as I am, my over-instilled sense of reasoning kicks in.
What exactly am I thinking? Mom will flip if I don’t reign this in now.
Here I am staying in a town much longer than I’m accustomed to, and making enemies on my first day, which is a plainly stupid thing to do. Especially enemies who are six plus feet of solid muscle and sex-on-a-stick to boot. If that isn’t bad enough, this particular enemy could make any request under the sun and have it met without fail, as long as he added a wink and threw in that signature smirk.
Yeah, let’s just say, he isn’t an enemy I’m willing to make.
I may let my attitude rule me from time to time, but I’m no fool. Wanting to smooth things over, but unwilling to concede by apologizing now that he’s made such a big deal of it, I compromise with myself.
“Thanks for breaking my fall. If I would have face-planted, my Mom would have thought someone gave me a hard time on my first day. It’s a good thing I came out unmarred or my whole evening would have been filled up with reassuring her I didn’t get smacked around by some bully. She worries about me in an OCD type of way,” I ramble on, effectively causing Mr. Mystery-Man to lift an eyebrow. An expression that silently declares, This is completely irrelevant and inconsequential info to me.
Still, I babble on, repeatedly shifting my weight from one foot to the other.
“It’s actually sort of frustrating the way she coddles me when she gets in those moods. So, yeah… you did me more of a service than you intended, Sir. And as far as my second transgression as you so astutely put it, the staring thing— I’m sure you’re used to it.”
Good God, I overshared on the last part. Accidental word-vomit.
Apparently, I’m prone to missteps and overshares today, which further addresses my need to conclude this ill-begotten meeting and carry on with my life.
Bending at the knee, I reach down to retrieve my sporadic mess of papers, placing one hand on the wall for balance. Despite my being an utter brat, he immediately lends a hand. Maybe dexterity gives him the upper hand because he collects nearly all of them, straightening and handing them over faster than I can say the word “paper.”
Hesitantly, I take them from his hand. Avoiding eye contact at all cost, I focus on the bundle of papers intently, dusting away the dirt and remnants of mystery particles dispersed from the soles of shoes.
“Thanks. Um… guess I’ll see you around,” I say, shrugging.
I start to turn back in my original direction, but can’t resist looking him up and down slowly, just one more time. It’s like my mind still can’t believe the Godly good looks of the man standing before me. And, my body is acting of its own consensus today so I can’t be held accountable over what my eyeballs do.
Besides, I need a hypothetical ‘one for the road.’ That’s reasonable, right?
His eyes take that warning glint to them once more, confirming he’s seen my wayward glance. I’m completely unapologetic and for some reason, his aversion to my perusal satisfies me enough to be on my way, so I do so with a little more pep in my step than I had when my morning first began.
Humming the tune of “Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover” by Sophie B. Hawkins, I attempt to push away all thoughts of the ruggedly handsome but
equally irritating man whom I’m now retreating from, and instead focus on mentally preparing myself for the slew of other new faces I’m about to encounter. I’ve nearly turned the corner out of sight, when he calls out to me.
“You never did apologize you know!” he exclaims, the smugness of his voice reverberating through me, as well as the hallway.
I throw him an over-the-shoulder grin as my only response, and saunter off unperturbed.
Chapter Three
About two minutes later I arrive outside the Senior English classroom. Class is already well under way, and I am definitely tardy but despite knowing this I’m still hesitant to go on inside. Ponderings of potential sex-gods fade into worry. Leaning against the brick wall adjacent to the door, I attempt with all my might to muster up enough courage to step foot through the threshold.
I should be accustomed to the unknown and at peace with all that being a new student entails. I’ve played this role literally a dozen or more times, and from a fairly young age too.
You’d think I’d be some sort of clandestine-identity child prodigy or something. I could write a memoir on my life and title it “The Art of Being a Human Chameleon,” but that doesn’t stop me from being numbed by anxiety, especially in light of the new information Mom fed me before dropping me off this morning.
Most people can adapt to situations they’ve constantly been placed in, eventually even growing immune to them, and for the most part I’d say that’s true in my case. But, I still hate change and I crave stability. There are recurring patterns of teenage boys and girls that make them predictable, no matter where the location or population, and I’ve been to enough schools to form my own set of statistics.
I’ve seen all the groups and “cliques” as adults like to label them, so I’m well prepared and informed. Yet, knowing and having experience in all this doesn’t make it any easier. Instead it has quite the opposite effect: This is harder because I’m now certain there’s no hope of having a good day… or week even.
Love on the Run Page 2