The Rebel of Raleigh High (Raleigh Rebels Series Book 1)

by Callie Hart

  He stops listening to the rain. The pressure returns, pressing in on all sides, though he doesn’t turn his head toward me. He faces the windscreen, eyes burning holes into the glass. “I did what had needed to be done. And I don’t know if any of the rumors are true. No one’s said any of them to my face.”

  “Yeah. Well…” I shift uncomfortably, leaning my elbow against the car door, chewing on my thumbnail. “Consider yourself lucky.”

  “That’s right. A fellow black sheep.” I hear the sharp-edged smile in his voice. “Are any of the rumors about you true, Silver?”

  Heat flares in my cheeks. I’m used to all the major high school players of Raleigh High spreading the lies and hurtful gossip about me, laughing at my story of woe, disbelieving me, calling me every name under the sun, but not one of them has actually come and asked me what really happened.

  The truth will set you free. I’m not a churchy person; I don’t believe in God. I've read sections of the Bible in religious studies, however, and I’ve experienced enough of life in Grays Harbor County’s tiny little backwater towns to know that this piece of scripture should come with a caveat: the truth will not always set you free. Sometimes, the truth will ruin your damn life. Sometimes, the truth will make your life a living hell, and you’ll wish you kept your goddamn mouth shut.

  New Boy’s asking me for the truth now though, just as I asked him a second ago, and I’m torn between giving it to him and making something up. Something fantastical and unbelievable. Something outrageous. At this point, what the fuck does it matter anyway? When it did matter, no one listened. No one cared.

  I blow a frustrated breath down my nose, digging my fingernails into the top of my thigh, feel the bite of pain there and reveling in it. Needing it to calm my nerves. “I’m sure half of whatever you’ve heard is true. I’m sure the other half is bullshit.”

  “Which half is which?”

  “Take your pick. It doesn’t even matter anymore.”

  His eyes are on me. I feel his scrutiny like I might feel a hand on my shoulder—a very physical, very real thing. “Do you sell coke out of your locker?” he asks.

  I bite back laughter. “Look at me. Do I look like some kind of drug kingpin to you?”

  He shrugs one shoulder, looking me over. His gaze diverts from my face, down to my band tee and my plain blue jeans. He pauses on my scruffy, worn high tops and smirks. “Tough call. Some drug dealers are tattoo-covered, motorcycle-riding degenerates. Some are librarian grandmothers with RSI and a weed card.”

  God, he’s infuriating.

  “No, I do not sell coke out of my locker. If that’s the real reason you came over here to harass me, then I’m afraid you’re shit out of luck.”

  “I don’t want to buy drugs from you, Silver. Remember, I’m a tattoo-covered, motorcycle-riding degenerate. I can find my own coke.”

  “Awesome. Why am I not surprised that you’re a drug user?”

  “D’you turn tricks for cash?” Alessandro doesn’t even blink. From his expression, it looks as though he just asked me what fucking day of the week it is.

  An uneasiness begins to creep into my bones. Surely, he didn’t come here for that. “No. I don’t. I’m not a whore.”

  He nods. “And what about the rape thing? Did you wrongly accuse a bunch of students of raping you last year?”

  Ashen, my heart beating faster than it has in a long time, I force myself into making eye contact with him as I slowly shake my head. “No. I didn’t,” I whisper. Alessandro doesn’t move a muscle. A water droplet, beaded on the end of his dark hair, falls and lands on the leather upholstery of his seat. Outside somewhere, on the other side of the parking lot, a girl shrieks, laughing, presumably running from the school building to her car in the rain. I steady myself, laying myself bare as I rebelliously stare down the abrasive boy with the slightest, softest lilt of an Italian accent to his rough, resounding voice.

  Lightning flashes overhead, and three long, unbearable seconds draw out before an explosion of thunder crashes overhead. Alessandro takes a deep breath. “Not wrongly accused, then,” he says. There’s no accusation in his tone. No recrimination, or disbelief. He’s just stating a fact. That makes it easier to admit, somehow.

  “No. They weren’t wrongly accused.”

  Alessandro turns away. He sinks back into his seat, his body relaxing—I hadn’t realized he was holding himself so tensely until the moment he let himself go. The flat, even look on his face is confusing as fuck. During our very first conversation, I’ve essentially just told him—the guy I planned on avoiding the entire school year, on pain of death, no matter what—that I was sexually assaulted by a group of people, and…he doesn’t look like the information has impacted him in any way whatsoever.

  “The rain’s stopping,” he says after a while.

  I can practically taste my own stupidity. I shake my head, reaching for the key in the ignition. I start the Nova’s engine, gunning the gas. “Great. You don’t believe me,” I say.

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Just get out of the car please, Alessandro.”

  “Alex. You didn’t answer my question.”

  I slam my fist into the steering wheel—it feels like my chest is cracking open, and a river of molten anger is pouring out like lava. “Get out of the fucking car!”

  “Pretty Princess Silver. Too good for all of us. Too fucking special. Don’t bite. Don’t kick. Don’t scream. Spread your legs and keep your mouth shut, bitch, and we’ll see if we can make this quick.”

  Alex opens the car door, but he doesn’t get out. His expression is tough to read, but none of this has unsettled him. He breathes out, slow, steady, even; it’s as though the world could be ending, and he would take the whole thing in stride, without the faintest flicker of emotion.

  He looks at me, and I want to smash my fist into his face. “I mean it. Get out,” I snap. “It’s better for you if we’re not seen together anyway.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “You’ve only been here one day, so I’m sure they’ll forgive the faux pas. I’m the pariah of Raleigh High. Sitting anywhere with me is the quickest, most efficient way to commit social suicide. I am broken, Alex.”

  To my surprise, he actually gets out. When I try and lean over to close his door, he catches hold of me by the wrist. “It’s okay to be broken. You have every right to be. Just don’t let them keep on breaking you. That’s not how you win this particular game.”

  I wrench my hand free. “This isn’t a fucking game.”

  Looking around the parking lot, as if he’s seeing his surroundings for the very first time. “Of course it is,” he says. “This is high school, Silver. This is the biggest game there is.”

  4

  ALEX

  Two weeks later

  Let me be clear. Silver Parisi is not my type.

  The oversized shirts and the frayed jeans aren’t really sexy, per se. The Chucks make her look like a tom boy. She doesn’t do anything with her hair as far as I can tell, and the touch of eyeliner and mascara she wears is hardly worth mentioning.

  In the past, I’ve been drawn to women who take care of themselves. Girls who spend time making sure they look their best before they step foot outside the house. Recently, though, the barbie doll look hasn’t been doing it for me. I used to find tight skirts and heels a turn on, but the past year or so I’ve found myself seriously fucking irritated by the vanity and shallow nature of the girls who’ve flocked around me. Sure, they might look good, but nine times out of ten they’re dumber than dumb, void of any personality or opinion, and boring enough to reduce a guy to fucking tears.

  Silver Parisi, on the other hand…

  I felt her watching me in that hallway with Maeve and the Deputy. I felt her eyes on me and knew I was being judged. The way she refused to tell me her name in Cline’s class, and the fierce defiance that blazed in her eyes when she ordered me out of her car made me really notice her. Now it’s two week

s later, and I haven’t been able to un-notice her ever since.

  I’ve done everything in my power to avoid thinking about Silver. Difficult, though, when she’s in at least one of my classes every day, and we usually end up seated side by side at the back of the classroom.

  I haven’t said one word to her since I got out of her car. Not one single word uttered. I’ve observed her plenty, though. There have been times when it’s looked like she’s preparing to talk to me, planning out what to say, but then she seems to think better of it and disappears into the crowded hallways without even opening her mouth to me.

  In fairness, no one really speaks to me during my first few weeks at Raleigh. A black cloud hangs over my head, my temper ready to flare at any given moment, and the other students make a point of keeping their distance.

  I’m pissed that I’ve been transferred from Bellingham. I’m pissed that I have to skate on such thin ice at precious, pretentious Raleigh High, and I’m extra pissed at myself that I can’t seem to get my fucking head screwed on straight. See, I can’t stop thinking about the girl with the baggy t-shirts and the scruffy high-tops. I can’t get her unruly golden-brown hair and her intense, penetrating blue eyes out of my head. Whenever I’m walking from one class to the next, I make a point of not looking, but I always know where she is.

  And, most fucked up of all, the more rumors I hear about her…the angrier I get. The girl’s fierce. She’s baring her teeth at the world every time I see her, head held high, a threat in her eyes, like a wolf backed into a corner, ready to fight at the drop of a hat.

  I’m getting used to holding my breath around her. Wherever Silver goes, an oppressive tension follows her; you can feel it prickling against your skin like electricity. Without even knowing why or when I made the decision, I’ve realized I’m waiting for something to happen, for a match to strike or a fist to be thrown in her direction…and I’m preparing to raze the whole fucking school to the ground in her defense.

  It’s so fucking stupid.

  I shouldn’t get involved.

  It’s none of my fucking business.

  I should walk away and let her deal with her own shit.

  Because, as far as I can tell, from all of my silent watching and waiting, it’s pretty clear that Silver Parisi hates me.

  “Alex? Hello? What day is it today, hon? ’Cause according to my schedule, it’s Monday, and Mondays are not on your visitation roster.”

  Goddamnit. I shake Silver out of my head, trying to focus on the woman in front of me instead, but it’s difficult to really see the social worker. They’re all the same. This woman, Rhonda, is wearing a flamboyant pink shirt with flowers printed all over it, and her earrings are so big they’re resting on the tops of her shoulders, which does separate her from the other clones I’ve had to deal with in the past. At least Rhonda has some sort of personality, which makes for a change, but at the end of the day, she’s still an administrator. A glorified pencil pusher, ticking boxes, thinking in the straightest of lines, unwilling to bend even the slightest amount to accommodate someone else.

  “I have to work Wednesdays now, and that bitch won’t let me come by on the weekends.”

  Rhonda makes a show of pulling a face; her earrings sway wildly as she jerks in mock surprise. “Firstly, do you think the title, ‘Bitch’ is appropriate when referring to the woman who so graciously agreed to take Ben into her home and care for him like he is her own son?”

  I huff out a blast of laughter that can only be described as scathing, shaking my head. “That bitch doesn’t care about Ben. We both know she’s only letting him stay with her because of the paycheck you guys give her at the beginning of every month. And no one asked her to treat him like he’s her son. He’s not her son. I’m his blood, and I should be able to see him whenever I fucking feel like it.”

  Rhonda pouts, displeased. I have a knack of displeasing people like Rhonda. Quite a talent, in fact. I can do it without even trying. “You are frighteningly clever, Alex. I know you’re not delusional. I know you’re more than acquainted with the harsh realities of the world we find ourselves in, which is why I’m so confused by the fact that you still expect life to be fair. I am a college graduate with a masters in human psychology. I should be a college professor by now, commanding a ridiculous salary, but because I’m not only black but a woman, I’m entirely unsurprised that I’m sitting here across a table from you, explaining that you cannot just do whatever the hell you please, whenever the hell you feel like it. Why did Jackie tell you not to go over there on the weekend?”

  I slump back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest. Outside, it’s snowing. The view from the third-floor window of this shitbox is, admittedly, quite pretty. The stand of trees at the bottom of the hill that rolls away from the building are all dusted white. Briefly, I’m transported back to another time and another place, a smaller version of me, standing impatiently next to an old woman with cloudy eyes as she pats the side of a sieve, sending clouds of icing sugar cascading down on the wedding cookies we just made together.

  “The bike. She said it makes too much noise,” I tell her. “She doesn’t want to disturb the neighbors.”

  Rhonda taps the end of her pen against the notebook on the table in front of her. “Can’t you just take the bus?”

  “No, I cannot just take the fucking bus! I have a means of transport. I shouldn’t have to ride a bus twenty-five miles away, just to keep fucking Jackie happy. What is this, Nazi fucking Germany?”

  Rhonda arches an eyebrow. “This has nothing to do with Nazis. Jesus Christ. I despair of you sometimes, boy, I really do. This is about your brother. He’s ten years old, and it’s good for him to have you in his life. If you need to make a few compromises in order to do the right thing by him, then—”

  “Compromise? To settle a dispute by mutual concession.” I push back in the chair, leaning so that the front feet hover off the floor.

  “And? Your point being?”

  “Me not riding my motorcycle isn’t a compromise. There is no mutual concession. Jackie isn’t meeting me halfway. She’s just getting her own way. Sets a terrible precedent, Rhonda. Makes her think I’ll bend over backward to whatever random, stupid demand she makes next. And that….is not going to happen.”

  Rhonda throws down her pen, sighing in frustration. She turns an open, weary look on me, and I finally do see her. She’s tired. This is a thankless job at the best of times, I know that. That’s why every single social worker I’ve ever met is jaded and completely resigned to the fact that the system is broken. “Haven’t you learned how to pick your battles yet, Alex?”

  I shrug a shoulder, unwilling to surrender my point of view. “If I concede on any ground, I ultimately lose. And I won’t lose Ben to her. He’s the only family I have in the world. As soon as I turn eighteen, I’m petitioning for custody of him. I’ll take him to live with me, and I won’t have to worry about Jackie’s bullshit anymore.”

  Rhonda isn’t surprised by this statement. This isn’t an idea I’ve just snatched out of the thin air. It’s always been the plan to take Ben as soon as I’m old enough. I’ve been waiting seven years, and now the end is in sight. Now, I only have seven more months to wait before I can become Ben’s legal guardian, and we can get the flying fuck out of Washington altogether.

  “Baby boy, right now, I’d say the chances of any judge awarding you custody of that child are sitting at a big fat zero,” Rhonda informs me. “Take a look at yourself. You do ride a motorcycle. Your arms are more ink than skin—”

  “Oh, is that how it is? I expected better from you. Given that you’re not only black but a woman, I’d have thought you’d be a little less judgmental than—”

  Rhonda holds up a hand, cutting me off. “Don’t even try and pull that shit with me, boy. I don’t have to be sitting here, wasting my time on you. I have a kid of my own, and I finished work twenty-five minutes ago. I am free to walk outta here at any time, and you can sit here with your bad attitude in silence if that’s what you want. Or you can shut the hell up and listen to me.”

  She waits; from the look on her face, she really will get up and walk out if I say one more word, so I keep my mouth shut. At the end of the day, loathe as I am to admit it, I need Rhonda on side.

  “Hmm. That’s what I thought,” she mutters under her breath. “I don’t give a shit if you have tattoos on your damn eyeballs, Alex. I don’t care if you drive a repurposed garbage truck around and refer to yourself in the third person all day like a goddamn lunatic. The only thing that matters to me is Ben’s welfare. If I thought that you were mature, responsible and serious enough to take care of a ten-year-old boy, then I wouldn’t hesitate in recommending Ben be placed with you once you’re eighteen.”

  Heat prickles at the back of my neck. I grind my teeth together, wrestling to keep my temper in check. One heated, angry word and I’ll only be proving her point. Somehow, I manage to affect some level of calm as I force out the words that are burning at the back of my throat. “I’ve been looking after myself for years, okay? Me. I worked. I bought my own food. I cooked my own meals. I learned to look out for my own wellbeing when the guy you people placed me with got wasted and beat the shit out me every night of the week that ended in the letter Y. I am more than capable of looking after my own little brother. And guess what? I’ll do it for free. You won’t have to pay me a goddamn dime—”

  “This isn’t about money, Alex—”

  “And what do you mean, if you thought I was serious enough about taking Ben? I’m serious as a heart attack. The day after my birthday, I will be walking away from Jackie’s place with my little brother, and there won’t be a damn thing she can do about it. So please. Go ahead and tell me how that isn’t serious enough for you.”

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