I shut my eyes tightly, sending up a silent prayer the teacher will walk into class.
“You’re in my way,” a harsh voice snaps.
My eyes fly open, and I peek through my hair, hanging like a curtain between the class and me.
“What you gonna do about it?” Michael sneers as he straightens to his full length, but he still has to look up at the new guy.
Michael takes a threatening step forward. “Colton Lawson, right? You’re new in town. I heard you killed your brother.” He lets out a low whistle. “That’s some fucked up shit. Are you going to off me as well?”
My eyes dart to Colton’s face. He looks like he could murder someone, and it sends shivers prickling over my skin. His eyes are like bottomless pits of darkness as he stares at Michael. Then his lips part. “Move.”
Michael seldom backs down, so when he steps forward, ramming his shoulder into Colton’s before he walks to the other side of the class, I’m surprised.
Colton takes the desk next to mine, and I’m acutely aware of every movement he makes. I dare a glance as he sets something down, and when I see it’s The Art of War by Sun Tzu, a frown forms between my eyebrows.
He doesn’t look like the type that reads.
Mrs. Ramsey walks into the classroom. “Settle down.”
I turn my attention back to my sketch and focus on shading it darker.
“We’ll be reading How To Kill A Mockingbird this year.” A hand appears in my line of sight, and without a word, Mrs. Ramsey closes my sketchpad before placing the assigned book on top of it.
She stops at Colton’s desk and picks up the paperback on his desk. “Is this what you’re currently reading?”
“Yes.” His answer is short, making it sound like he’s annoyed.
“It’s an excellent read. I’d like to hear your thoughts on it once you’re done.”
Colton doesn’t reply, and as Mrs. Ramsey continues up the aisle, I dare a glance in his direction.
I watch as he thumbs through his copy of How To Kill A Mockingbird. His hands seem strong, and veins snake up his forearms.
My gaze keeps sneaking upward until it collides with his dark eyes. Instantly, my head snaps down, and I stare wide-eyed at the cover in front of me.
Crap! I know better than to draw attention to myself.
Feeling overly self-conscious, I ball my hands into tight fists on my lap.
The lesson feels like it’s taking forever, and when the bell finally rings, I grab all my stuff and dart up from my chair. I’m out of the class before the other students and quickly walk to my locker. I place my copy of the English reading material in it, then stop by the restroom before hurrying to my next class.
Sometimes I feel it’s all my life consists of. Running and hiding.
As I dart into the classroom, water splashes all over the front of my uniform.
“You gotta watch where you’re going, Weinstock,” Sully chuckles.
I know he did it on purpose, and I choose to ignore him, but then he laughs, “Oh damn, looks like someone pissed herself.”
The whole class laughs, and it makes my cheeks flame with embarrassment.
For a moment, I freeze like a frightened deer, but then Mr. Matthews’ voice snaps me back into action as he passes by me. “Clean up that mess and take your seat!”
I dig tissues out of my bag and quickly wipe up the puddle on the floor.
“Be glad I didn’t drown you,” Sully chuckles. It’s a jab at what my mother did. She was once a socialite until she ruined her own life by trying to drown a fellow student at Trinity Academy. Kingsley Hunt. I wish I could meet her. I’d like to see what the girl who survived my mother looks like.
Straightening up, I throw the tissues away, then anxiously glance at the remaining open seats. The one in the corner is still available, but Colton has taken the desk next to it.
Dang.
“Sit!” Mr. Matthews snaps.
I dart forward and keep my eyes on the floor until I reach the corner desk. Taking the seat, I notice a scrap of paper, and I shove it aside. I pull the wet fabric away from my chest, hoping it will dry quickly.
I’m not good at math, and luckily Mr. Matthews doesn’t pay much attention to us while he drones on. I open my art book, and I’m just about to continue with my sketch when my eyes are drawn to the scrap of paper.
Someone from the previous class probably left it here. Reaching for it, I fold it open.
‘Remember, no one can make you feel inferior without your consent.’ – Eleanor Roosevelt.
The quote hits like a ten-ton train, and it derails my emotions.
Yeah? Eleanor probably never had to deal with Sully or Michael, who love to torture me every chance they get.