With every eye on Beth, the entire class raises their hands. Everyone except for Lacy. Her stare burns holes through me, but she keeps her mouth shut.
“All opposed,” says Coach Knox.
“Me,” Beth yells. I smile. I love winning.
“Congratulations,” Coach Knox says in a bored voice. “You’re on the homecoming court. ”
“What the fuck is wrong with you people?”
Coach Knox points at her. “Take a seat and watch your language. ”
The bell rings. Beth grabs her backpack and leans into my face. “You are so fucking dead. ”
Beth
ARROGANT BOY—he’s going down. Blah. It’s aggravating the way they worship him. Ryan this. Ryan that. Ryan’s a god. Ryan’s a goddamn moron. I’ve met guys like him before. Hell, I screwed one. Rather, one screwed me over. I’m not a stupid little girl anymore and I will no longer fall for things that look pretty.
Our Calculus teacher, with teased eighties hair, peers at us over her gigantic glasses.
“When I call your name, come to the front and write out your work on the board. ” She scans the class. “Morgan Adams, Sarah Janes, Gwen Gardner, and Beth Risk. ”
The back of my head hits the wall behind me. Damn. This is Scott’s fault. The stupid guidance counselor told Scott I couldn’t keep up in this class, but Scott insisted I be placed in the honors program. Scott explained to me later that night, over the tofu and green crap his wife insisted on calling dinner, that he was raising my expectations of myself.
“So, it’s true,” someone says from the front of class. “Your last name is Risk. ”
Clank. Clank. The sound of the chains squeezing my lungs echoes in my head. Since Ryan’s little performance in Gym, the entire school has whispered as I pass and this time it isn’t because I’m the school freak. No, they whisper for reasons way worse. Their envious, judging eyes survey me because they want to know me—or rather, my uncle.
“Are you related to Scott Risk?” asks a girl with short brown hair.
Everyone in the class watches me. My hands start to sweat.
“Ms. Risk?” prods our teacher. I’m not sure what she’s prodding me on: that I’m the only one who hasn’t come to the front or because I haven’t answered the question. I stare at my empty notebook. Panic pushes my heart past my rib cage. What do I do?
My teacher’s lips edge into a cheesy grin.
“Why don’t you go ahead and satisfy the curiosity of your fellow classmates. ” On the first day of school, Scott met privately with my teachers to “ensure I was in the best possible hands. ” The witch flirted with Scott until he gave her an autograph. She probably has his face tattooed on her ass.
Sweat forms along the hairline on my neck as the world sways. It’s been too much: the changes. Losing Mom. Losing Isaiah. Losing my home. I’ve tried. Really I have. I’ve roamed the halls as the reclusive freak show.
This answer will change everything again.
“Yes. ”
Whispers and comments rush through the class like wind from an oncoming thunderstorm. Our teacher becomes uncharacteristically cheery. “I’m sure Beth would love to answer your questions about her uncle outside of class. Now, Ms. Risk, would you please come and write out your solution to today’s equation?”
“No,” I say without thinking. No to both of her statements. I’m not answering anyone’s questions and I’m not writing out a solution.
My reply silences the class.
“Excuse me?” she asks.
I look at my blank sheet again. There is no way in hell I’m going to that dry-erase board and have the entire school witness the niece of the great Scott Risk fail because I’m an idiot. “I’m not writing out my solution. ”
The bell rings and my teacher’s expression gives new meaning to the term wrathful. A couple more pounds of chains settle in my stomach. I’ve gone and done it—I’ve broken Scott’s rules in a very public fashion. How could I do this to Mom?
“Ms. Risk,” she calls from her desk as the rest of the class files out. I go, knowing the level of shit I’m in is too deep for her to allow an audience. “Let’s discuss a few rules. ”
She “discusses” for a long time, and when she finally lets me go, I race down the stairs.