WREN
I wanderthrough the empty halls of school, trying to hold back the tears that threaten, but it’s no use.
They’re streaking down my face, and I wipe them away as best as I can, irritated with myself. With my teacher. With the entire day.
Thank God no one is really around to see them, since school let out almost thirty minutes ago.
I stayed after class, just as I told Crew I would, and spoke again to Ms. Skov, trying to plead my case. She wouldn’t budge. She wasn’t mean about it, but she refused to listen to my reasoning as to why I couldn’t work with Crew. It didn’t matter to her that he was vulgar and said crude things to me to get a reaction. That he didn’t care about the project and just assumed he’d get a good grade because he’s a Lancaster.
He didn’t necessarily say that, but when I asked him about it and he didn’t deny it, I can only assume.
Something I hate doing, but I did anyway—and mentioned it to Skov too. Her skeptical look told me she wasn’t falling for it, but whatever. I was trying to think up every reason imaginable why I didn’t want to work with Crew.
And I’m still stuck with him.
Stuck with his hateful attitude and his mocking gaze. His disgusting vocabulary and the way he looks at me. Like he can see right through me.
I hate that most of all.
I dash away another streak of tears, sniffing loudly.
“Wren!”
Turning, I spot Mr. Figueroa standing in the open doorway of the faculty room.
“Oh.” I come to a stop, hoping that I don’t look too terribly upset. “Hi, Mr. Figueroa.”
Slowly he approaches me, his brows lowered in concern. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” I smile, hating how my chin wobbles. Like I’m going to burst into sobs at any second. “I just—had a rough afternoon.”
“Want to tell me about it?”
I shouldn’t. He doesn’t need to know about my problem with Crew, or with Ms. Skov. But the moment he asks, showing that he cares, I start talking.
And don’t finish until I’ve told him everything that happened during seventh period, leaving out some of the more embarrassing parts. Like Crew asking if I’ve ever been kissed.
As if it’s any of his business. Besides, the answer is no, and if I told him that, he’d laugh at me and then would go and tell all of his friends. It would spread like wildfire that it’s been confirmed—Wren Beaumont has never kissed a boy. Has never kissed anyone.
Though everyone probably already thinks that. They know how I feel about sex and relationships. I wear my virgin badge proudly, because why not? Societal pressure is too strong on girls. It’s downright crushing. And we need to take ownership of our bodies in any way that we can.
I don’t like being made to feel stupid for doing what I believe is right for me. Crew Lancaster has no business looking down upon me for not having sex. Just because he so easily gives himself away to whoever wants him doesn’t make him a better person than I am.
Of course, the idea of Crew “giving himself away” to another girl has my curious mind whirring. I’ve seen him with his shirt off—last spring, near the end of school, when all the boys were out on the field, running around and goofing off as boys do. I sat in the bleachers with my friends, my gaze snagging on him when he ripped off his shirt, revealing tanned, smoothed skin stretched taut over lean, rippling muscle.
My mouth had gone dry. My heart started to race. And he glanced over at me, our gazes locking, as if he knew what sort of effect he had on me.
I banish the thought, refocusing on my teacher, the concern etched on Fig’s face as I spill my story, his gaze warm and comforting. About halfway through my story, he put his arm around my shoulders, his touch loose as he steered me into the faculty room, which was blessedly empty. He sat me down at one of the tables, sitting right next to me. And when I finished, he patted my arm in reassurance, exhaling loudly.
“You want me to talk to Anne?”
I blink at him, realizing he’s referring to Ms. Skov. I never think of her first name. She’s just Skov to me. “I’m not sure if you should.”
“I could put in a good word for you. Anne and I are pretty close. She’ll listen to me.” He settles his hand on my forearm, where it rests on the table, giving me a reassuring squeeze. “You shouldn’t have to be tormented by Lancaster these next few weeks. You’re under enough pressure as it is.”
The relief that floods me at his understanding words is so strong I almost want to start crying all over again. “I’m under so much pressure. There’s a lot going on right now.”
“Did you turn in your college applications already?”