Knowing him, if he had the chance to sit close to me, he would. Just to rattle me.
I think he would enjoy that.
Our teacher, Mr. Figueroa, doesn’t assign seats, and he has a very relaxed attitude in this class. Considering we’re seniors and he handpicked each student to be in his advanced class before the school year started, he trusts us not to act out or cause trouble. He just wants to “mold young minds,” as he says, without restrictions or boundaries. He’s my favorite teacher, and he’s asked me to be a teacher’s aide for the spring semester.
Of course, I immediately said yes.
I enter the classroom, coming to a sudden stop when I spot Figueroa in an embrace with someone. A student, because she’s wearing a plaid uniform skirt and blue blazer. Her hair is a deep auburn, a shade I recognize, and when he gives her a nudge, she springs out of his arms, turning to face me.
Maggie Gipson. My friend. Her face is streaked with drying tears, and she sniffs, blinking at me. “Oh hey, Wren.”
“Maggie.” I go to her, lowering my voice so Fig won’t hear us. That’s what he tells us to call him, though all the guys make fun of the nickname behind his back. I figure they’re all just jealous of the relationships he has with us girls. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” She sniffs again, shaking her head. Which tells me she’s not fine at all, but I can’t press the situation. Not when we’re in class. “Just…I got into another argument with Franklin last night.”
“Oh no. I’m sorry.” Franklin Moss is her on-again, off-again boyfriend, and he seems very demanding. Always pressuring her to do things with him sexually. She just needs more conviction within herself, so she can tell him no, and mean it.
But she never tells him no. She’s already had sex with him multiple times, and it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t love her like she wants him to.
I think it’s because she gave it up to him too soon, but she won’t listen to me. Once we entered our junior year and sex became more and more rampant, one by one my friends sacrificed themselves to the boys who begged them for it. At least that’s the word my father used for it—a sacrifice.
The majority of them got nothing but heartache to show for it, and the words I told you so are always on the tip of my tongue when they complain to me, which isn’t too often. Not anymore.
They know how I feel. They know what I might say. They’d rather avoid me versus hear the truth.
“You’ll be fine, Maggie. Keep your head up,” Fig says, his voice soft, his eyes glowing as he takes her in.
I watch him, the hairs on the back of my neck rising as I glance between the two of them. The way he said that, how he’s looking at her—it’s very familiar.
Too familiar.
Other students come shuffling in, their voices loud as they chatter animatedly among one another. I settle into my desk, zipping open my backpack and pulling out my notebook and pencil, getting ready for class to start. Maggie does the same, her gaze on Fig the entire time as he rounds his desk and settles into his chair, a few girls from class coming to talk to him. They all giggle when he says something, the sound grating.
I watch Maggie watch him, wondering at the jealousy I see in her gaze. Hmm.
I don’t like that either.
Just as the bell rings, Malcolm and Crew enter the classroom, as per their usual habits. Sometimes they’re even late, though Fig never marks them tardy for it.
I look away at the last second, not wanting to make eye contact with Crew, but it’s no use. He catches my gaze, his cold blue eyes seeming to penetrate mine, and I stare at him for a second too long, my mouth growing dry.
It’s like being caught in a trap, staring at Crew. It’s almost scary, how much power he seems to wield with just a glance.
His name is on the building. His family has owned Lancaster Prep for hundreds of years. He’s the most privileged student at this school. Whatever he wants, he gets. The girls all want a piece of him. Every boy here wants to be his friend, yet he shuns most everyone. Even a lot of the girls.
I hate to admit this, but we’re a tiny bit similar, Crew and me. We just move about our day in a different way. He’s cruel and unyielding, whereas I’m kind to a fault. I try to be nice to everyone I encounter, and they want a piece of me. He’s mean and snarly, and they always come back for more.
It’s odd.
I finally manage to look away from Crew when Fig stands in front of the white board, his booming voice drawing my attention as he launches into a lecture about our upcoming read, The Great Gatsby. I’ve never read Fitzgerald before, and I’m looking forward to it.
“Wren, can you stay after class for a moment? I’ll make sure to give you a pass,” Mr. Figueroa says to me as he hands me a battered copy of our assigned book.
“Sure.” I nod and smile.
He returns the smile. “Good. I have a few things I want to run by you.”
I watch him walk away, curious. What does he want to talk to me about? We’re still three weeks away from winter break, meaning we’re over a month away from me becoming his teacher’s aide for the spring semester.