He glances up from the book he’s reading and shakes his head.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” I mutter, digging my phone out of my pocket to text Hadley, but then I pause when she rushes into the classroom.
“Sorry I’m late,” she mutters to the teacher as she hurries down an aisle.
I try to make eye contact with her but she keeps her head lowered. An odd move for her, the girl who’s told me to go fuck myself many times while looking me straight in the eye.
Instead of sitting in front of me in the available desk, she plops down in a desk a few rows over and up from where I am. Hushed whispers flow around the room as she digs a book out of her bag then lets her hair curtain around her face. Most of the whispering gossip is about what was on the flyers Alex plastered all over the school. I love my brother and everything, but he can be a real asshole sometimes.
After attempting and failing to get Hadley’s attention, I retrieve my phone from my pocket and send her a message.
Me: Hey, you okay?
She jolts then sticks her hand into her pocket to fish out her phone. Moments later, my phone buzzes with an incoming text.
Stubborn Girl: Yep
Okay, not sure what to make of that one-word response.
Me: You sure? You seemed upset when you took off from the house and you were late to school.
Stubborn Girl: Keeping tabs on me, huh?
Me: No, you walked into class late. That’s pretty hard to miss.
I’m such a fucking liar but admitting the truth means giving her the upper hand to… well, whatever this thing is going on between us.
Stubborn Girl: Glad to know I’m hard to miss. Now stop staring at me. The less attention I draw, the better.
I yank my gaze off her, wondering how the hell she knew I was looking at her when she’s staring at her phone.
Me: Hate to break it to you but you naturally draw attention.
Stubborn Girl: Yeah, because of the flyers you put up all over the school.
Me: Again, hate to break it to you, but if the flyer incident had never happened, you’d still stand out.
Stubborn Girl: I’m not sure what you’re getting at, Blaise Porterson, but I feel like you might be referring to my sanity making me stand out. Or lack thereof anyway.
Me: That may have something to do with it, but it’s not the only reason.
Stubborn Girl: Because I’m so awesome? Yeah, I already knew that.
Me: There’re still more reasons.
Stubborn Girl: Well tell me. Maybe I can avoid these alleged reasons so these damn crazy Honeyton folk will stop gawking at me like I sprouted a unicorn horn out of my ass.
I bite my bottom lip to stop from laughing, my gaze flicking toward her. Her head is lowered as she holds her phone beneath her desk near her lap. Me, I’m bolder, my phone resting on my desk. But us Portersons rarely get in trouble at school because my dad writes the superintendent a big donation check at the start of the school year. He does that with a lot of business and organizations so people will turn their heads the other way when he’s doing something sketchy and illegal, which is all the time.
Me: If they’re staring at your ass, it’s not because you have a unicorn horn sticking out it. It’s because you have a beautiful ass. And face. And everything else.
I don’t hit send.
I suck at flirting. It’s been the running joke in the Porterson’s house for years now, after I attempted to flirt with a waitress one night while we were out for dinner and ended up telling her she smelled like my favorite soup. In my defense, she did smell like soup, but she didn’t see it as a compliment. Doesn’t really matter. It’s not like I will—or ever have—had time to date or work on my flirting skills. And it should stay that way. I don’t need to flirt with Hadley. And with all the chaos going on in her life, she sure as hell doesn’t need to have to deal with me and my awkward flirting skills.
My finger hovers over the delete button, but Mr. G., the teacher, appears beside my desk and startles me so badly I fumble and end up smacking my palm against the screen. Then drop the phone. It smacks against the floor, face down.
“Blaise, you know the rules. No texting during class.” He bends down to scoop my phone off the floor. “You can have this back when the bell rings.” He walks away and drops my phone into the top drawer of his desk.
Great, he didn’t even give me time to lock it up. Not that I think he’ll scroll through my messages or anything. But I have a lot of personal information on that phone. Information that a lot of people in Honeyton would love to get their gossipy hands on.
Not to mention, with all that fumbling I did before I dropped my phone, who knows what buttons I hit.
Mentally cursing myself, I sink back in the chair and sneak a glance over at Hadley. She’s put her phone away—smart girl—and is looking up at the board as Mr. G. scribbles down the assignment. Once he’s finished, she throws a quick glance over her shoulder at me and gives me a dirty look.
I smile back confusedly and mouth, “What?”
She rolls her eyes. I have no damn clue what’s going on, but I stop caring when I notice a bandage is wrapped around her wrist. That wasn’t there this morning and as far as I know, her father didn’t in injure her there.
“What happened?” I mouth, pointing at her wrist.
She hurriedly tugs the sleeve of her jacket down then faces forward again. She remains that way until the bell rings then hightails it out of the classroom, shoving people out of the way.
“Hadley,” I call out but she bolts out the door.
I want to chase after her, but I need to get my phone.
“Is she okay?” Jaxon asks as he gathers his books.
“I’m not sure.” I tuck my books under my arm. “Do you know what class she has next?”
He shakes his head. “No, but maybe Rhyland does.”
“Yeah, maybe.” I head up to Mr. G. so I can get my phone.
When I reach his desk, he has my phone in his hand, but doesn’t immediately give it to me.
“Rhyland, I have to say, I’m a bit disappointed in you.” He sits down on the edge of his desk. “You’ve always been a decent student, despite your reputation, but texting in class is unacceptable.”
“I’m really sorry.” I nervously scratch my wrist.
I loathe being reprimanded by adults. It makes me feel twitchy and uncomfortable and while I don’t like to admit it, like a little kid scared out of his damn mind. This is no way Mr. G.’s fault, but stems from my own personal issues, many of which have to do with my father, but not all of them.
“Sorry or not, I feel like I need to punish you.” He offers me an apologetic look. “If I don’t, I’m afraid other students will think I’m lenient and the little clicks of keys will end up plaguing my classroom.” He stands up and hands me my phone. “I’m giving you afterschool detention. It’s only for half the time, so it won’t be too terrible. But my leniency is only because I believe you’re a good kid.”
Fuck. I was supposed to drive Jaxon to his therapy session right after school. I guess I’ll have to see if Rhyland can do it.
“Thanks, Mr. G.” I shove my phone into my back pocket. “And again, I’m sorry for disrupting your class.” I wave then hurry out of the classroom, scanning the crowded hallways for one of my brothers or Hadley.
“Good morning, awesome brother of mine.” Scarlett steps in front of me with a huge grin on her face.
“Why do you look so happy?” I wonder as we start down the hallway.
Her smile has me concerned because sometimes a happy Scarlett isn’t a good thing. Not because I don’t love her and don’t want her to be happy. Of course I do. She’s my half-sister. But Scarlett can also be … hmmm ... what’s the best way to put this? Crazy? Vindictive? Revenge thirsty? Not towards me or anything. Just toward the people who hurt and torment her.
Sadly, that happens frequently and has been going on since grade school after Scarlett’s mother showed up to
pick her up from class drunk off her ass, shirtless, and ranting about how Scarlett’s dad—aka, my dad—hated Scarlett. It didn’t help that Scarlett was admitted to a psychiatric hospital a couple of years ago. No one, besides my brothers and me, know the reasoning behind it, but people around her love to gossip and have conjured up stories ranging from Scarlett having a mental breakdown to her cutting her ex-boyfriend with a butter knife. Which, a). if the latter were true, she’d be in jail. And b). a butter knife barely cuts through butter, let alone human flesh.
Doesn’t matter what the truth is, though. People love the juicy versions of the story and continue to talk about it, even now. My brothers and I do our best to protect her, but Scarlett refuses to tell us the identities of her main tormentors. She typical carries around the pain, bottling it up until she snaps. And that huge smile on her face has got me worried she may have done just that.
“You act like me being happy is a terrible thing.” She juts out her lip, sulking as she hugs her books to her chest.
“No.” I swing around a group of people in the middle of the hallway, ignoring the stares tracking our every move. The staring shit has been going on for as long as I can remember. I’ve gotten used to it by now. “But sometimes when you’re smiling, it’s because you’ve gotten revenge on someone, and that usually results in you getting suspended or arrested.”
“Yeah, okay, I guess I see your point.” The smile remains on her face. “But I swear that’s not what I’m happy about.”
“Then, what’s up?”
“Oh, nothing.” She gives a nonchalant half-shrug. “I think I just made a new friend. That’s all.”
“Really?” I ask, and when she nods, an ounce of relief chips through the constant worry inside me. “That’s good. I’m happy for you, kid.”
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know why you’re always calling me kid. I’m only like two years younger than you.”
“You’ll always be a kid to me, Scar.” I teasingly ruffle her hair.
She swats my hand away but laughs. The sound is so foreign it startles me.
“So, who’s the lucky person who gets the awesome privilege of being your friend?” I stop at my locker. Please tell me it’s someone good who won’t get Scarlett into more trouble than she already gets herself into.
She stops with me and leans her shoulder against the locker beside mine. “Oh someone you’re going to love,” she replies with a wicked grin.
Any comfort I had fizzles. “I sure as hell hope that isn’t sarcasm.”
“It’s not.”
“Then, why are you smiling like that?”