“Yes, theory,” he stresses. “Not fact.”
“Did I say theory?” I smack the heel of my hand to my forehead. “I meant fact. Stupid me, I always get the two mixed up.”
His grin is as shiny as a goddamn black diamond ring and just as pretty. “Yeah, we’re definitely going to be friends.”
I’m racking my brain for a good protest when the secretary returns with a pink slip of paper in her hand. She smiles as she hands the paper to the guy. “This will get you out of last period, and last period only, which I noted multiple times on the slip. And in permanent marker,” she warns. “Do not try to pull any of that funny business like you did the last time I gave you one of these, when you erased the date and gave it to all your teachers to get out of all your classes.”
He presses his hand to his chest and dazzles her with a grin. “You have my word. No more funny business.”
She sighs tiredly. “One of these days, I’m just going to tell you no.”
“But today’s not that day.” He winks at her.
The bell rings then, announcing class is about to start and that I was right when I guessed I was going to be late.
“Just get to class,” she tells him then sinks down onto her chair.
He salutes her then turns to me. “I’ll see you around, mysterious Raven. And when I do, I expect some more details about you. You know, so we can start establishing our beautiful impending friendship.” He winks at me then pops the sucker into his mouth and strolls out of the office.
“That one is a handful,” the secretary remarks as she types a few things onto her computer.
I focus on her. “Yeah, I can tell.”
She clicks the mouse. “He’s a good kid, though, especially considering what he’s been through. It’s also probably why I have a hard time telling him no.”
I want to ask her so many questions, like why she gave him a slip to get out of class. Or what he’s been through. Or better yet, what his name is since all I ever heard her call him was Mr. Hathingford.
But doing so would mean I have an interest in him and would put me a little bit closer to knowing who he is. What would be the point in that? Like I said before, by the end of the day, he’ll have no desire to be friends with me anymore.
Four
Raven
Like I guessed, I end up having to walk into first period late. Thankfully, the teacher lets me slide on in without too much of a fuss. And as a double bonus, Dixie May isn’t in this class.
I keep waiting for something to happen. For the whispering to start. For the labels to begin being thrown at me. Strangely, though, the morning goes by pretty uneventfully. Well, until fourth period rolls around.
Like I did in every other one of my classes, I first go talk to the teacher when I walk in to tell him I’m new.
“Oh, yes, right.” Mr. Mcnellton, a middle-aged guy with thinning hair, glances up from the stack of papers on his desk. “I think your sister was in my second period class.”
“Cousin,” I correct. “But, yeah, we live together.”
“Oh, I see.” He clearly doesn’t, confusion flooding his eyes.
He wants to ask questions, but like most, he won’t, over the fear that the answer might be uncomfortable to hear.
It is, too, for everyone who dares to ask.
The girl who murdered her parents.
He clears his throat then adjusts his tie. “Well, you can sit anywhere you like. The seats aren’t assigned. And I’m sure I’m going to enjoy having you in my class.”
I want to tell him my story of Jerry and his theory that proves there’s no way he can be sure of that, but I decide to attempt to keep on the teacher’s good side for now.
I nod then wander toward a row of desks lining the middle of the classroom, choosing the far back one where I can keep my head low and hopefully not get called on.
Once I’m seated, I set my binder on the desk, pop my earbuds in, and then recline back in the seat. I have about four minutes until the bell rings, so I should be able to listen to one full song.
A minute later, I'm zoned out, tapping my fingers to the beat, when a guy approaches my desk. He has on a black hoodie with the hood drawn over his head, and his eyes are as dark as storm clouds, although completely and utterly gorgeous—and intense. His jawline is covered with stubble, along with a scar, and his expression is intense. I’m not sure what he wants, but I don’t really care too much, at least not enough to take my earbuds out. He makes no effort to move, though, continuing to stare at me.
What the hell is this guy’s deal?
I tug one of my earbuds out. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah, you’re in my seat,” he grumbles.
I’m so confused. “Really? Because the teacher said they weren’t assigned.”
A beat of silence passes by as he stares at me intimidatingly.
“They’re not officially assigned,” he finally states with a hint of annoyance. “But anyone who has any self-perseveration knows not to sit in that seat.” He nods at the desk on my right then my left. “Or in those.”
I tap my finger against my lip. “Huh? I guess I must’ve left my self-preservation at home today.”
The tiniest bit of surprise flickers in his eyes, but he swiftly extinguishes it. “Well, I suggest you go find it before you end up doing something stupid.” He places his hands on my desk and leans in. “Now get out of my seat.”
My heart thunders in my chest. How do I want to handle the situation? I mean, I want to keep going about my day unnoticed, and if I put up a fight with this guy, that’ll draw attention. But his demanding attitude is annoying. It’s like he just expects me to do what he says, like everyone in this world does.
He’s like a male version of Dixie May, only more intense.
His irritation festers the longer I sit in the seat without moving. His jaw ticks, his eyes darken, and his muscles wind into tight knots.
“Trust me, new girl; you really don’t want to play this game with me,” he warns in a low tone.
“What game?” I carry his gaze. “I’m just sitting at a desk, trying to mind my own business.”
“At my desk,” he stresses. “Now get up and go find a seat somewhere else before I make you.”
My pulse spikes, but so does my stubbornness. When I was younger, my mom used to tell me that being stubborn would be a benefit and a curse. But she was wrong. It’s only been a curse for me. I wish I could get rid of it, but sometimes it creeps up on me without warning. Like when brooding guys get up in my face and threaten me.
Lifting a brow, I recline in the seat.
Surprise blazes in his eyes. It’s like no one has ever defied him before. It makes me feel both proud of myself and a bit nervous. But I conceal the latter. I’m good at that—concealing my emotions. At least I have been for the last almost six years.
His jaw ticks as he straightens. “Fine, you wanna play this way, then let’s play.”
I hold my breath, waiting for him to jerk me out of the seat or something. Instead, he turns around and drops into the seat in front of me.
“You just destroyed your chances of making it here, new girl,” he warns, throwing me a dirty look from over his shoulder.