Well, hello, fuckface.
My eyes connect with the one that quite possibly hurts me the most by saying the least. Bridger. When we collided in the hall on orientation day, so many emotions rushed through me, and I didn’t even get a proper look at my sociopath. He’s empty yet full of something he only used to offer me. If I had to compare him to anything, it would be like never having ice cream in your life, seeing the creamy substance from afar and knowing it could possibly hurt you, and then one day, tasting it for the first time... just a little drop, though, something to satiate the curiosity, to delve into the depravity and then having it disappear once more. That’s Bridger Clemonte.
Like every year since we met, his rich brown hair is messy and short on the sides. He’s the definition of a jock from his white shirt that spans across his wide chest, hugging every inch of his strong body, all the way to his skater shoes. He’s perfect in his sweet boy look, but behind the black eyes he sports is a demon that wrestles to be free daily.
Once upon a time, I let that monster free on me.
It changed everything.
“I like the way you look at me,” I mention, peering up into his colorless eyes.
A smirky twitch to his lips is the only indication that he appreciates my comment.
“Why’s that, Starless?”
I inwardly squeal at the nickname he gave me. Like his eyes, lack of light, the darkness within... it’s our truth.
“Like you’re trying to pick me apart, understand me...” I trail off, seeing the way his eyes slightly warm around the edges.
“Usually girls wouldn’t enjoy that,” he murmurs, thumbing his lip. It’s one of his tells, something he does when he’s trying to make me pay attention to anywhere but his expression. But right now, his face explains a lot.
He’s fascinated with me.
“I’m not other girls, Bridger.”
Why is it that I’m seeing him right after Ten? I close my eyes tightly, needing the memories to fade.
Bridger hasn’t turned to see me yet, so he’s unseeing and untroubled. At least, to the world that doesn’t know him like I do. He holds the windowsill like it’s the map to hope, willing to take him wherever he needs to find peace. His fingers tap along the glass to a tune only he hears, but I know it’s calming him. He’s the silent type, the kind that always says everything without saying anything. I’m one of the only ones who know his language.
I move to a seat toward the back of class. I’m usually one to sit up front and be involved, but with Richter, there’s not a part of this room he doesn’t animatedly speak to.
After I sit, students start pouring in. One by one, they seat themselves, talking absentmindedly while waiting for class to start.
My gaze returns to Bridger, wondering what silences him, and then I chastise myself for caring.
He didn’t care about me, so why should I still care about him?
When most of the seats are full, our teacher strolls in with shades over his eyes, a coffee cup in hand, and a smile larger than life. I can already feel myself returning the joy, sensing the energy coming off him in waves. It’s addicting seeing a person so passionate about something they speak about in a manner that absorbs into the other person’s mind.
“Class!” he booms, cheerful as ever.
When he removes his shades, a black eye is the first thing I see. Whoa. Wonder whose cereal he pissed in to get a shiner like that. He doesn’t seem like the drunkard and douchey type. Maybe I’ve overestimated his personality.
Some people start whispering around me. Instead of listening to them, I lean back, uncap my pen, and wait for him to start. He smiles at me as if knowing I’m not going to ask questions. It’s not my business, and it takes away from my learning schedule, so it’s of no importance to me. Sending me an appreciative wink, he starts at the whiteboard.
“For those who don’t know me. I’m Richter. Rick-ter,” he enunciates, marking the board with his name. “For those of you who have taken a class of mine before, welcome back. Hope you’re not tired of overexuberance because it’s not going anywhere anytime soon.”
A brunette up front raises her hand.
“Yes?” He doesn’t even attempt to ask her name. Smart man.
“Why do you have a black eye?”
He lets out a sardonic laugh that sounds more like a cough. “Well, sometimes... adults are stupid. Me, being that adult, I got what was coming to me. But enough about that. Let’s get started on Stalin.”
As he enthusiastically gets into the groove of history, my paper becomes black with all the ink I’ve spilled, recording every important detail. It doesn’t even occur to me when the bell rings because my cap is still in my mouth and my pen is still moving.
“Colton?” Richter sounds out, breaking my reverie.
“What’s up?” I ask, not peering up. I’m still writing down the last section of information he gave.
“You’re always writing more than anyone else.”
“That’s because I’m not too busy ogling your ass,” I bite out.
It’s true. Richter is hot. He’s the youngest staff member at Arcadia Crest. Late twenties, nice athletic body, he even has kind eyes and a bad boy vibe when he smirks.
When he doesn’t respond, I finally glance up at him looming over me. His face is red, and he looks uncomfortable.
“Sorry. Hate stupid questions.” I add that for his benefit since he appears two seconds away from running away.
“I understand,” he responds, his mouth in a tight line. “It’s not news that the females at this school spread rumors.”
“Not rumors, bro,” I try jesting, but then realize I sound illiterate and not funny. “You’re attractive, and chicks can’t keep that kind of thing to themselves. Either way... thanks for always bringing your A-game to the lessons. It really helps me push forward.”
He smiles.
I close my notebook, rising from the seat. “Keep it up.”
Three
I’m not surprised PE is added to my long list of hated classes.
The first day, we didn’t have to do anything big. We weighed ourselves, got told our BMI, where we should be, and goals for the semester. Unlike in a normal high school, we’re forced to be healthy in fitness. It’s a drag.
I’ve always loved my food, but along with my food comes the requirement to exercise. The problem that’s blatantly obvious is that I can’t work out yet. Telling Coach Carter that I’m on restricted training made her roll her eyes. Not because she believed me, but because she didn’t. It wasn’t until she looked at my file, and her annoyance turned to pity. It made me realize how much I hate this class.
Fuck her.
Fuck this school.
Fuck them all.
They offer condolences for a kid they didn’t save. He’s dead because they didn’t do their job. My brother is gone because of their lack of compassion, but still, they offer apologies like they give a single shit.
Truth is, they don’t.
Mom’s paycheck to their annual fund means being nice to the freak who hasn’t coped with her brother’s loss is necessary. So fucking nice.
As I enter the gym two days later, she’s already gathering students. Class doesn’t start for another five minutes, though.