But he doesn’t give me my copy. He holds on to both, his shoulders straight, his attention directed at the teacher. Irritation fills me, and I have the urge to poke him in the back with my pencil and demand the syllabus.
Instead, my hand shoots up in the air.
“Yes?” the teacher acknowledges me with kind eyes.
I’m sure he feels bad for my earlier fall.
“I didn’t receive a syllabus.”
He frowns. “Well, that’s strange. I counted them out.” Grabbing an extra from his desk, he approaches me and hands over the single sheet of paper.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
The teacher drones for the rest of the period, but I’m not listening. I can’t concentrate on anything else but the fact that Whit is sitting directly in front of me, purposely ignoring me, thank God. I can smell him. Warm and spicy and inherently male. I study his hair. It’s a dark blond, almost brown but not quite. Short, neatly trimmed, and a little longish on top. It looks soft. I’m sure if I ran my fingers through it, the strands would cling.
Finally the bell rings, signaling the end of the class—the end of the day. I sit there, immobilized as everyone around me gathers their things and practically runs out of the classroom. There are practices happening for all of the fall sports. They made an announcement over lunch. I’m trying to wait out Whit, so I can leave after he does, but he’s slow too.
As in, he slowly turns around to face me.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” His voice is low, his eyes sharp.
“I go here,” I say breathlessly.
“The fuck you do,” he retorts, leaning away from me. As if he gets any closer, I might give him the plague.
I hate him. I do. But I’m drawn to him, too. The pull is there, tugging me closer to him, and I wonder if he feels it too.
“I’m enrolled,” I say, grabbing my backpack and putting away my stuff. “Whether you like it or not.”
He glares.
I do too.
He finally speaks first.
“Nice fall earlier. Landing on your knees like that must’ve hurt.” He smirks. “Though I’m sure you’re used to being on your knees.”
His insult cuts me like a knife, slicing me open. “Fuck you,” I say, rising to my feet.
Whit stands as well, blocking my path. He’s far more formidable than he was over three years ago. Taller. Wider. Stronger. But I refuse to let him scare me.
“I’m sure you’d love it if I fucked you,” he says, his voice low and taunting. I don’t know how the teacher doesn’t hear, but the man must be oblivious. “You’re a cheap whore, just like your mother.”
I dodge around him at the last second and make my escape, never looking back. I can hear his laughter follow me, all the way down the hall, and it’s not until I completely exit the building that I realize it’s just in my head. My thoughts.
Filled with his laughter. Reminding me that yes, I am my mother’s daughter.
Nothing but a cheap whore.
Four
Summer
The first two weeks of school are much the same. Learning my schedule, trying to get a feel for my teachers and what they want from us, homework every night, though it isn’t too hard. They always ease us into it at the beginning of the term. It’s the same at every school. I’ve not really made any friends yet. Rumors went around that Whit tripped me on purpose on the first day of school, which left them with all sorts of questions. Plus, people witnessed our nasty little discussion after class ended that Monday, and slowly but surely, I’ve become a pariah at school.
No one will talk to me. They’re all wearing a Lancaster muzzle. I haven’t seen Sylvie since that first day in the library, so I can’t even count on her friendship. It’s as if I’ve become a ghost and no one sees me.
I should’ve known this would happen. The moment I realized Whit was on campus, I knew my chance at having a semi-normal senior year was through. He realized the second day of school that I was in the honors English class with him, but I refused to look back at him. He’d glared in my direction the moment he strode into class, always late, with that nonchalant I don’t give a fuck attitude for Figueroa.
I’m sure the entire staff at this school hates his guts.
His poisonous words about me ate at my reputation, slowly but surely. Bit by bit. To the point that people literally sneered when they walked past me in the halls. The very girls I hung out with at lunch on my first day now pretend they don’t see me. Or they shoulder check me in the dormitory, like Caitlyn did a few days ago.
It’s as if he’s trying to drive me out of here, but I refuse to leave. At lunch, he sits in the dining hall or outside, always surrounded by girls. Always accompanied by the same three boys. Chad, Elliot and Spencer, who are seniors like us, from prominent families, but ones not as prominent as Whit’s. I’m surprised the devil has friends, but I suppose you get to be the devil by having a persuasive personality, and oodles of charm.
Sounds like something my mother would say.
I don’t tell her what’s going on. I definitely don’t tell her about Whit and what he’s doing. She thinks school is going well and I’m managing. If I told her there was a struggle with Whit, she’d contact his father. And then there would be hell to pay.
For me.
So I remain quiet. I moved to the next row over in American Government, so I no longer sit directly behind him. I’ve taken to spending my lunches in the library. I get all of my homework done in there, since I have study hall directly after. At night, I grab some food from the dining hall and take it to my room, keeping to myself. I take a shower. Read or watch something on Netflix or whatever. My days are the same. Boring.
Lonely.
If I pretend I don’t exist, then I don’t. By the end of the second week of school, it seems as if Whit has also forgotten about me, which fills me with a quiet sense of relief.
But not too much relief. I don’t completely trust him. He might have a plan secretly in place.
Having him so close though, leaves me curious. I watch him sometimes at lunch, when I’m there for those few moments in the dining hall. How he talks to the girls, and how they fawn all over him as if he’s a celebrity. My ears strain in the classes I share with him and when a teacher calls upon him, he always gives the correct answer. He’s smart.
He’s also dangerous.
Everyone sucks up to him. When your family name and crest is the one on the school, I suppose that comes with the territory. Teachers and staff. Every single student. The only ones who don’t seem impressed with his status are his three friends, though they treat him with a quiet reverence that lets him know he’s in charge. Girls flirt with him—him and his three closest friends especially—in such a desperate manner, it’s pitiful. They’re pathetic.
I treat him much the same way he treats me—I refuse to talk to him. He called me a whore. Nothing’s changed. He hates me.
I hate him.
I’m watching him now. It’s the last period of the day. Friday. He’s one seat ahead and to my left, right in my line of vision. He taps his pencil against the edge of his desk in a steady rhythm that’s annoying. I glare.