I turn my gaze away from her, loathing her as strongly as ever. I avoid looking at Saint and the others, but I can’t stop myself from glancing toward the front of the class.
Dylan is standing at the dry erase board, writing out his name and a few initial notes, but I can tell he knows I’m here. His shoulders are tense and his jaw taut, and it’s obvious to me that he’s trying too hard to keep his focus on what he’s writing. If I didn’t know him as well as I do, I would think his expression was calm and professional.
But I do know. I know him too well, in truth.
I know what his hands feel like pressed against my skin, and how soft his lips are running along my neck. I know he has an affinity for dominance and girls far too young for him.
So yeah, I know he’s furious and barely keeping it leashed.
Did he know I’d be in his class?
Did he know I attended Angelview when he took this job?
That’s another question that’s haunted me for weeks. I can’t imagine this is all a coincidence. Either he’s here on his own, or someone intentionally brought him here because of me. Would Saint have that kind of clout? I don’t know if even he’d be able to have influence over new hires, but I don’t know who else it could’ve been.
Certainly not Laurel, even though I’m sure she’d loved to have had a hand in this disaster.
However it is Dylan got here, I realize this class is going to be absolute torture. All the people that hate me most in the world are conveniently collected into one place, and I don’t imagine they’re going to be content just leaving me to myself.
I shuffle toward the back of the classroom and find a seat, avoiding eye contact with absolutely everyone. Maybe if I keep to myself—if I’m quiet—they won’t bother me?
A girl can dream, right?
Something soft nails me in the head, and I’m reminded that I’m a huge dumbass who needs to stop hoping for the best. The best never comes for me. The wad of notebook paper that hit me falls to my desk. I glance up and catch Laurel’s snide gaze. Knowing I probably shouldn’t, I smooth out the paper to see if there’s anything written inside.
There is.
Just one word.
MURDERER.
I look up at her again, and her eyes are so full of hatred it makes my stomach twist. Saydi was her friend, I remember. She’d been an asshole and had always seemed particularly gleeful when Laurel unleashed her cuntiness on me, but I never wanted her to die. I never wanted any of them to die. Still, I doubt Laurel believes that, and now that I’m staring at her—really staring—I notice that her eyes are red-rimmed.
Like she’s been crying.
And if Saydi is the reason for those tears then that smile she gave me when I first walked into the room meant only one thing.
My anguish will be her pleasure.
Dylan faces the class, and it doesn’t escape my notice that he actively dodges looking my way as he begins his lesson. With his dark, neatly groomed hair and easy smile, he’s just as good-looking as ever, though with a few extra fine lines around his hazel eyes than the last time I was close enough to study his features.
Are they from stress? From shock?
It sucks that it makes him look even better. More distinguished, like he actually belongs here.
He doesn’t, though. No more than I do. He’s just as white trash as me, but he went and got a college degree so he could pretend to be better. I know he’s not, though. No one can remake themselves that thoroughly.
“Good morning class. I’m Mr. Porter—”
Laurel’s hand shoots into the air before he’s finished. She flails it around for a few seconds before he nods to her. “Yes, Miss Vanderpick?”
“Mr. Porter, are you going to be okay teaching with Mallory in the classroom? I know you two have a painful history, and I’d hate for you to be uncomfortable. I know I’m uncomfortable after she murdered my best friend.” When a low murmur fills the room, she lets out a theatrical gasp. “Sorry, what I meant to say was that she was accused of murdering my best friend. Regardless, I can’t imagine how I’d feel if she were accused of murdering my brother.”
Slimy. Cunt.
I turn narrowed eyes toward Laurel, who’s sitting straight up in her chair, her hands folded primly on top of her desk and a cat-like grin plastered across her bitch face. I almost spit out that, other than Loni who’s only her stepsister, Laurel is an only child.
Instead, I clench my teeth and focus on Dylan.
He appears momentarily taken aback but then quickly regains his composure and shakes his head. “Don’t worry, Miss Vanderpick. I’m perfectly comfortable.”
No acknowledgement of me or my comfort whatsoever. No scolding of Laurel for asking such a personal question. Nothing. It’s as if I don’t matter at all to him.
I probably don’t.
Turning back to the board, he says, “All right, let’s get started with Henry VIII, shall we?”
I’m ready to get on with the lesson, just so I’m not the center of attention anymore. Unfortunately, Laurel has other ideas.
She hits me with another wad of paper. There’s nothing written on this one, but when I look at her, she’s flipping me the bird and mouthing the words eat shit and die.
I roll my eyes and glance away, determined to ignore her childish antics. She seems just as determined not to let me, however.
When Dylan brings up Anne Boleyn, Laurel whispers loud enough for the whole class to hear, “Sounds like another uppity slut who doesn’t understand her place.”
I swivel around again to find her shooting me a pointed smirk.
Dylan tenses, pausing his writing on the board. I wait for him to say something. Anything. He should at least maintain the pretense of controlling his class.
But he doesn’t.
He’s completely silent and goes back to scribbling notes on the board as if nothing happened.
I stare at him in disbelief. Seriously? He’s not going to do anything?
Laurel casts me a look of excitement and delight, like she’s just won the fucking lottery, and I know I’m in big trouble. If no one’s going to keep her in check, she’s only going to get worse.
Since Dylan clearly doesn’t care about controlling her, she begins harassing me relentlessly. Her whispered comments grow louder and louder until she’s just talking shit about me in her normal tone, with no care that she’s disturbing the class. Not that the rest of the class seems to mind. Most of them are laughing and chortling right along with her.
And Dylan. He’s doing absolutely nothing to stop her. Nobody’s even paying attention to his lesson anymore, but he’s continuing to teach like nothing’s wrong. What a complete and total asshole. I wish Headmaster Aldridge would walk by right now to see this. I know he’s no fan of mine right now—and he’s warned me what will happen if I step one foot out of line—but he wouldn’t let this shit slide.
Dylan would be out on his ass before the class ends.
I sink lower and lower into my seat, biting my tongue so I won’t get expelled and wishing I could just disappear. Class is supposed to be a safe place, like Loni said at breakfast earlier. I’m not supposed to have to put up with bullshit here. I’m supposed to be protected by the teacher’s presence.
Except the teacher in question hates me and wants to see me suffer.