“What’s wrong, princess?” he asks. “You look like someone kicked your puppy.”
I force myself to shake my head and smile.
“I’m fine, Daddy. Just tired. And I can’t stay for long tonight.” I glance at Wyatt, then back at my dad. “I’m starting my Hamlet unit tomorrow and I want to make sure I’m prepared.”
“To be or not to be,” Rocky quips, taking a gulp of his milk. “What was Hamlet’s fatal flaw again? Ambition?”
“Indecision,” I say, practically choking on the word.
Man, what is it about literature that always seems to mirror real life?
Apparently, I’m going to teach Hamlet tomorrow to a room full of teenagers who couldn’t care less.
Oh, and one man who’s seen me almost naked.
Fucking hell.
I wonder if it’s too late to call in sick.
Chapter Six
Class Warfare
Deep breaths.
You can do this.
Deep breaths.
It’s only an hour.
Nervously, I touch my hand to my dark curls, which I’ve pulled back into a ponytail. When the bell rings, I jump a good three inches at least.
Christ, Cyn. Get a grip already.
Taking a deep breath, I head to the door of my classroom and step out into the hall. I run my sweaty palms over my skirt. Technically, it’s casual Friday and we’re allowed to wear jeans, but I felt like I needed to stay a little more formal today. Of course, a skirt shows my legs and I didn’t really consider that until I was already at school. But my blouse is modest and my flats are boring and, overall, I’m just really hoping I look dismissible. Like every other teacher. Like the opposite of “fresh meat.”
Mrs. Hardy and Mr. Christopher, two of the science teachers, are standing at their morning duty location next to the hallway metal detectors. Mrs. Hardy is going on her thirtieth year as a high school teacher, and she talks about her upcoming retirement every chance she gets. In fact, by the glazed-eye expression on Mr. Christopher’s face, I’m pretty sure she’s doing that at this very moment.
“Good morning,” I say, walking a little closer. Mr. Christopher gives me a grateful little smile. He’s fairly young, too, and I think he’s on his second year here at Franklin.
“So, any big plans for the weekend?” he asks me, cutting off Mrs. Hardy’s rant about retiree benefits. “Did you do anything fun?”
I shrug, leaning back against the wall behind me.
“Does grading papers count?”
He laughs, then shoves a hand back through his dark hair. “I’ve gotta say no—sorry.”
I shrug at him, smiling again. “Well, once I’ve finished student teaching, I’ll try to find something you approve of, Mr. Christopher.”
He snorts. “Please, call me Jeremy.”
Jeremy is actually sort of handsome, in his own way—his features are dark and, like me, he looks young for his age.
Sort of the opposite of a certain student whose first day of classes are today.
“Motherfucker!”
I spin around just in time to see a tall boy wearing a Yankees hat launch himself at another guy—a stocky, Vin Diesel–type. It takes me a second to recognize him as J. D. Fenton; he’s in my first-period class, although you wouldn’t know it by how little he’s shown up. When he actually does grace us with his presence, he pretty much sleeps from bell to bell. I’d actually decided to confront him about it, and had told as much to my mentor teacher, when I got an impromptu visit from Officer Rains, the school resource officer assigned by Baltimore City. He suggested that it might be safer if I just left J. D. Fenton alone.
Safer.
Yeah. I can see why now.
Neither guy waits for his opponent to hit the floor before attacking the other. J. D. anchors one hand on the linoleum tile as he levers back and launches rapid punches into the tall guy’s face.
“Hey!” Jeremy is off like a shot, running directly into the fray and pulling back on J. D.’s arms with both hands. A few feet away, another teacher is already on the red emergency phone next to the fire extinguisher. It’s mere seconds later that there’s a flurry of activity coming from one end of the hall and Officer Rains comes barreling forward. When he reaches the two students, he yanks the kid in the hat up by the straps of his backpack.
“Peterson. I shoulda known.” He drags him over to the metal detectors. “Walk through it.”
“Fuck you,” Peterson sneers, crossing his arms and jutting out his chin.
“No, but thanks.” Rains gives him a grim smile, then pushes him hard through the detector’s entryway. The beeping is immediate and Rains shakes his head.
“You gonna empty your pockets or you want me to strip-search you?” Peterson glares at Rains, making no move to give up whatever he’s got hidden. Rains forces him up against the nearest wall, then starts patting him down. When he reaches his waist, he yanks up Peterson’s shirt and pulls out something black.
It’s a gun.
My entire body freezes—blood, heartbeat, everything goes both cold and still.
“How’d you get this through the detectors this morning?” Rains asks him, still peering at the weapon. Peterson shrugs, but doesn’t speak. Rains sighs. He pops open the chamber, then rolls his eyes.
“You’re damn lucky it isn’t loaded, kid. They might actually let you come back here next year.”
He tucks the gun into his belt, then grasps Peterson’s arm and leads him away.
There’s a few seconds of silence, then the roar of a typical high school hallway returns in full force. I stare at Jeremy, who’s still holding J. D. back by both arms.
“I think you can let me go now, Mr. Christopher,” he drawls. “Unless of course you’re trying to cuddle or something.”
“Very funny, Fenton,” Jeremy snorts. “Get to class, will you?”
J. D. smirks and gives a salute before sauntering toward my classroom. I open my mouth to protest, then close it. At my high school, all students were suspended for fights. At Franklin, if you’re not bleeding, you’re reading. Not to mention the fact that the state mandates that students are only suspended under very specific conditions. Like murder. Or arson. Or murder by arson.
“Just another Friday morning,” Jeremy says as he shakes his head.
“In what world?” I mutter.
He gives me a shrug, then grins before starting in the direction of his room.
I walk back into my classroom behind a handful of male students. Man, every time I see a flash of baggy jeans or a glimpse of golden brown hair, I feel a sinking flutter in my stomach. It’s like butterflies, but made of lead. And dying. Yep, it’s like dying, lead butterflies are attempting to survive in my stomach as I work up the courage to face Smith with a smile when he walks through my door.
Except that he doesn’t. Walk through my door, I mean. The final bell rings and I blink up at the hall clock.
Eight o’clock.
The school day has started.
And Smith Asher hasn’t shown.
I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Okay, I do know. I should be relieved. But, dammit, I am sort of disappointed. I exhale hard, then shut the door behind me with a resounding thud.
“Good morning, everyone,” I say, flashing my teacher smile as I head toward the front of the room. There are two students with earbuds still in, and I signal for them to take them out. Neither of them are happy about it—one of them mutters something his under his breath that I’m pretty sure ends with the word bitch. I pretend not to hear it.