“Right. Okay.”
“I’ll try to come by one day next week,” she says, “I have a handful of students doing SAT prep in my classroom three days a week, and I’m using a lot of my planning time to help pull the yearbook together, so it’ll be a little dicey.”
“I know you’re busy,” I say regretfully. “I’m not trying to impose.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” She shakes her head. “All I’m trying to say is that I trust you enough to take care of your class—I could drop all those things and come to observe you if I was really worried about what happens in your classroom. But I trust you, Hyacinth. You need to trust yourself.”
I stare back at her, then nod, but I just want to howl with frustration.
Trust myself?
Now?
I don’t think anything could feel more impossible—or more risky—than that does right now. But, somehow, that leaves me feeling a little more sure than I did before I spoke with Caroline. She’s not the only person who has suggested I move forward, that I face the world and all of its issues with a confident face plastered on over my actual face—Carson certainly suggested it. So has my dad. And so has Smith.
I move on autopilot as I head back to my classroom, get my jacket and purse, power down my computer, and walk back out down the hall. I barely see the door as I push through it or the sidewalk as I follow it to the parking lot. I just feel sort of numb, like all the emotions I had swirling only an hour ago have fizzled into a subspace that I can’t access. I’m reminded of Novocain—a really strong, psychological Novocain that makes me feel nothing, yet still be able to function.
I’m halfway across the parking lot when I notice a large group of people standing a next to the tennis courts—and a few feet away from my car. Kent Pharris, who is in my last class of the day, is hanging off the chain-link fence that borders the court. He’s tall enough to be on the varsity basketball team, but his grades aren’t even close to meeting the GPA requirement. Another senior, Lyle Merrick, hardly ever attends and is best known for the time he got caught getting head in the boys’ bathroom a few weeks ago. I don’t think I’ve actually seen him in school since last month.
Then there’s the infamous J. D. Fenton, looking wide awake and smiling lazily at two girls who are clearly hanging on his every word.
And, standing between Lyle and J. D. is Smith.
I swallow hard as I watch him. He isn’t saying much—just standing back and watching as Kent performs some kind of fence-spawned acrobatics. In one hand, he holds a lit cigarette.
Really, Smith? On school property?
There’s a big part of me that wants to stomp over there, put it out, and give him what for. I almost do, until I watch a girl sidle up to him.
Cherry Morgan.
She’s one of those girls who’s got all kinds of curves wrapped in skintight clothes, topped off with thick, dark curls and heavy makeup. I really want to turn away as she presses up against Smith’s side, takes the cigarette from his fingers, and sucks in a long drag.
But I can’t.
I can’t stop watching her leaning against him.
And I can’t stop watching as he wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her even closer.
The pain in my belly is immediate and sharp, like a stabbing sensation that makes me both furious and devastated. Jealousy has never felt this physical. But looking at Cherry tucked comfortably into Smith’s embrace, I want to claw her eyes out.
And my own, so I don’t have to see it anymore.
Then Kent jumps down from the fence and I realize what he was doing up there in the first place. Up near the top, attached to the links, are at least a dozen pairs of women’s underwear.
The boys below break into snickers, pointing up at the panties like they’re in middle school. I roll my eyes and start walking in their direction. No one notices me until I’ve clicked the unlock button on my key fob and my car gives a simultaneous click and light blink.
“Miss Hendricks.”
Smith says it with a smirk in his voice. I’m not looking at him to see it, but I know it’s there regardless. I slide past him and the rest of his crew until I reach the driver’s side door.
“You want to make a donation?” he asks.
Despite my better judgment, I look at him. He’s staring up at the rows of thongs and boy shorts. Behind him, J. D. whispers something to Kent and they both start laughing.
“I’m talking about your panties,” Smith says, loud enough for his friends to hear him. “We’re accepting donations if you’re interested.”
I can feel my cheeks flame and I clench my fist over my keys. His lifted eyebrow says it all—he’s testing me.
“That’s entirely inappropriate, Mr. Asher,” I say, my voice low. “I wouldn’t suggest saying something like that again, unless you’d like to spend a few weeks on suspension for sexual harassment of a teacher.”
He cocks an eyebrow and sidles closer toward me. When he speaks again, it’s barely above a whisper.
“I can remember a time where you weren’t complaining about my attention—sexual or otherwise.”
I narrow my eyes.
“And I can remember a time you lied about your age to try and get laid,” I practically hiss. “Is it that impossible to find a girl who likes you for you?”
There’s a flash of shock on his face, but he covers it up with a smirk.
“Please. The last thing I need is to do is lie to get pussy. I may tell chicks what they want to hear to get them horizontal, but they know exactly who they’re dealing with when they spread their legs.”
I suck in my breath, blinking at him. Then, without another word, I climb into the driver’s side of my car and slam the door. Dammit, I want to nail this guy to the wall. And not in a good way. I grab my phone and punch in the number to the school. When the answering service clicks on, I select “staff directory” until I hear Officer Rains’s extension number read by the automated female voice.
I practically stab my phone screen as I input the numbers, then wait for the extension to ring through.
“Hi, Officer Rains—this is Hyacinth Hendricks.” I try to keep my voice steady and confident as I stare straight ahead at the dash. “I just wanted to let you know that there are a handful of students loitering in the parking lot and they’ve elected to . . . um”— I clear my throat— “decorate the tennis court fence with female undergarments. I just thought I should let you know in case it was considered . . . um . . . graffiti . . .”
I manage a hasty good-bye before hanging up, but my blood is still boiling about Smith’s remarks. I can’t believe there was a time I found this guy charming and sweet. His attitude at the bar has completely disappeared in the depths of this cocky, crude version of himself. He’s clearly nothing but an imposter, and I’m the idiot who couldn’t see past gorgeous blue eyes and a smile I’m a sucker for.
I breathe deep and force myself to focus before backing out of my parking space. It isn’t until then that I let myself look at Smith again. He’s walked back toward his friends, and Cherry’s rewrapped herself around his body like a winter scarf, but his eyes are trained on mine, even through the car window. When he winks, I look away and press harder on the accelerator than is necessary.
I’ve been uncomfortable. I’ve been scared. I’ve been a lot of things. But right now? Now, I’m just mad.
No, not mad.
I’m furious.
How in the actual fuck does he think he can talk to me that way? And in front of other students? Like I really need anything else impacting my authority—or lack thereof—when it comes to the student population of Franklin.
I swing into the closest gas station, still trying to slow my breathing, and pull up next to a pump. I climb out and slam my car door shut behind me. I need to figure out a way to school my expression and tamp down my emotions. Kicking something really, really hard, no matter how badly I want to do it, isn’t going to help anyone.
The pump has just begun making its methodical chug as it fills my tank, when a vehicle pulls in behind me. I glance over and feel my hackles rise. Smith is staring at me out of the windshield, wearing a grin that I’m just dying to slap right off his smug face.