I won’t let myself get caught alone with him—or his shitty attempts at apologies—again.
7
Sebastian
Sixth period Spanish sucks a fat one. Not just because Señor Tressel insists on talking about his boyfriend the whole time—that happens every day—but because I keep running all these encounters with Sugar Voss over in my mind and shit’s just not adding up here.
Something about that girl isn’t right.
She doesn’t like me, which is…
You know, it’s fine.
Totally fucking fine.
I punched her in the face. Of course, she doesn’t like me. But it’s not like I did it on purpose. It’s not like I picked her out of a crowd and decided to lay the girl out. It’s not like I’m walking around looking for girls to wail on. Fuck. That’s completely antithetical to my whole scene. No, let’s be fair here; she jumped in the middle of a fight. Who does that and doesn’t expect a little collateral damage? Someone needs to tell Sugar Voss that if you play stupid games, you win stupid prizes.
I half-listen to Señor Tressel conjugate verbs and just keep thinking. In fact, I stew in this bullshit, because here I’ve been haunted by punching that girl, and it wasn’t really my fault. A normal person would have understood that. They would have given me credit for feeling bad about it when they’re responsible, too. They would have forgiven me. But Sugar Voss is walking around my turf, acting like I’m some kind of monster, and it’s fucking ridiculous.
So ridiculous that it pisses me off.
I grab my notebook, shove it in my backpack and stand.
“Por favor, señor Wilcox, a donde vas?”
“El bano,” I mutter, charging across the room, not giving a rat's ass where he thinks I’m going. I barge into the hallway, annoyance building with each step. What gives her the right to judge me, anyway? She doesn’t know me. More importantly, who is this girl to imply that people don’t find me endearing? Excuse you, but I’m endearing as fuck. People adore my ass. I’m rich, devastatingly handsome, ripped—like seriously ripped, thank you very much—and fun as hell. I save kittens. I rescue girls from creeps. I help little old ladies across the road. I’m practically a goddamn saint.
And who is Sugar Voss? Some self-righteous rando who can’t take a punch and freaks out all the time?
The plan evolves in a rush and I dart from room to room, peering into each of the windows. I’ll show Sugar Voss how endearing I am. I’ll prove to her that she’s the one with the problem here.
I skid to a stop outside American Lit and press my nose to the window. Third row, four seats back. That’s who I’m looking for. I yank open the door and step inside. Mrs. Baxter cuts her lecture short and smiles when she sees me. “Sebastian, isn’t this a surprise?”
“Afternoon, Mrs. Baxter,” I say, pouring on the charm. It doesn’t take much. She loves me. Because I’m loveable as hell. Says I remind her of Gatsby come to life. “I hate to interrupt you, but Vandy needs to go to the counseling office.”
She looks across the room and I follow her gaze. Vandy’s forehead creases and her eyes narrow. I smile back pleasantly and shrug. Butter could not even fucking begin to melt.
“Should she take her things?” Mrs. Baxter asks.
“Probably,” I say, flashing her smile. “They didn’t say how long it’d take.”
I wait by the door as Vandy gathers her books and backpack. She moves slow, her gait awkward from that car accident Reyn got them into when they were kids. Normally, this kind of speed would make me crazy. Too slow and stilted, but V’s been through a lot of shit and she’s tough as nails. I respect the hell out of her.
I also need her help.
Holding the door for her, she passes me and walks into the hallway. Before the door is even shut, she asks, “Okay, what are you up to?”
“What?” I take the books she’s holding, tucking them under an arm. “Why am I up to something? It’s completely feasible that I came to get you for pressing counseling office business.”
She rolls her eyes. “No, it isn’t.”
I hadn’t really thought this out, but I figure being honest is the best way to go with Vandy. She lives with Emory and dates Reyn. Her bullshit detector has to be spot on.
“I need you to help me with something.”
“What kind of something?” Suspicion lurks in her eyes. “Is this a Devil thing?”
“No, it’s personal.” I run a hand through my hair, sweeping it back from my forehead. “It’s a girl.”