The Boy on the Bridge

No, there’s no sense in running. I’ll have to face him eventually, whether it’s today or tomorrow makes no difference.

I wish I felt ready, but I’ll never feel ready.

When I turn the corner, I’m immensely relieved to find Hunter isn’t in class yet. There are a few students and the teacher, but Hunter isn’t among them.

Thank God.

I hate to do it, but I know sitting beside Hunter will be a distraction I’d prefer not to endure today, so instead of taking my seat, I approach the teacher’s desk.

Her face already drawn with habitual annoyance, she lifts her gaze to me. “Do you need something?”

“Hi. I’m Riley Bishop, I’m in this class.”

“I remember,” she says impatiently.

“I was wondering if it would be possible to change desks. I took one in the middle of the room last week, but I’m having trouble seeing the board. Since the desk in the front corner doesn’t seem to be occupied—”

“Let me stop you right there, Miss Bishop. Did I or did I not inform the whole class that the seats you picked on the first day of school would be your seats for the duration of the school year?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“So, if you can’t see the board, I would suggest getting glasses. I won’t have my classroom rearranged every time you want to sit next to someone new. This is a place of learning, not speed dating.”

I stiffen, hugging my books tighter against my chest.

I’ve never had a teacher dislike me before. Well, Mr. Fitzpatrick was a little weird around me last year, but he had a really good reason. This woman has hated me since Anderson kissed me on the first day of school, and obviously her opinion isn’t going to change.

So, I have to sit by Hunter.

Since he’s not here yet, I settle in quickly and open my book. I’ve already done my homework for this class and we haven’t been assigned a book to read yet, so I open the enormous tome I’m reading for pleasure.

I started it last night when I was out of homework and not ready for sleep. I read until my eyes burned, then I read a little longer. When my brain finally stopped processing the blocks of text, I had to surrender and go to sleep.

Opening it now and setting my bookmark aside, I start to read, but my concentration is interrupted pretty immediately.

Melina Eggers approaches my desk and drops my purse on top.

Well, what’s left of it.

The purse I left in Valerie’s bedroom has been completely destroyed, slashed open and gutted. My belongings aren’t inside, but I never expected to see those again. I already planned to go to the DMV after school to get a replacement license, and thankfully there wasn’t much cash in my cheap wallet. Perks of being dead broke.

“Valerie wanted me to give this back to you,” she says.

I nod slowly, reaching into the little interior pocket where my house key was.

Gone.

Great.

I’m not sure if I should get a new house key, or tell my mom the key was stolen and we need to change our locks. I don’t think Valerie would commit an actual felony in the name of this unending grudge, but you never know what people will do.

We should probably change the locks, just to be safe.

I glance up at Melina. “Thanks, friend. Is that all?”

“No,” she says brightly, her Tinkerbell bun bobbing as she cocks her head and smiles. “She also wanted me to tell you that you’re a nasty ho and no one likes you.”

I smile. “How sweet. Tell her I said to grow some balls and say it to my face next time instead of sending a messenger.”

She doesn’t find this amusing. Her eyes narrow. “You know, you really should feel worse about all this. Honestly, sleeping with another girl’s boyfriend? That’s low, Riles.”

Boyfriend.

I’d rather die than let Melina Eggers think her hit landed, but I feel like I’ve just had the wind knocked out of me. My unaffected smile slips. My heart sinks; thankfully she can’t see that, so there’s no visible evidence.

Mercifully, before she has a chance to realize she has upset me, a voice behind her booms, “Move.”

Melina looks up, startled.

Hunter is standing there carrying no books, but three shopping bags.

“Hi, Hunter,” Melina says as she steps back, shooting him a cautious smile like she hopes he’s not mad at her.

Of course. He’s not the asshole, only I am.

He slides her a look spiked with warning, but doesn’t speak to her again.

Instead, he shoves the destroyed purse off my desk and puts one of his shopping bags down on top of it. He puts the other two bags on the floor, then starts talking to me as if nothing is amiss between us.

“I brought you a few different options. Wasn’t sure which one you’d like best,” he says, reaching into the bag and drawing out a white cloth sack with something bulky inside. He opens it and pulls out a stylish Coach purse.