Misbehaved

“What? How I feel about dating a MILF? I think I would. I mean, why not? Though for now, I’m sticking to high school girls. I even have my eye on one in particular.” He winks and pretends to elbow Remington, though they are too far apart. Remington’s expression is bored and apathetic. It placates me a bit, even though it shouldn’t.

“Yeah, like your girlfriend?” Mikaela Stephens snaps, and Herring doesn’t even look a little sorry.

“My bad, babe. I forgot you were here.” He laughs, and his friends follow suit. Dumbasses.

“Miss Stringer?” I ask, before I can stop myself. Not that it looks suspicious. She regularly partakes in these discussions, and everyone is expected to participate. It’s because I am too fascinated with this girl, and it unnerves me.

“I wouldn’t care about the stigma,” she says, her eyes still stuck on the board behind me.

“And the expectations?” Herring asks. The class laughs, and I find I’m actually curious to know her answer.

“I’m fine with the expectations, too.” She doesn’t even blink.

“Well, you look like a ride or die chick.” Schwartz laughs.

“You look like a biker chick,” Miss Matthews mumbles.

“No need to sugarcoat it. The term you’re looking for is ‘white trash’.” Mikaela Stephens snorts. My head snaps up.

“Stephens, come again, please,” I say, as indifferent as I possibly can be. She lifts her head from the doodles on the notebook in front of her and opens her mouth, at a loss for words. She didn’t think I’d hear. Mikaela Stephens. The senator’s grandchild. A cheerleader. The poster child for everything empty and superficial herself.

“Sorry, Mr. James,” she mumbles.

“That’s not what you said.” I smile easily. “And that’s not what I asked. Repeat your last sentence, Miss Stephens.”

She looks left and right, clearly uncomfortable. I chance a glance at Remington. It doesn’t look like she cares too much, and that not only puts me at ease, but makes me feel a misdirected sense of pride.

Mikaela repeats her words, looking down, looking guilty.

“Miss Stephens, a word after class,” I say. She nods.

We continue the discussion. The bell rings. Everybody stands up but Stephens. Remington, included. “You, too, Miss Stringer.”

“Again?” Herring mutters, annoyed, as he flings his backpack over his shoulder and stalks to the door. I need to stop. I need to stop this, but the prospect of revenge is too much to resist. I tell myself it has nothing to do with this invisible pull I feel when it comes to Remington.

I sit behind my desk.

“Stephens, come sit next to Stringer.”

She does without hesitation. For a split second, I think she might challenge me, but then I remember that Remington Stringer is the only girl at West Point who ever would. And the only one crazy enough to get off on it.

“Apologize to Miss Stringer.”

“I’m sorry,” she tells Remington, who doesn’t even acknowledge her. She continues picking at her chipped black nail polish. “I didn’t mean that.”

Yes, she did.

“Miss Stephens,” I pull out the detention slip, “two days.”

“Oh my God! Are you serious?” She flings her arms in the air, exasperated.

“A week,” I say easily. “Starting Monday.”

She cups her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide, shaking it back and forth. She knows what’s going to happen if another word slips between her lips. I scribble on the detention slip, tear it off the pad, and hand it to her with a smile. “In my world, your actions today in class classify as bullying. I will not tolerate bullying, in any shape or form. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

She stands up and walks out of the classroom, slamming the door behind her. Remington is still in her seat.