Misbehaved

I have so many things I want to say to him, but the only thing that comes out is “okay”. Because I know he is volatile, and I don’t usually mind—I can take care of myself—but I don’t want a scene. Not here.

“Get on the fucking bike, baby. I don’t got all day.”

I hop on, eager to get out of here. Ryan has always been my safe place. My comfort zone. But right now, it feels like two worlds are colliding, and I’m desperate to keep them firmly separate.

He snakes his hand backwards and gives my thigh a squeeze before he starts his Harley and revs it up, leaving a cloud of dust and smoke behind us.

Through the veil of filth, I chance one last glance at West Point High for the day.

I see Christian on the stairway, watching us with a concerned expression, his backpack still slung casually on one shoulder.

A group of snobbish girls look at us from their place, sitting on the steps with their lattes clutched tight.

And Mr. James standing there—hands in his pockets—looking even more pissed off than he was earlier.

Where the hell did she come from?

Not from here, that’s for sure.

I’ve been teaching privileged kids long enough to know the odd one out when I see one. Not to mention, I was one. When I walk into class and see her in the first row, I ignore her completely, just like I do with the rest—high school girls tend to be a little overzealous—it’s best not to encourage them. I don’t notice the way her wide, innocent eyes take me in. I don’t notice her crimson pout. And I definitely don’t notice the way her body fills out her uniform unlike any other girl her age. To me, she is just another student. At least that’s what I tell myself.

She doesn’t look like the rest of them.

That’s my second thought, and it’s somewhere so deep in the back of my head, I’m not sure I have the necessary access to wipe it from my mind. I’ve taught Speech and Debate at this school for four years now, and I know all these students. I don’t mean the names or the faces. The type. The ones who think they are only as good as their worst grade. The ones who will scheme and plot and betray if it means being the best, even at someone else’s expense. That’s what Headmaster Charles gives me. The best. We give them the tools and discipline they need to succeed in whatever careers their mommy and daddy have chosen for them, and they go on to be perfect, little carbon copies of their parents.

With her dirty white Converse and chipped black nail polish, I know she’s different. Either way, I was caught off-guard when she called me out in the middle of class and I was forced to respond quickly.

I told her to get her stuff and leave, and almost regretted it, because I’m not sure what her story is. She’s either rebelling against her parents or a scholarship student. Those are the only two options at this school. My guess is she’s a little bit of both. I know the type, because I was the type. I fought and resisted my parents every step of the way growing up. I wasn’t fit for life as a robot. I liked music and art and drinking. A lot of good that did me. I’m still the black sheep, but somehow, I ended up teaching in the same world I rebelled so hard against, only I was in California. Imagine that.

I scrub my hand down my face and close the laptop screen I’ve been staring blankly at for the last ten minutes.

Why the fuck am I even giving her a second thought?

I leave my belongings and decide to grab a pack of smokes and a Cherry Coke from across the street before I come back to finish putting together the rest of the syllabus for the year. See? Rebel. These should’ve been ready to pass out on the first day.

Then I see Remington Stringer.

And she is not alone.

She is walking over to a guy who looks like a Sons of Anarchy dropout, and he throws his arms around her. She accepts his embrace. I can’t see his face, but she seems almost nervous, which I guess seems very out of character for a girl who calls out her teacher on the first day of school. They are basically grinding in the parking lot, and somewhere in my head, I know I should put a stop to it. But they’re like a car accident that I can’t look away from. If I wasn’t sure before, it’s clear now. She’s no West Point princess.

He grabs her ass, looks over her shoulder, and spots the blond kid she walked out of school with. Christian Chambers. I taught him his last period. Obviously gay, but there’s no way for the simpleton on the bike to k

now that from looks alone. Remington’s gaze follows her biker boyfriend’s, and when her eyes land on Christian, her whole face drops in horror. She schools her features quickly and turns her attention to pacifying him. If the whole scene weren’t so creepy, seeing him fall under her spell as quickly as he did would be comical.

He hands Remington a red helmet, and when he turns around to mount his bike, his eyes meet mine for a split second. And that’s all it takes for me to recognize him. I stuff my hands into my pockets to keep them from strangling the bastard right here and now. What the fuck is Remington doing with this guy? Ryan Anderson. The man I’ve been trying to find for the past year. The man who ruined my family. The man I want dead.

The school year just got a lot more interesting. Thank you, Remington Stringer.

I swing open the chain-link fence in our front yard and make my way past the collection of empty beer cans and mismatched chairs—that have permanent ass prints from Ryan and his good-for-nothing friends—before heading inside. The inside, unfortunately, is not much better. We live in the ghetto of Las Vegas, where the houses are overrun with bionic sewer roaches, and the streets are overrun with tweakers. Ironically enough, all the streets in our neighborhood are named after Ivy League schools. I live on Yale, which I figure is about as close to an Ivy League school as I’ll ever get. West Point could change everything, though. And boy, was I off to a great start. Not.

Ignoring the mountain of dishes in the sink, Ryan’s random tools lying everywhere, and a suspicious wet spot on the old green carpet, I head straight to my room. Let’s be honest—this place isn’t ever The Ritz, but when Dad goes out of town, it goes from bad to worse. And I can’t bring myself to care today. I pause to look at my giant corkboard full of photos above my dresser. I see my mom pregnant with me. My dad taking me for a ride on the back of his old Softail, rocking a Kool-Aid smile and ratty light brown hair. Then the more recent ones of Ella and me smoking weed in her car on an old back road while we were supposed to be in school. And Ryan. So many pictures of Ryan. Teaching me how to skateboard, sitting with me in the hospital after I broke my ankle on said skateboard later that week, putting our tent together on our camping trip with Dad, selfies from concerts we snuck into, and tons of sunsets and scenic shots from the countless times we drove around just to escape the hellhole of Las Vegas. I flop facedown onto the pale blue comforter on top of my old twin bed. I toe my shoes off, not moving from my face-plant on the bed, thanking my lucky stars that Ryan had plans. He disappeared right after dropping me off. Again. I’m not sure where or what he’s up to, but right now, I’m grateful for the silence. I roll onto my back and stare blankly at the popcorn ceiling above and count the revolutions of the fan blades.

What a day.

Mr. James’ face flashes in my mind, unbidden, and I cringe. Of course, I’d have the hottest teacher to ever grace a classroom, and of course, I’d manage to make him hate me twenty seconds into meeting me. Not that I blame him. My verbal diarrhea was in full effect today. It wasn’t all bad, though. The rest of my classes were fucking hard—as to be expected—but it felt good. Really good. I was totally overwhelmed and out of my element, but at the same time, I felt like I was exactly where I belonged. Meeting Christian was a plus, too.

I pad out to the kitchen and snatch a Hot Pocket out of the freezer. After wolfing that down, I decide to call it a night. I peel off my knee socks, skirt, and shirt and fold them carefully. I only have the one skirt and one extra shirt, so I’ll need to keep them as nice as I can for as long as I can.