Hey, Mister Marshall (St. Mary's Rebels 4)

I know who it is.

It’s the boy I thought I loved. He stands in front of me all run down and agitated, his eyes shifty.

“Jimmy?”

And as he steps toward me, I have this feeling in my chest.

A bad feeling.

A very, very bad feeling.

I never said thank you.

For the gift.

It didn’t even occur to me until I got inside my car and started driving.

You say thank you, I realized then, when someone gives you a gift.

When someone gives you something so perfect that you think it can only be a dream.

A dream that you never had.

Because you don’t know what dreams are. Or maybe you did. Once upon a time. But now you’ve forgotten.

I have forgotten.

Like I’ve forgotten my favorite color.

But this could be it.

The wine-colored pattern in the brown tweed jacket she made for me.

For me.

She made it for me and I never said thank you. I never said that it’s beautiful. That it’s gorgeous. It’s perfect and that I love it.

Like I love…

“Mr. Marshall?”

“Alaric.”

“What?” I jerk awake at my name being called, looking up from the gift that she made for me.

It’s on the table right in front of me and I’ve been staring at the white box for a long time now, I realize.

I also realize that I’ve carried it from the car. I’ve brought it into the meeting, into the conference room, because I didn’t want to be apart from it. I didn’t want to leave it in the car like an afterthought.

Like it didn’t mean anything.

Like it isn’t something special. Something precious.

But I see my mistake.

Because now the whole room is staring at it, at the box.

And I hate that.

I fucking hate that something she made for me is being stared at by this bunch of snotty assholes.

“Care to share with us?” one of the assholes, Robert Bailey, says.

Of course it’s him.

I stiffen in my chair. “Share what?”

“What’s in the box,” he explains, his eyebrows raised. “Although I hope whatever it is doesn’t come jumping out and make a mess.”

Chuckles go all around.

Usually, I’m ready with a comeback. I’m ready to put this asshole in his place.

But today anger gets the better of me and I snap, “Eyes off.”

He draws back in his chair. “Excuse me?”

I put a protective hand on the box. “Look the fuck away from my box.”

I realize how childish it sounds.

How immature.

But I can’t help it. It’s my box.

It’s my gift.

It’s mine.

“Are you…” He looks around him at the others as if for support. “Is this a joke?”

The others are equally stunned. They don’t know what to make of it, of me. Cynthia looks horrified. She’s been looking that way ever since I put her in her place when she came to visit me at school. And Poe almost pounced on her.

My pocket-sized dragon.

But anyway, I don’t care. That they all look horrified.

“No,” I say.

His eyebrows draw together as he sits up straighter. “I’m not sure what’s gotten into you, but I want you to know that I don’t appreciate your tone.”

“Yeah?” I narrow my eyes. “I don’t give a fuck.”

Anger is palpable on his face. “If I were you, I would.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I’m very close to bringing the motion to table to dismiss you from the board. And after your last screw-up, guess what the results will be?”

There’s a look of triumph on his face.

A look of satisfaction.

Like he’s been plotting this for a long time.

And maybe he has been.

He certainly wasn’t happy about my slip-up with the file. He was even less happy about the fact that I’m allowing a party to happen at St. Mary’s.

Besides, he’s never liked me.

Even though I’ve done everything that I can to prove him wrong. I’ve done everything that I can to prove all these people wrong. This whole town wrong. My father wrong.

And the truth is…

The truth is that I hate them. I hate this town. I hate these people. I hate St. fucking Mary’s and all its bullshit rules.

I hate my father.

I do.

I fucking do.

And Jesus fucking Christ, it feels amazing. It feels like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. All this anger, all this hatred that has been weighing me down for years, is lifted at this thought.

It feels freeing.

To acknowledge that to myself.

That I hate them all.

That I don’t care. If they fire me from the board.

What’s more? I don’t care what they think about me.

I don’t care if they think I’m weak and pathetic and unfit.

I don’t fucking care.

The only thing I care about, the only person that I care about, is miles away, at a reform school, at a party.

That she has put together with all her hard work and joy and enthusiasm.

That she wanted me to attend and I refused.

Because I wanted to be here.

At this bullshit meeting with these bullshit people.

“You know what,” I say to him, to all these people, “you don’t have to. Because I quit.”