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

“There is.”

Another breath. “So let’s hear it.”

He knows where I sit.

That’s the first thing.

It’s not as if I hide myself or anything but still. I sort of sit in the back and usually I’m partially hidden by his thick group of fans. That I honestly didn’t think he paid much attention to. He certainly acts like it.

Even now, his fans are watching us. They’re watching this exchange.

I can feel their eyes on me and if I were even remotely hesitant about being the center of attention, I’d be running for cover. As it is, I’m the daughter of a famous soap opera actress. I know how to handle the limelight.

And second, I wonder if he knows that like his fans, I watch him too.

With all the hatred in my heart, but still.

Who cares though?

It’s not important.

I’m here for something else and so I push aside every wandering thought and say, “Well, I’m here because I wanted to talk to you.”

At this, his frame tightens.

Only slightly but it’s there.

His shoulders go even more rigid and I notice a tautness in his jaw. And even though I can’t see it, I somehow know that his eyes behind those sunglasses have grown alert as well.

I really wish he’d take them off though.

I really wish I could see his eyes right now.

Not being able to is making this thing even more difficult.

“Regarding,” he asks, his voice all business now.

I swallow. “Uh, regarding my classes.”

I know I should keep going but I have to pause here for a second. I have to rehearse it in my head one more time. The plan I made last night in my bed as I watched the stars through the bars of my window and imagined a life with Jimmy.

I clear my throat. “So I was thinking that there might be a way to —”

“Make an appointment.”

I flinch. I actually freaking flinch at his interruption. “What?”

“If you’d like to discuss your classes, you’re welcome to make an appointment with my assistant,” he explains in his most business-like and formal voice.

“But…” I hesitate, completely taken aback. “I mean, we’re talking right now and —”

“And I’m going to need you to hand it over.”

I open and close my mouth as I stare at him, flabbergasted. “What? Hand what over?”

This time I definitely know that he’s glancing down. And he hasn’t even dipped his chin or made any outward movements. It’s just that I can feel his gaze. I can feel it on my hand, my fingers actually, where I’m hugging my book, and I look down as well.

“You’re not allowed the use of any cosmetic products,” he tells me. “School policy.”

I jerk my head up. “Um, what?”

“So I’m going to need you to hand over whatever it is that you’re using to paint your nails.”

Oh my God.

Oh my God. Oh my fucking God.

“Whatever it is that I’m using?” I parrot his words. “It’s not drugs, you… ancient, fashion-hater dinosaur. It’s called nail polish.”

“Whatever the term might be,” he says, still all formal and bored. “I’m going to need you to hand it over to my assistant. She’ll take care of it.”

“No, she will not,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m not handing over my Purple Durple to anyone, least of all to your assistant, okay? So you can forget about that.”

I swear he blinks. I swear it.

And I also swear that I’m going to rip off his sunglasses and stomp on them right here and right now.

“Purple Durple,” he repeats.

“Yes. That’s the name of the shade, you genius. And it’s organic.”

“What’s organic?”

“My nail polish.” I lean toward him, clenching my teeth. “It’s made of organic products.”

He stays in place however as he asks, “What are organic products?”

“Products that are…” I think about it for a second or two. Then, “…Organic.” Damn it. I wish I knew but I keep going, just so he doesn’t focus on my lack of knowledge. “Not to mention, it glows in the dark.”

“Why do you need it to glow in the dark?”

“Because I do.”

“Are you hoping that it will light your way to the treasure chest?” he deadpans. “Hidden at the bottom of the sea.”

I stab my finger at him. “You know —”

This time he does dip his chin to look at my purple-painted fingernail before saying, “As intellectual and fashion forward as this conversation is, I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut it short.” Then, “Have your Purple Durple on my assistant’s desk by noon.”

“You’re being completely unfair. This is a stupid rule and —”

He takes a step back. “Have a good day.”

“No, wait.” At least, he does and I go on, “Look, we both know that I’m not just a student now, don’t we?”

“Do we?”

I am this close to growling but I refrain. “Yes. I’m also your ward, remember?”

A slight frown appears between his brows as if he’s really trying to remember. “Ah, right. My ward, yes.” Then, pinning me with his gaze that I feel even from behind his sunglasses, he adds, “I still have that document in my study that says so.”