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

Needless to say, I was.

But after a lot of discussion, I caved and I promised everyone that I’d give this my best shot.

Which is what I’m doing when after my friendly knock, the door swings open. I also have a polite greeting ready to go.

But the man who stands at the threshold doesn’t let me get in a word. “You’re early.”

“What?”

His jaw is set firmly and there’s a light frown between his brows. “It’s not five yet.”

I look at him for a second, which seems to irritate him further so I say, “Well, yeah. I mean, I thought… being early was a good thing.”

At least, that’s what my friends taught me when I told them about the detention thing and we all agreed that that’s where I’ll put my plan into motion. Go to the detention early, they said. To make a good impression.

Which I’m clearly not making because he sighs sharply, impatiently at my response. Then, “Wait outside.”

“But —”

I see his arm move and realize that he’s got a cell phone in his hand, which he puts to his ear before snapping the door shut in my face.

What?

What just happened?

Did he… Did he really just shut the door in my face?

Is he serious?

What the…

Fucking asshole.

I have half a mind to barge in there to tell him that he can’t shut the door in my face. That I won’t wait outside.

I won’t wait, period.

I’m here, so let’s do this detention thing. And besides, he can’t tell me what to do.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

He can.

My guardian turned principal.

Who holds my graduation and therefore my money and the fate of my love life in his big stupid hands.

So I take another deep breath — deeper than the last one — and keep standing in my spot, and wait like he told me to. And when a few minutes later, the door opens again, I say with a smile, “So is it five o’clock now?”

He gives me a cool stare. “No. But you may come in.”

And before I can help it, the words slip out. “Oh joy. How wonderful. I’ve been just dying to start this detention and reflect on my life choices.”

Sarcasm.

That was sarcasm.

What the fuck, Poe?

He watches me for a second before saying, “Given that it’s your very life choices that have led you to detention today, I should hope so.”

I get a serious urge to narrow my eyes at him but somehow I don’t, and say, with as little sarcasm as possible, “All right then. Let’s begin.”

We don’t.

Because he watches me some more, his eyes roving over my face that I’m really hoping looks serene and anger-free.

Only when he’s done with his perusal, does he step aside in a clear invitation to come in, and I enter.

In my three-year stay at St. Mary’s, I’ve been to the principal’s office countless times for countless transgressions. And so I know every nook and cranny of it. I know the large window overlooking the concrete courtyard, right behind an equally large wooden desk. I know the wall-to-wall bookcases on either side, the little sitting area adjacent to the desk.

Only now everything is much different.

But also familiar.

Because everything is his.

Leather chairs and couches. And of course, books. That are leather-bound and thick and towering and covering every available space, in addition to notebooks and papers and journals.

When I hear the door shut behind me, I spin around and words just come out of my mouth. “Who was it?”

Okay, so that was a little abrupt.

And loud.

But I’m going to cut myself some slack here. This is the first time I’m doing something like this. I can’t expect myself to be perfect, right? Besides, I’m really itching to know for some reason.

Not that he’s going to tell me so easily.

He stands at the door, partially turned, his hand on the knob and his eyes on me. “What?”

I swallow under his suspicious gaze but force a lighter tone. “Uh, on the phone.”

Those eyes narrow slightly at my words. But other than that, there’s no response from him, nor any reaction.

“You know, because you shut the door in my face just now,” I keep going nonetheless. “Was it someone important?”

“No.”

“So you shut the door in my face for fun?”

“Yes.”

I realize that it’s my turn to narrow my eyes at him again. But just as I did before, I curb the urge and go for a breezy tone. “Right. I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to provoke me. But I won’t take the bait.”

He lets the knob go and turns completely toward me. “You won’t.”

I shake my head. “Nope. Because I’ve had an epiphany. Over the weekend, I mean.”

“An epiphany.”

“Uh-huh. Would you like to know what it is?”

He leans against the door then and folds his arms across his chest. “I’d like nothing more.”

For a second, all I can do is stare at the way his biceps have bulged under his dark brown tweed jacket. How his shirt — a lighter shade of brown — stretches across his chest.