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

“No,” he says, his tone dry, bringing me out of my musings. “I’m afraid my tastes run more toward the moral dilemmas of the mid-Victorian imperial state than the great vagaries of the modern fashion industry.”

I open and close my mouth for a few seconds. Then, “Moral dilemmas of what?”

An emotion flickers through his gaze, lighting up his chocolate chip eyes. “It’s okay. Even though tweed was a popular fashion choice for upper-class British men back in the nineteenth century, you’re not missing much.”

I narrow my eyes at him, ignoring everything he just said. Mostly because I didn’t understand it; it all sounded very intelligent though.

“You’re the principal. And you’re the principal of a reform school who wears tweed jackets with elbow patches and who’s here to make this place even more prison-like. So just wear your tie, okay? Just do it.”

It’s the stupidest, most pointless thing I’ve ever said.

But I’m flustered, okay?

There. I admit it.

I’m flustered.

His tea has flustered me and now his stupid throat is flustering me also. And I can’t have that.

I have a mission to focus on.

So I want him to wear the fucking tie so I don’t have to look at that sliver of his exposed skin. Because I’ve looked at it at least fifteen times since we started this asinine discussion.

I’ve looked at it. I’ve analyzed it.

I’ve even imagined dipping my finger up there, at the base of his throat.

And my nose.

Because I have a feeling that his scent of leather and cigar would be the thickest there.

He watches me with amused eyes. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I blow my bangs. “Can we please just get back to the detention?”

“As long as we’re talking about dress code violations,” he begins with his face dipped, his eyes strangely intense. “Let’s talk about your floppy purple hat.”

For a second, I don’t get his meaning or what exactly he’s talking about. But then it clicks.

My floppy purple hat. That I was wearing over lunch.

It was the first time in days that I’d worn it, feeling all light and carefree. Because even though I still don’t know how I’m going to accomplish the impossible task that I’ve set forth for myself and what the hell that tea was about, I’m not quite as alone as I thought I’d be.

But I’m not light or carefree right now.

I’m pissed. Also a little breathless that he was watching me, but more pissed. “No. We’re not talking about it.”

“I —”

“No, no, no.” I stab a finger at him. “No. We’re not talking about it. Because you’re not taking away my hat. It’s purple and it’s suede. It’s fucking fantastic, okay? It’s my favorite. You’ve already taken away my Purple Durple and my Wild Child Bad Child, and sucked all the joy out of my life, I’m not giving you my Lady Gaga Over Purple too. Specifically named as such because it’s purple and because Lady Gaga gave it to me when I was eleven. So you can just forget about that. And guess what,” I continue, widening my feet, “I don’t care that you made me tea. I don’t care that you looked concerned about my nightmare last night. Because you’re the reason for all my nightmares in the first place. You. So where do you get off being all concerned, okay? Where? So I don’t want your tea and you’re not taking away my hat. You could give me a hundred fucking detentions over it and still I wouldn’t hand it over to you. You could keep me here until the end of time, locked up in your stupid school —”

“You’re right.”

I draw back at his interruption, heaving, pulling in large amounts of breaths. “What?”

He’s calm but I can see the gravity, the seriousness in his eyes as he says, “You’re right. I’m the cause of all nightmares. And so,” a deep breath, “I’d like to hear about it.”

I stare at him for a few seconds then.

Shocked at first.

But then afraid.

That he’s asking me about the one time I didn’t have a nightmare.

“You want to know about my nightmare from last night,” I say finally.

His expression appears contemplative as he replies, “Last night. Any other night before that.”

Again, I stare at him for a few seconds.

This time I’m not as afraid as before, but I am still as shocked.

That he’s asking.

That like last night, he looks… concerned right now.

God, no.

I don’t want him to look concerned. I don’t want that frown between his brows and I don’t want that molten look in his eyes.

“Why?” I ask in my most stern voice.

“Because I’d like to know,” he says in his most polite voice.

I lift my chin. “Well, you never tell me anything about yourself, so.”

He stands there for a few moments, his expression and demeanor the same.

But then he shifts on his feet and exhales a long breath.