A part of me is scared it’s already too late.
Ryan and I didn’t say a word to each other the entire day yesterday. I was too pissed at how he treated me, and Ryan was just, well, pissed in general. When he called out my name after dropping me off at school, I thought maybe he’d apologize, but instead, I got a stern reminder to keep my mouth shut.
Now, I’m in second period where I’ve been shooting daggers with my eyes at Mr. James for the past forty minutes. With each passing second, I become progressively irate at him for interfering. I don’t even know what went down with him and Ryan, but it’s clear that I cannot trust him.
Blinded by sheer hatred—hatred that is dipped in lust, slightly coated by something feral, and completely heady—I don’t even realize that he is talking to me until his voice becomes a low, pissed-off growl.
“Miss Stringer, I asked you a question.”
I straighten my spine, military-sharp, and tilt my chin up. “I apologize, Mr. James,” I say robotically, and see his features melt into confusion at my tone. “I’m afraid I didn’t hear that. Can you kindly repeat?”
I’m not going to let him ruin this for me. I am getting out of this place, with or without Mr. James’ help. It’s a debate class, for fuck’s sake. An elective period. I’m acing everything else so far. I just need to survive this man for the rest of the year.
“We’re talking about the subject of same sex marriage. Would you like to contribute?”
“I’m pro,” I mutter. “If that’s what you’re asking.”
“It’s not a survey, Miss Stringer. Explain yourself.”
I look around me, acutely aware to the fact that all eyes are on me. It’s not the other students’ eyes that I am afraid of. It’s those gray-blues that are staring down at me through a furrowed brow. They betrayed me, and now they want my cooperation. I shouldn’t be so goddamn angry, but I am. Poised as I could be under the circumstances, I answer, “Equal rights.” I part my lips, and his eyes drop to them before moving back to my eyes quickly. Win. I’m going to fuck with him a little just to get back at him and show him he may hold most of the power here, but certainly not all of it.
“People should have the right to marry whoever they want. It’s not my business, anyway.”
“Whoever?” Mr. James questions, his hands knotted behind his back as he starts walking the narrow gap between my row of desks to the one near the wall. “So, Miss Stringer, can I marry my pet?”
I scoff. “Of course not. It’s not the same thing.”
“Enlighten me.”
This is so stupid. Why is he doing this?
“People should marry other people. Otherwise it creates…chaos.”
“Chaos is bad?” he asks, this time the whole class. A pimpled girl in the back lifts her hand and answers.
“Yes. Because where there’s chaos, there’s anarchy.”
“And where there’s anarchy, there’s fun,” I mutter, not asking for permission to speak. I feel Mr. James’ eyes on my back, even though I don’t turn around to check. I ignited something there, and I’m going to let it burn until he feels the wrath and flames of his actions.
“Anarchy is fun,” he repeats my statement, as if mulling this over.
“If you can handle it.” I shrug.
“I can handle it, if you need willing candidates.” A preppy, pretty boy from my right snickers, fist-bumping his friend. They are both wearing burgundy varsity jackets and smug-ass faces I can break without even breaking a sweat.
“Mr. Herring, Mr. Schwartz, watch it,” Mr. James whiplashes.
“Sorry, sir,” the idiot mumbles, deflated.
The bell rings, and students get up from their seats, chairs scraping and books snapping shut. I flip my hair over my shoulder as I bend down to grab my backpack, but a pair of chestnut leather shoes attached to long, l
ean legs covered in dark denim stop me in my tracks. I pause almost infinitesimally and return to the task at hand. I stand, swing my bag over one shoulder, and attempt to move past him. Mr. James sidesteps and blocks me, our fronts nearly bumping. I roll my eyes and pivot on my feet to walk the other way, but he grabs my wrist, causing me to freeze in place. Adrenaline courses through me at his touch, and I shake out of his grasp.
We’re alone. In class. He wants to corner me again, but this time, I’m going to get the upper hand.
“Remington. Stop.” He says my first name for the first time with an air of authority that has my belly flipping with desire. I turn around and paint my face with indifference.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, Mr. James,” I say, biting my bottom lip. “Wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”