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I move for the Mustang, but a round of laughter goes off to my right, and I glance over. One guy, then another, passes in my line of sight in the adjoining room, both of them shirtless. Someone I can’t see flips on music, and a cover of “Don’t Fear the Reaper” starts blasting.
Hunter drifts by, and I step back, behind the door I just came through, shielding myself.
He lays down on a bench, his feet on the floor and one leg on each side, and reaches back to grab a bar. His chest rises and falls with every heavy breath as he pumps the weights up and down, and all of my muscles burn. I haven’t seen him without a shirt in a long time. The curves and cuts of his arms are more pronounced, and his stomach flexes as he lifts the bar, the ridges in his abs deeper and more toned. I take hold of the door handle and arch my neck to the side, seeing the chain-link fence surrounding their small workout area in the center of the room. “The Cage,” I murmur.
I’ve heard of it. My fingers curl, feeling myself clutch the chain-link.
Other machine sounds—a treadmill, for sure—hit my ears, but I can hardly see anything from here. It’s where they keep the expensive equipment to lock it up.
Ringing blasts overhead, and I pop my head up. “Shit.”
The bell.
I turn around, dash into the hallway, and jog back up the stairs. Being late to my first class is an entrance, and I don’t want to make an entrance. I race into the hallway, looking at my schedule to see what room I should be in.
Two-oh-two.
Following the room numbers, I speed-walk through the school, a few students still lingering in the hallways. I yankopen the door to the classroom and rush inside, all of the students stopping and looking up.
The teacher pauses at the whiteboard, and I do a double take at how his chest fills out his blue Oxford that’s tucked into fitted khakis, and the brown leather belt around his waist. I think there are students in the Falls who’d love for him to be teaching over there instead. Even if he is my dad’s age.
After just a moment, he offers a tight smile, brushes his thick, brown hair back over the top of his head, and walks to his desk, checking his laptop. “Dylan Trent, right?”
I glance at the students again, only seeing about twelve.
“Yes,” I finally reply. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“Have a seat.”
He holds out his hand, directing me to an empty one in front, next to Mace. I slide into the desk, taking out the notebook and pen I found this morning.
“I hear you volunteered,” the teacher asks.
Mr. Bastien, I think the schedule listed his name as when I looked.
“Shouldn’t I have?” I tease.
“As long as you plan on doing the work, I think you’ll be fine.”
Quiet chuckles go off around the room, and I don’t think I will be fine, even if I do all the work.
The person behind me leans in, their whisper hitting my ear. “I like your jacket,” he says.
People keep saying that.
I slide my fists in my pockets, holding it tight to my body.
The teacher moves around his desk, an uncapped marker still between his fingers, and a piece of paper in the other.
“The Weston-Shelburne Falls-St. Matthew’s rivalry is actually a good example of what we’ve been talking about in class,” he tells me. “The role of ideology in conflict. How belief systems, propaganda, religion, symbols, flags, colors…can organizeandmobilize mass groups of people under the guise of pride.”
“Guise?” I repeat.
As if loyalty is meaningless.
I shouldn’t be offended. He’s insulting his own students with that assessment too.
“Think about it,” he goes on, half-sitting on the edge of his desk. “If you were born here, would you have any stake in being a Pirate?”
