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What the fuck has my appearance got to do with it? I have blue hair, a nose stud, lip ring and tattoos and that immediately makes me a leper to society, does it? All these thoughts make acid of my blood as he blithers on, but I don’t show how I feel. On the outside I’m cold, disinterested, maintaining a sense of aloofness. It’s my ‘don’t give a shit’ attitude that I’ve perfected over the years. Besides, I’m not really worried about me, I can take a stint in juvie. At least I’ll get a place to sleep every night and food in my belly. I’m told they even have video games. Sounds like heaven to me. The only thing I don’t like about a prison sentence is that I worry for my little brothers and how they’ll survive without my visits. They might be living in a different foster care home than me (not that I stay in my own very often), but I still get to visit them regularly. Eighteen months in prison is a long time to go without seeing them both. That thought makes my mouth go dry and my hands turn clammy.
“Despite all of that,” he continues, whilst a buzzing fills my ears making it hard for me to actually hear what he’s saying, “I’m giving you one final chance to change your ways. You will attend Oceanside Academy in Hastings.”
My gaze snaps up to meet his. Oceanside Academy inHastings? How is that any better than a prison sentence? I’ve heard about that place, a reform school for fucked-up kids just like me, but that’s not even the worst part. It’s a residential school, miles away from my little brothers. Is this prick insane? Sitting forward in my chair, my mouth pops open, ready to bombard this shit-stain of a man with my response. But Fitzpatrick grabs my arm and squeezes.
“Don’t be foolish,” he hisses.
I’m about to tell him to get lost too when my brain finally catches up with the rest of what the judge is saying. His words somehow penetrating the anger I feel.
“You’ll be able to return home during the term breaks to ensure you’re still able to maintain a relationship with your siblings. I’m told that they’re your one saving grace…”
The judge lets that statement hang in the air, and it successfully shuts me up. We make eye contact, and he narrows his eyes at me. But of course, I should’ve known it comes with a caveat, the motherfucker isn’t stupid.
“This is a suspended sentence, Alicia. If you mess up, or you don’t meet your obligations at the academy then I can andwillenforce the full sentence and you’ll find yourself in prison as soon as you can whip out your spray can and tag your name on a wall. There will be no visitation rights then. None. Do I make myself clear?”
Clenching my jaw and trying my best not to tell the judge what I really think of him, I simply nod my head. “I understand.”
And just like that my life is upended once more.
Outside the courtroom, Fitzpatrick turns to me and rests his hand on my arm. I look at his fingers pressing into my skin, then him with distaste, a scowl drawing my lips up in a sneer. His eyes widen as though he truly thinks I’m about to bite. He releases his hold. Finally, the twat understands me.
“You start the new term in one week. I suggest you spend the time making your goodbyes and thinking about what you want out of life, Alicia. Whether you choose to believe it or not, this is an opportunity, not a sentence. Make the most of it, and whatever you do,don’t run.”
With that he turns on his heel and walks away from me. I watch him leave with dispassion. “Save your pep talks for someone who actually gives a shit,” I call out after him, drawing more snotty glares from the staff milling about.
On the other side of the reception area, someone barks out a laugh. A boy around my age looks at me from beneath his black hoody jumper. I can barely see his features beneath the shade of his hood, but I see enough to get my measure of him. Besides, the attitude he gives off ensures everyone milling around gives him a wide berth. I’m pretty sure he’s a misunderstood ‘arsehole’ just like me. Or given the shit-eating grin that’s rapidly widening across his face, just an arsehole. Folding my arms across my chest defensively and cocking my hip and eyebrow, I wait. He raises his hand, his fingers curled into his palm.
“Wanker,” he mouths, moving his fist from side to side imitating a wank. His gaze slides to the retreating back of my lawyer before he smirks at me then pulls back his hood so I can get a better look at his face.
It's a good face. Handsome in a kind of ‘lock up your daughters and your family jewels’ way. Dark blonde hair falls over his baby blue eyes that are a little too all-knowing to be innocent. I already know from that one glance, as our eyes meet, that he’s seen and done shit that would rival any adult in this building. Face of an angel, mind of a sinner, and the type of person I avoid at all costs.
Swiping his hair back off his forehead, he gives me a wink which I resolutely ignore in my calculated perusal of him. He has a light tan, as though he spends a lot of time out in the sun, and he’s tall, fit, with wide shoulders and a slim waist. Honestly, he’d be better served on a beach with a surfboard, than in a magistrates’ court in Hackney, but life sucks so here we are.
Two dimples appear in his cheeks as he smiles languidly with a lazy kind of self-assurance. He totally thinks I’m checking him out, and I am, just not in the way he thinks. I’m cataloguing his face and filing it in my memory in case I need to refer to it at a later date. I’ve learnt to be smart, making sure when I meet a new person, I take my measure of them because you never know when you might need that kind of information.
Here's what I know in the few minutes of checking him out: he’s approximately my age, seventeen max because although he’s tall, broad, he still has the remnants of youth in the smooth skin of his face. There’s not a single facial hair in sight. He’s clearly in trouble with the law and given the way his gaze keeps flicking to the Rolex watch sitting on his lawyer’s wrist, I’m thinking theft is his crime of choice. He fancies himself as a bit of a ladies’ man. Those dimples in his cheek might work wonders on other girls, and probably women, but it won’t work on me. Beauty is used to hide a multitude of sins, and I’m not as impressed by it as other chicks my age appear to be. He's scared. That tell is harder to decipher and he’s doing a good job at trying to hide it beneath the cockiness, but the way he taps his foot is a big giveaway.
“You here for me, beautiful? Want my number?” he shouts across the room the second my gaze lands on his tap-tapping foot.
Hmm, bravado, another interesting tell. He doesn’t like anyone thinking he’s weak. Make everyone think you’re brave, confident, and they’ll believe it even when you aren’t. A tool I use often enough myself.
I don’t answer him, but I give him a knowing smile as I regard him.
Next to him, the good looking lawyer who has concern written across his face, looks over at me. He gives me an assessing look, his dark eyes narrowing as he regards me. I raise an eyebrow at him as he smooths a hand over his beard. The cocky, dimpled shithead, who’s almost as tall as the lawyer, looks between us.
“Bit young for you, Bryce,” he says with a smirk.
Bryce? On first names with his lawyer then. Bryce shakes his head and clips the boy lightly around the ear.
“Don’t piss me off. You’re pushing your luck already, son.”
Ah, not a lawyer. Pretty sure they’d get the sack for whacking their clients. So, who is this man? My interest piqued, I watch and wait.
The boy laughs. “Son? You might be looking after me, but you ain’t my dad, so stop pretending you are. I don’t need you here, arsehole. I’ve been looking after myself long enough before you lot came along.”
There we have it, the fit bloke is his foster parent. Pretty sure I’ve never come across a foster parent dressed in Armani, looking like he’s just stepped out of the pages of GQ Magazine. Well, shit just got interesting.
“Wrong, you need me, and Louisa would never forgive me if I let you come here alone today. So suck it up, concentrate on the matter at hand, and stop giving that pretty little thing over therefuck-meeyes. I’m pretty sure she’d chew you up and spit you out,” the man called Bryce says, turning to give me a wink.
