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As if he just saved a toddler from a burning house, or sky-dropped food rations to starving third world families or something.
“Show’s over, folks!” Mr. Cameron calls through the megaphone, and there’s a lilt to his voice that makes me wonder if he might be enjoying this unexpected half hour of drama in his day. To be fair, he is the drama teacher, so you know…
No one listens, though, and the frantic chatter just grows louder.
“Everyone, head to your second period classes immediately!”
Blouse now fully buttoned, Mrs. Tromely has taken back the megaphone, and I feel sort of bad for Mr. Cameron; the highlight of his day cut short before it even really started.
“Anyone who is not in their seats in their second period class in fifteen minutes will be given a detention slip!” Mrs. Tromely threatens.
And just like that, the spectacle is done and the focus turns to resuming order. But the buzz of excitement lingers, because although so many of them boast about doing whatever they want and not caring about consequences, Sebastian really doesn’t. No one is as willing to receive punishment the way he is. Even if it’s just for the sake of a fun distraction.
I sigh, like just about every other one of my peers surrounding me. Unlike most of them, I don’t follow it up with a light elbow to my neighbor’s side and a quiet squeal, though. Nor do I laugh and re-hash the last half hour, or scroll through my phone and compare photos with a gaggle of other girls as I make my way back toward the main doors.
I walk alone. I stare straight ahead. I pretend I’m totally content to be a posse of me, myself, and I.
Then my phone vibrates in my pocket, and I halt in my tracks.
“Watch it, Fish Girl!” a curly-haired sophomore hisses, shoving me aside with her shoulder.
“Sorry,” I mutter on instinct, and weave my way through the throng of bodies until I reach the edge of the crowd. I flatten my back against the wall and lift my phone, swiping the screen open.
One new email.
Chapter Two
Seb
Iftheyhadafrequent visitor card for trips to the principal’s office, I’d have racked up enough points already to redeem a free chicken-mashed-potato combo from the dining hall in my first three weeks of school alone. Probably a large chocolate milk, too. Instead, the only thing I get is a scowl from the secretary and a disappointed sigh from my dad, Graham, who just walked into the wood paneled reception area outside Mrs. Tromely’s office.
“You couldn’t go even one week?” he growls.
I meet his eyes, but don’t say anything. Pretty sure he’s not expecting a response.
He takes a seat next to me, his gaze sweeping the reception area and his lips thinning when he spots my buddy, Xavier, sitting along the adjacent wall.
“Why am I not surprised?” Graham mumbles, and despite the snub, Xavier nods at him.
Xavier Rockwell is the one who dared me to make it onto School House roof in six minutes or less. Like me, he’s a frequent flyer in Tromely’s office and afternoon detention. My folks know this, but they like him okay. Xave’s been my sidekick in too many antics over the years for them to start holding it against him now.
Graham even gives him a thin-lipped smile before turning his attention back to me. “You better be on your best behavior in there,” he bites through gritted teeth, adjusting the knot in his tie as he glances over at Tromely’s closed office door. Then he adds, “That means no swearing… No smart-ass comments. No witty comebacks.”
“Got it.” I nod. “Just stick to complimenting Mrs. T on her lovely floral cardigan choice, then.”
But my dad doesn’t even crack a smile.
“That, right there,” he warns, “is exactly what I’m talking about.”
His jaw is clenched. Hell, his whole body is clenched. Pretty sure he’s been all doom and gloom and end of the world since he got the call about something that, come on, was just a stupid dare. I did a few somersaults on top of a school building; I didn’tset fireto it.
He inhales a long breath through his nose—a sure tell that I’m skirting close to the edges of his patience. Not that there’s exactly a wide berth as far as the margins of his patience are concerned. I swear, he’s gonna give himself a hernia one of these days.
But at least he’s trying; I need to remember that—because across from me, Xavier is waiting for his own meeting with Mrs. Tromely…accompanied by his little brother’s nanny.Apparently his two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old father (and obviously, I’m approximating here) didn’t even bother making the ten-minute trip in himself. Or could be he’s not even in town. His mom definitely isn’t. Everyone’s been yacking about the fact that Jacee Rockwell has been off in Mustique humping some twenty-four-year-old male model for, like, three months now.
So, I guess I should be grateful that Graham’s here in person, at least, to tell me what a screw-up I am.
“You’re seventeen years old, Seb,” he practically growls. “Start acting like it.”
