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"Welcome," a woman says as I walk in the school office. She hurries up to me, a big smile on her face. "Here's your student ID." She hands it to me. "Keep it with you at all times."
I look at the ID, specifically the photo. My hair's in my eyes, I'm not smiling, and I'm looking to the side. The photo was taken last week, when my mom and I came in to fill out the admission paperwork. The guy who took the photo didn't tell me when he was taking it, which explains the hair in my eyes and the angry look on my face. Actually, the look was because of my dad, who called me that morning in yet another attempt to get me to forgive him. I didn't answer his call and deleted his message.
"Any way I can get a new photo?" I ask, holding up the ID.
"I'm afraid not," the woman says, returning to her desk. "Can you find your way to class or do you need me to show you?"
"I'll figure it out.” I hoist my backpack over my shoulder and stuff the ID in my pocket.
Wearing jeans was a mistake. It's hot and humid today and the school isn't air conditioned. I'm already sweating throughmy shirt, and my skinny jeans feel like they're melting into my legs.
"Watch it!" a guy says, bumping my arm as I exit the office. He's tall and thin with a mohawk and a ring in his nose.
Looking down the hall, I notice it's a lot less crowded than it was just a few minutes ago. I check my phone. Shit. Class is about to start.
I run down the hall and turn right, down another hall. Some girls see me running and laugh. I ignore them, slowing my run to a fast walk, making it to the classroom just as the bell goes off.
Opening the door, I see a full classroom but no teacher. Guess I'm not late after all. Every seat is taken except for a spot in the very back. As I'm heading there, I hear a guy mutter 'rich bitch' as I pass.
He thinks I'm rich? If only he knew. Why would he think I’m rich? I'm not wearing anything that would even hint that I have money.
Those days are over. If that guy had called me that a year ago, he would've been right—about me being rich, not a bitch. I had the fancy clothes, designer purse, and attended a private prep school. Now, a year later, I'm at a public high school in a not-so-great area of Chicago. And to make matters worse, I have to ride the bus because my mom had to sell my car after my asshole father took off, taking his money with him.
"Don't even think about it," a deep voice grunts as I head to the one and only seat left. It's in the very last row, which only has two desks, one occupied by the guy who grunted at me and the other that's empty and wedged up against the window.
"I need a seat," I tell the guy. He has a baseball cap on, pulled down so far it almost covers his eyes. He's leaned back, his head down, arms crossed over his massive chest. The guy is huge, way bigger than any guy I've ever seen in high school. Maybe he's repeating a grade. Or maybe he works here. Maybe he's thejanitor, or a security guy, although if that were true, I'm not sure why he'd be in class.
"You need to move," I say, standing by his legs. He's got them extended in front of him so I can't pass. They're so huge they look like tree trunks.
"He likes to sit alone," a girl says from the seat in front of me. She's facing forward, looking at her phone.
The guy lifts his head just enough to glare at me from under his baseball cap. "You heard her. Now get the fuck out of here."
I stare at him, momentarily in awe of his eyes. They're the bluest eyes I've ever seen. They don't even look real.
"You deaf?" he barks, his desk scraping the floor as he adjusts his cap. Just that slight movement was enough to move his entire desk. He's so big he barely fits in it. The guy is pure muscle, from his thick neck to his wide shoulders to his tree trunk legs.
"Where am I supposed to sit?" I ask, standing up tall to let him know he doesn't intimidate me. He does, but I'm not letting him know that.
He points to the front of the room. My eyes follow where he's pointing and I see an open seat a few rows up.
Sighing, I make my way to the open desk. Dropping my backpack, I take a seat but as soon as my butt hits the chair, it collapses on one side and I fall to the floor. The people around me laugh and a few start clapping.
"Sucker," someone yells.
"It's broken," the girl next to me says.
"Yeah, I got that," I say, picking myself off the floor. What a great first impression. First class of the first day and I'm already being laughed at. I'm going to kill that asshole who told me to sit here. He did it on purpose. He knew it was broken.
Grabbing my backpack, I hold my head high as I return to the back row, stopping when I reach the asshole. This time I don't bother to ask him to move. I raise my leg to step over him.
"I said no," he snaps, lifting his leg to block me.
"What the hell?" I say, trying to push past his legs. It's no use. Under those dark denim jeans is a wall of solid muscle. There's no way I could push past him. I'm putting all my weight into it and he's not even moving.
He's laughing—not a loud laugh but an under-the-breath chuckle.
"You think this is funny?" I drop my backpack on the floor. "Where am I supposed to sit?"
