“I was getting a little lonely,” Lyla purrs, resting back in her seat with her arms folded over her chest and her legs crossed. “You were gone so long.”
Lonely? I doubt she even knows the meaning of the word. Not that I have any opinion of a chick who messes around on her boyfriend—unless the boyfriend is me or one of my friends—but I don’t like her for other reasons. She’s like Ryen on crack.
At least my Ryen is still in there somewhere. I see it in how she’s uncomfortable when that Cortez kid is bullied. I saw it this morning when she gave the janitor nail polish remover to help take off the graffiti.
And I see it all over her room. The collages, the poetry, the lyrics I’ve sent her for review, the quotes and colors everywhere… That’s the Ryen I know.
But in ten years she could be Lyla. Self-serving, false, and screwing anything to forget how much she hates herself.
And everything I’ve always found incredible about her will be gone.
I pull out my chair and sit down, knowing damn well I have no intention of doing this assignment. Misha Lare is as good as done with high school, so I’m not here for that.
“Here.” She sits up, pushing some books toward me. “I dug up some primary resources, so we can start on this questionnaire.”
But before I can tell this chick she’s on her own, I’m shoved forward from behind, a body slamming down on my back and an arm pressing into my neck.
“What the hell?” I shoot out my arms to keep my head from hitting the table, and then I feel breaths in my ear.
“Ryen!” I hear someone exclaim. I think it’s Lyla.
“Don’t move,” Ryen whispers in my ear, and I feel a sharp point digging into the back of my neck. “I’d hate for this pen to slip.”
I shake with a shocked laugh. She didn’t like being served back in the stacks, and now she’s lost her mind. Excellent.
I do exactly what she asks, even though my heart is racing and my groin is throbbing with heat.
I feel the pen glide over my skin in long, slow strokes, and I’m actually amused. I know people are watching. Everyone is suddenly silent, even Lyla.
The pen digs deep, and I wince as I feel a sting. She finishes and stands up, taking her weight off me and throwing down the pen. I feel her leave, and I sit up straight. Everyone is looking at me, and I see Ryen brush past my table with her bag on her shoulder, storming out of the library.
“Are you okay?” Lyla asks.
“Yeah.” I nod and glance behind me, seeing J.D. smiling and shaking his head, while Trey leans forward on the table and glares at me.
She did that in front of him. Good girl.
I turn back to my partner. “What did she write?”
Lyla rises from her seat and takes a look. I hear a snort. “Um, are you sure you want to know?”
Great.
I nod.
“Um…” she starts, reading in slow syllables. “Needle Dick Douchebag Asshole.”
I break into laughter. Awesome. Stuck-up Ryen Trevarrow is learning how to play in the mud, and I feel a little excitement course through my veins.
“Do you want me to go get you some wet paper towels?” Lyla puts a hand on her hip, hovering.
But I just wave her off. “Fuck it. Just leave it.”
What do I care?
“Masen Laurent?” someone calls.
I sit there for a moment before I blink and look up, remembering that’s my name. The librarian is holding the receiver of the phone at the circulation desk and looking around.
“Yeah?”
She follows my voice and meets my eyes, hanging up the phone. “The principal would like to see you. Take your things just in case.”
But I don’t move. The principal? Heat floods my veins, and I feel weighted to my seat.
Why the hell does she want to see me? Does she know?
My breathing quickens, and I stand up, grabbing nothing because I brought nothing, and make my way toward the doors. I ignore the curious glances and snorts, probably because, as I pass them, they can see the shit Ryen wrote on my neck.
I should just leave. Walk out the front doors right now. But as I come up on her office, I find myself opening the doors, my resolve hardening. I haven’t gotten everything I came here for yet. I’m not running away, so let’s see what she has to say.
If she knows, she knows. Or if she found out my records are fake, supplied by one of my cousin’s shady connections, Masen Laurent is a name I made up, and I live in a dilapidated basement and sneak into the school to shower at night, then I’ll deal with it.
Either way, I’m not leaving. Not yet.
Stepping inside the front office, I nod at one of the receptionists. “Masen Laurent,” I tell her.
“You can go in.” She gestures to my left, but I already know where to go.
Walking up to the door, I knock twice, feeling my hands shake just slightly as I push it open.
“Hi, Masen,” the principal greets, looking up from her desk and smiling.
She stacks a large pile of folders, clearing a space on her desk, and stands up, holding out her hand for me to shake.
I lock my jaw tight and straighten my back. Her eyes are warm, and I suddenly don’t want to be here.
I force myself forward, slowly raising my hand and taking hers but letting go nearly immediately.
I shift my eyes to the side.
She’s silent for a moment, and I can tell she’s watching me. “Please sit down,” she says finally.
I take the seat in front of her desk and keep my gaze averted, making eye contact only briefly.
“Don’t worry,” she tells me, humor lacing her voice. “You’re not in trouble. I just like to try to meet everyone when they register, but you slipped in under my radar.”
Okay. That’s good news, I guess.
“So how are you liking Falcon’s Well so far?”
I unclench my jaw, replying flatly, “Fine.”
“And your classes?” she presses. “Are you finding the transition easy?”
Her eyes won’t leave me, and I shift in my seat, nodding as I stare at the picture frames she has on her desk. I remember seeing them the other night. Pictures of her family.
“Well,” she keeps going, starting to sound uncomfortable. “There’s so little time left in the school year, but judging from your records and your grades, you should have no trouble passing your finals.” She flips through transcripts and forms, from my fake file, no doubt. “Are you looking at colleges?”
I shake my head.
“Well, we have a great college-career center here. The counselor can help you make some decisions about where you’re going after high school and see about getting applications in.”
I nod, and we both just sit there, the silence growing more awkward. She clearly wants to be attentive but is probably figuring out whether or not I’m worth the effort when I’ll be out of her school in six weeks. Sooner, actually, but she doesn’t know that.
She inhales a deep breath and softens her voice. “Trey Burrowes is my stepson,” she points out. “He can be a handful, but…he’s my handful. Let me know if you have any more problems, okay?”
He’s my handful. I squeeze my fists, finally raising my eyes to hers. Don’t worry, lady. I know exactly how to handle my problems. Your son will stay out of my way, or I’ll make him stay out of my way.
She smiles, and I stand up, not waiting to be dismissed. I walk out of her office, feeling my stomach uncurl and taking in quick, shallow breaths when the adrenaline finally hits me, coursing down my arms and legs. Once outside the office doors, standing in the empty hallway, I stop and smile to myself.
She didn’t find me out. Not only can I leave whenever I want, but I can stay as long as I like.
No one knows.
