Shit.
“What?” Masen growls, probably seeing the realization on my face.
I breathe hard, flexing my jaw. “My friend was with me. I’ll get it. Alright? I’ll get it. Now get off me!”
He pauses, staring down at me. But eventually he pushes off the bed and tosses the scissors onto the desk, sliding the poem into his back pocket.
I shoot up, grabbing at my ponytail and finding the small bit of hair that was snipped. Only about half an inch from a few strands.
I scowl at him. “Prick.”
“Tomorrow,” he orders, ignoring my insult. “The parking lot after school.” And then he holds up my notebook. “I’m keeping this as insurance.”
“No. I don’t trust you.”
“What do ya know, Rocks?” He smiles. “Something we have in common. I don’t trust you, either.” He curls the notebook, squeezing it in his fist. “Now don’t waste any more of my time. Tomorrow.”
I grind my teeth, watching him walk toward the door. He stops in the doorway and turns around, taking a last look around my room.
“You know… I really do like your room,” he muses. “Maybe if you were more like this at school, people wouldn’t talk behind your back so much.”
He walks out, slamming the door behind him, and my face falls.
I stare at the word written on the back of my door, in large, chalk letters that I didn’t write.
Fraud.
The next morning, I make my way to Ten’s locker, but only after stopping by the school office and reporting my own vandalized and getting a new one assigned. Students crowd the halls, and I hold my books in my arm and turn inward, trying to avoid any attention.
“Do you have it?” I ask without saying hello first.
He glances up from his locker and sighs, looking a little embarrassed. I’d texted him last night, demanding he bring the locket today.
Reaching into the pocket of his knee-length shorts, he pulls out a long chain with a circular, silver locket hanging off it.
I take it, instantly feeling a little relief at having what that asshole wants. Now I can get my notebook back.
“Why would you take this?” I snap. Did he think it would go well with his J. Crew T-shirts?
But Ten just shrugs. “It looked like an antique. I thought maybe it might be worth something.”
I slip the necklace into my pocket. “Klepto.”
“How did you know I took it anyway?”
Because the hot new guy, who also happens to be squatting in an abandoned theme park, broke into my bedroom last night, cut my hair, and threatened to expose my hideous inner musings about all of my friends if I didn’t get it back.
Yeah, no.
“I’ll see you at lunch,” I say, ignoring his question and turning around to head to Art.
Digging the necklace back out of my pocket as I walk, I flip it over, studying the aged silver and intricate detail around the large moonstone set in the middle. Ten is right. It looks like an antique. There are several scratches, and the metal feels thicker, more solid than your typical Target jewelry.
What does the necklace mean to Masen Laurent, though? I open the locket, slowly climbing the stairwell, the people jogging and laughing around me a distant echo.
But as soon as I pop it open, I dig in my eyebrows, seeing, not pictures as I expected, but a tiny, folded-up piece of paper.
Taking it out, I unwrap it and turn it over, reading the words.
Close your eyes. There’s nothing to see out here.
I slow to a stop, staring at the note and saying the words to myself again.
It sounds familiar, like I’ve heard them before. Or said them or something…
The second bell rings, our one-minute warning, and I fold the paper back up, stuffing it into the locket and closing it.
Everyone around me hustles up and down the stairs, and I jog to my class, slipping the necklace back into my jean shorts.
Who does the locket belong to? A family member? A girlfriend? Maybe he stole it. He’s living at the Cove, after all, and judging by the state of his hands and jeans, it doesn’t look like a parent is watching over him. He probably doesn’t have any money, and if he can break into my house without leaving a scratch, then I’m sure he’s done it before.
I’m tempted to seek him out now and get my notebook back, but it’s probably in his locker or his car, and I don’t trust him to be able to do a quick exchange without others spotting me talking to the weirdo who dumped me on my ass yesterday. I don’t want to be seen with him again.
And luckily, I don’t see him in Art today. Perhaps he got out of the class.
Or—my heart sinks a little—maybe he’s not at school today. Agitation boils under my skin. If I have to go back to that junkyard again and search him out, I’ll be pissed. I’m getting that book back.
After Art, I head to English IV, carrying my text, notebook, and copy of Lolita. But as soon as I step into the room, I spot him sitting in the row to the left of mine, one desk back.
Relief and a touch of annoyance both hit me. He wasn’t in this class yesterday. Is he going to be in any more of my classes?
But he doesn’t seem to see me. Just like yesterday in Art, the guy simply sits there, staring ahead with a slight scowl on his face as if this is all such an inconvenience to him.
I take my seat, noticing his jeans and black T-shirt are actually clean today.
Mr. Foster fires up his projector, the screen of his laptop appearing on the big white board in front of the class, and he begins making the rounds, handing back our latest essays. The final bell rings, and the class lowers their voices, quietly chattering as the teacher walks up and down the aisles.
“So I’m going to go out on a limb,” Foster says, stopping at my desk and holding my paper as he peers down at me. “Did you actually read the book, or did you read reviews?”
I hear a snort behind me—from J.D., no doubt—and I smile.
“You asked for an analysis of the story, so I watched the movie,” I explain, plucking my Anna Karenina paper out of his hand. “Spoiler alert, there was a lot of sex in it.”
Laughter breaks out, and I feel a rush hit my veins, pumping me up after my minor humiliation yesterday.
Mr. Foster and I constantly go head to head, and while Art may be the class I enjoy the most, Foster is my favorite teacher. He encourages us to use our voice and is one of the only adults to talk to his students like adults.
“I asked for an analysis of the novel, Ryen.”
“And I tried” I tell him. “I honestly did. But it was depressing and in a pointless way. What was I supposed to learn? Women, don’t cheat on your husbands in nineteenth century Russia, or you’ll be cast out of society and forced to throw yourself in front of a train?” I sit up in my seat. “Got it. And the next time I’m in nineteenth century Russia, I’m going to remember it.”
I hear J.D. chuckle again behind me and more giggles break out in the room.
But Foster lowers his voice, looking me deep in the eyes. “You’re better than this,” he whispers.
I stare at him for a moment, seeing the plea in his eyes. Seeing how highly he thinks of my intellect and how angry he is that I don’t make better use out of it.
He backs away, moving onto the next student but still speaking to me. “Read Jane Eyre, and redo it,” he demands.
I should quietly accept my punishment and be grateful he’s giving me another chance instead of accepting the C that’s written on my Anna Karenina paper right now. But I can’t resist smarting off some more.
“Can I at least read something written in the past hundred years?” I ask. “Something where a middle-aged man isn’t conning an eighteen-year-old girl into committing bigamy?”
He turns his head, a stern expression on his face. “I think you’ve dominated the class’s attention long enough, Ms. Trevarrow.”