I’m dragging my feet at practice the next morning. Not because I’m hungover, but because I stayed up late last night watching movies with Ella. She was upset about Steve showing up at the house, so I tried to distract her. But now I’m operating on about four hours of sleep. Coach tells me that if I don’t fucking wake up he’s gonna make me do fucking suicides until I’m fucking puking all over the fucking turf.
Coach Lewis has a bit of the potty mouth.
I chug some Gatorade hoping it’ll give me a boost of energy. It doesn’t, but Coach doesn’t pay much attention to me for the rest of practice. He’s too busy talking to Bran about a couple of new plays we’ll be running on Friday.
The school day flies by, and before I know it, it’s last period. The first thing I notice when I walk into the classroom is that Ms. Mann isn’t at her desk. A substitute sits there instead. Normally I’d be psyched about that. A sub means I could talk to Ella and Hartley and do absolutely nothing productive without the fear of consequences. But I’m too damn tired for that.
I heave myself into my chair and sigh loudly.
“Well, aren’t we chipper,” Ella says with a wry smile.
“I’m too sleepy,” I grumble. “I went to bed at two and woke up at five thirty.”
“Me too,” Ella chirps. She gets up at the crack of dawn to work at a bakery called the French Twist. “And I’m doing just fine.”
“Goodie for you,” I mutter.
She smirks. “Nice accessory, by the way.”
I lift my wrist to show off the leather band. “This thing? Got it from my bestie.” I nudge Hartley, who gives a little embarrassed laugh.
“Where were you at lunch?” she asks.
“Team meeting. We’ve got a lot of new plays to learn and review before Friday. Coach is riding us hard.”
She opens her mouth to respond, but the substitute teacher cuts her off.
“Easton Royal?” he calls, searching the classroom from behind his black-rimmed hipster glasses. He’s holding the iPad that every teacher at the school carries around; the tablet is their main form of communication.
I raise a hand and point to my chest. “That’s me, Teach. What’s up?”
“You’re wanted in the headmaster’s office. Please gather your things and report to the main office without delay.”
“Uh-oh,” Hartley murmurs from beside me.
Ella, meanwhile, wears a resigned expression. “What have you done now, East?”
Resentment burns a path up my throat. Everyone in my life has such a low-ass opinion of me. They always think I’ve done something wrong, even when I haven’t.
Unfortunately, Ella had every right to ask, because apparently I did do something.
Or, rather, I did someone.
When I enter the headmaster’s office five minutes later, the first person I see is Ms. Mann.
Beringer is behind his desk, and my father is in the second visitors’ chair opposite Ms. Mann.
Shit.
“Have a seat, Easton,” Beringer orders in a voice that brooks no argument.
There’s a deadly glint in his beady eyes that I’ve never seen before. Normally he wears a defeated expression, like a death row inmate who’s finally accepted that he’s getting the chair. Beringer knows he doesn’t have any control over the school—the gazillionaire parents who sign his paychecks do. But this morning, judging by his expression, it’s like he’s got some actual influence over something.
Over me?
My gaze slides to Ms. Mann. No, she’s the one he has power over. My dad will get me out of whatever this is—and I have a good feeling I know why we’re all here—but Beringer is the furthest thing from powerless right now. He’s the one holding the axe at the guillotine, and it’s Ms. Mann’s head on the chopping block.
“What’s this all about?” I demand. To Beringer, I flash an annoyed look. To my dad, an aggrieved one. I’m a good liar when I need to be.
“Yes,” my father says, “what’s this about, Francois?”
I love that my dad pulls out the first name power play.
Beringer wrings his hands together on the shiny mahogany desktop. “Some very serious allegations have been brought to my attention. Allegations that I’m afraid I simply cannot ignore…” He trails off ominously, like some lame-ass detective in a cop show. All he needs is the menacing music. Du-dum-dum.
“Just spit it out,” Dad snaps, also irritated by the theatrics. “I was called out of a board meeting for this.” He spares a quick glance at Ms. Mann. “You’re my son’s calculus teacher?”
She nods weakly. If she grows any paler, she’s gonna look like a piece of notebook paper.
“So what kind of trouble did my son cause in your class?” Dad asks her. “Cheating? Did he get ahold of test answers and sell them to his classmates?” He’s listing transgressions I’d actually committed in the past.
“No, Callum. The situation is far more dire than that,” Beringer says grimly.
That’s when it clicks for my dad. Concern fills his face as he studies Ms. Mann again, as if he’s seeing her for the first time now. Her beautiful features, her youth.
Visible disappointment clouds his eyes as he glances over at me.
“Thanks to an anonymous source, it’s come to the school’s attention that your son and Ms. Mann might have been engaging in inappropriate…” He pauses tactfully “…relations.”
Ms. Mann releases a sound of distress. Her gaze locks with mine, just briefly, and I know we’re both thinking about the pact we made in her classroom the other day. Deny, deny, deny.
I’m the first one to follow the plan. “That’s bullshit!” I stare at Beringer with pure astonishment, as if a teenage boy hooking up with his hot teacher is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. “I never touched her.”
Beringer looks startled by my denial. What, did he think I’d own up to it? Moron.
“I see,” he says. He pauses, then addresses Ms. Mann. “And what do you have to say about this, Caroline?”
Her name’s Caroline? I had no idea.
“What do I have to say?” she repeats, and damn, I’m impressed by her calm, even tone. “What I have to say, Francois, is that I’m shocked and disgusted and, frankly, insulted that you would bring me into this office and accuse me of fraternizing with a student.”
“Is that a denial?” the headmaster asks.
“Of course it’s a denial!”
I hide a smile. Forget math—she should be teaching drama.
“It’s one hundred percent a denial,” I chime in, matching her level of outrage. “I’d never hook up with some old lady—” I quickly look over and say, “No offense.”
“None taken,” she says tightly.
“Trust me, I get plenty of action from girls my own age.”
There’s a short silence.
Dad studies Ms. Mann again. “How old are you, Caroline?” he inquires.
“I’m twenty-four, sir.”
Dad turns toward Beringer. “Easton is eighteen. Even if something untoward did happen, there’s no crime here.”
“You’re right, this isn’t a criminal concern. Unfortunately, it’s an ethical one. If this is true—”