Part 15 (1/2)

”I'm reminding you to stay away from Razor and I will continue to remind you of that every time I see you together. I am not the a.s.shole here. He's the threat, not me!”

”Keep telling yourself that.”

”That's not true!” Kyle rams his fist into the cinder-block wall. I stagger back, a scream teetering on the tip of my tongue. He turns his back to me and paces like he's a caged tiger.

I should run. I should race down the stairs and out the building shouting ”fire” the entire way, but it won't solve my problem with Kyle. I'm trapped in this inferno.

Kyle shakes out his arms and it's scary how fast he calms down. ”Everyone thought of you as the freak, shy girl. Now you're the girl I stuck up for. I already had two guys on the football team asking if I bagged you this summer because I stood up for you, and I told them no-that you weren't that type of girl, that you were the type worth dating.”

”Am I supposed to thank you?” I clutch my folders tighter to my chest.

He gives me a ”duh” expression. ”Yeah. I built you up to them. Those two guys are thinking differently of you and it's not as the school freak or the easy lay. They're looking at you as the girl to take home to Mom.”

”Is that how it works?” Disgust swims through me. ”Some closed-door boys' club in a locker room and a girl's reputation is forever set?”

Kyle shrugs. ”I didn't make the rules, I just play along.”

”You're a pig.”

”I'm a pig that's going to help get you on homecoming court if that's what you want, or a date with one of my buddies. A real date. Flowers. Dinner. Respect. Stop being so negative and start looking at what we can do for each other. I have a paper due this semester on some book. 1980 something by George somebody.”

”Orwell. George Orwell and it's 1984.” I roll my neck to stop the flood of information on him, like how he also wrote Animal Farm and he was born on June 25, 1903, and...

”Yeah, him.” Kyle interrupts my crazy train of thought. ”Five pages. Double s.p.a.ced. One-inch margins and, I've been thinking, you should throw in a few grammatical errors. If it's too good, my teacher may not believe I wrote it.”

”If you're that concerned, maybe you should write it yourself.”

”Could, but I'm not. Look, the rules of this game are easy-write my papers, stay away from the Terror and tell me what you want from this arrangement. As I said, it'll be easier on both of us if we don't consider this blackmail, but an agreement.”

The bells rings, and my head starts to throb. I don't answer him because there is absolutely nothing he has that I could ever want-besides that picture banned from the universe. I pivot and slowly walk to my cla.s.sroom. It's hard to breathe as the walls close in.

RAZOR.

THE BRAGGER MESSAGES are like taunts from a drunken frat boy begging to be punched: Jenny @cutekitten 30 s Like she's a catch. If Razor feels like playing, I'll play with him. Bet he wasn't coming on to her. Bet she was coming on to him and she struck out.

Kyle @koaltime 10 s Everyone back off @breanna212. Not her fault the Terror are terrorizing her. @cutekitten Lauren @laurenrose 10 s @koaltime @cutekitten I saw her crying after math. She looked scared. Thank you for standing up to the Terror Kyle. The Terror suck.

”How the h.e.l.l do you play football with these a.s.sholes?” I whisper to Chevy. He's a great running back. Can read a defender like no one else. That is, when his coach will give him playing time. Being a kid of the Terror has stalked him onto the field.

”They're not all like that,” he replies. They aren't. Just like how all bikers aren't criminals on parole.

Another round of messages involving Breanna, and the pencil in my hand snaps with a crack. Using those fast hands, Chevy swipes his cell off my desk and tucks it into the pocket of his jeans before the teacher can spot what's set me off. The bell starting sixth period rings and it takes everything I have not to lose my s.h.i.+t.

People stare at me like I'm about to go nuclear bomb fallout. The guy in front of me scoots his desk forward. Yeah, a.s.shole, I'm going to knock the h.e.l.l out of you because someone else is putting lies on the internet.

He glances over his shoulder and I glare. On second thought, maybe I should beat him and every guy in this room senseless as a warning to mind their own business instead of expressing an opinion on someone else's life. Piping in to join the ma.s.ses because they're grateful they aren't the one being picked on. The kid in front of me with the overgelled hair turns red and mutters to his buddy next to him that I'm crazy.

”f.u.c.king right I am,” I say.

”Is there a problem, Mr. Turner?” my science teacher asks.

I shake a no. The incredulous expression on her face says she doesn't believe me.

This town has talked s.h.i.+t about me since Mom died, and most of the time I can tune it out, but this bull involving Breanna p.i.s.ses me off. They can talk trash regarding me all they want, but they need to leave her alone. The only sin she's committed has been being in the wrong place at the wrong time-with me.

Chevy's writing in his notebook, then sliding the paper toward me. On it is the one word that makes me feel like a d.i.c.k: firefly.

As an answer, I cross my arms over my chest, slouch in my seat and kick out my legs, letting my combat boots. .h.i.t the chair in front of me. The kid flinches like he's terrified. My lips edge up but then fall back down as Chevy's message circles my mind: firefly. I spend a few minutes alone with Breanna and I'm killing her.

Our teacher has begun to bore us with her theatrics when Mr. Duncan leans in from the hallway. He's a tall man, gray-haired, old enough that he taught my dad and Eli, and is built like a linebacker. His best attribute? He's one of the few people in town who's a friend of the Terror.

”Sorry to interrupt,” he says. ”But I need Thomas Turner.”

Chevy peers over at me and someone does that annoying ”Ohhhh” in a singsong voice, like getting called into the princ.i.p.al's office is the equivalent of being sent to death row.

I grab my notebook and haul it to the hallway before my teacher asks questions. Duncan starts toward the stairwell and I follow him down.

When I catch up with him on the landing, he speaks. ”Talked to Cyrus, Eli and your dad today. They're on board with what I'm about to tell you.”

When he knows I'm solidly listening, he continues down the stairs. ”Remember those tests you took at the end of the year? Not the state ones, but the ones to figure out placement?”

We take a s.h.i.+t ton of tests. Sometimes it feels we test more than we do actual learning.

Duncan pauses outside his cla.s.sroom. ”Turns out you did well.”

My forehead furrows. ”What?”

”Enough seniors tested high enough that we were able to create college credit cla.s.ses for the other subjects, but only four of you pa.s.sed the science AP exam. We received permission from the state to set up an independent study for AP physics. You'll sit in the back of my earth science cla.s.s and watch videos, take tests online, and there will be projects you'll turn in to me on occasion. You'll need to buddy up with one of the students for projects. I'll leave it up to the four of you to decide who is paired with who.”

I nod to confirm I'm absorbing. Gotta admit, it's a high to hear I've done well.

”Either you can do this on your own or you can't. If you act like a fool, then you'll go back to biology. Some of the administration are balking at you being in this program, but I stuck my neck out for you. If my head gets chopped off because you act like an idiot, then I'm tearing your b.a.l.l.s off, son.”

Besides the fact that his son is our brother, his att.i.tude is why he's a friend of the Terror. ”Yes, sir.”

A grin cracks onto that weathered face and he pats my back. ”I also told the administration you'd start leaving your cut at home.”

”Tomorrow.” I strode into school with it, and if I don't leave school with it on, it'll be the same as shuffling away with my tail between my legs.

”Tomorrow. There are four computers set up in a study room in the back. If you have questions, find me before or after school and I'll answer.”

Duncan walks into his cla.s.sroom, which sounds on the verge of going Lord of the Flies. He shouts at them to ”Quiet down,” and because he can be an intimidating son of a b.i.t.c.h, they do. Then every eye lands on me.

Someone mutters, ”Great,” and my eyes. .h.i.t Kyle Hewitt in the back left corner. There's no way this moron made it into an advanced cla.s.s.

”Is there a problem, Hewitt?” Duncan asks.

”Not as long as you sit him far from me.” Kyle a.s.sumes he has the upper hand. Poor boy will cry when I nail his coffin shut with him in it still alive.

A knock on the door and two more guys appear.