Chapter 9 Violet
VIOLET
My bedroom isn’t much more than a closet, but it’s done the job for my entire life and will have to continue to do it for at least another year until I can save some more money.
It’s funny. When I was little, I used to tell my mom I was never leaving.
I had every intention of living in this tiny house for the rest of my days.
Then my sperm donor showed up on our front porch and sucked the life out of it, leaving it cold and empty.
Making us tiptoe around the small space in silence when it was once filled with laughter and dancing and…
fun. The reminder leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
I head to the single bathroom in our mobile home to brush my teeth, steering clear of my dad sprawled out on the couch with a dozen empty beer cans littering the hand-me-down coffee table in front of him.
Once I’m finished, I smooth down the simple white crop top and give myself a final once-over in the desilvering mirror before heading back into the family room. If you can call it that.
“Fuck!” he yells at the television.
I don’t bother checking to see what he’s watching as I walk past him into the closet-sized kitchen.
“Get out of the fucking way!” my dad booms.
Something wet sprays me. It’s followed by something hard hitting my back with the force of a baseball thrown at top speed. I jerk forward, clutching just above my ass on my right side at the tender spot. “What the hell?” My face scrunches in pain, and I gingerly touch the flaming skin. “Shit.”
“I said, get out of the way!” he repeats, but the can of beer is missing from his grasp. He must’ve thrown it at me.
Asshole!
When the realization hits, my anger blurs out the pain in my back. Kicking the can back at him, I march closer, then shove the coffee table toward him. “What. The. Hell?”
Waving his hand toward the televisions, he spits, “You were in the way—”
“I don’t fucking care!” My eyes well with tears. I don’t know if it’s because of the throbbing pain in my back or if it’s because I’m going head-to-head with my dad. Again. Holy shit, my back really hurts. “You don’t throw shit at me!”
He stumbles to his feet. “I can do whatever I want! This is my house, and as long as you live under my roof, you stay the hell out of my way.”
If only he knew how much I did exactly that.
Staying as far away as possible whenever possible.
It’s funny. Until he showed up ten years ago, I’d label myself as lucky.
I had a loving mom. A roof over my head.
Food in my belly. A present or two every Christmas morning, even if it was purchased from the dollar store.
Then, he showed up and ruined everything.
Torched every good thing I had in my life.
Syphoning my mom’s money. Her happiness.
Her home. Her desire to live. Everything.
“This isn’t your house,” I grit out. “You’re nothing but a bum who crashes on the couch and loses his shit over reruns.”
His upper lip curls in contempt. “That’s not how you talk to your father.”
“Yeah?” A maniacal laugh escapes me. “Well, throwing shit at your daughter isn’t exactly the way to act, either. Is it?”
The stench of sour alcohol taints his breath as he leans closer, getting all up in my space as if he has any right to be there. “Better make yourself scarce tonight or cook me some fucking dinner. You hear me, Violet?”
I gulp down my anger, well-aware it won’t get me anywhere. “It’s morning. You missed dinner.”
“Breakfast, then.”
“You can make your own fucking breakfast.” Stepping backward, I put some distance between us when his attention catches on the game behind me.
“Fuck, yeah!” he yells. “That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout! Woo-hoo!” His ass hits the worn cushions like a sack of potatoes, and he stretches his arms over his head, leaning to one side so he can still view the screen.
Asshole.
Refusing to give the man another second of my time, especially when I’m already running late, I march back to my room, slam the door behind me, and twist around to assess the damage in the floor-length mirror on its opposite side.
The skin is red and angry, already welting.
Yeah, this is definitely going to leave a mark.
I’ll probably be bruised for at least a week.
Of course I will be. Thanks to my crop top, I didn’t even have any real coverage to soften the blow.
Usually, my dad likes to keep things classy and sticks to verbal abuse.
The idea of physically moving more than necessary or putting down his beer to raise a hand at me is too much work in his eyes.
Bless his soul. But every once in a while, I’m gifted with a moment like this.
A moment that leaves a physical mark instead of an emotional one I get to carry long after the bruises fade.
Lucky me.
Ignoring the burn behind my eyes, I grab the hoodie Lexie convinced me to buy last week, grateful for the baggy camouflage.
It’ll hide my already-forming bruise. When I slip it over my head, the soft fabric brushes against my tender flesh, and I flinch before pulling the hem away from my back.
Ouch. I unclench the fabric and grab my backpack from beneath my bed.
If this isn’t the perfect way to start off my first day of school, I don’t know what is.
Economics. The branch of knowledge concerned with the production, consumption, and transfer of wealth.
I stare at the scribbled words on the white board from the back of the classroom while the rest of the students file into the empty seats.
I debated on whether one of the doors closest to the exit was the way to go, but hiding in the furthest row felt like a safe choice after arriving in an empty classroom.
From my backpack, I pull out my laptop. It’s at least a decade old and has definitely seen better days.
The poor girl’s been limping along for the last two semesters, and if I’m lucky, she’ll keep up the good work for another one until I’m able to find a replacement in my budget.
I push the power button while praying to whatever gods might be listening.
Please turn on, please turn on, please turn on.
The screen lights up, and I let out a relieved sigh.
I settle further into the hard, metal chair when my back screams in protest. Shifting forward, I run my hand along my backside, testing the tender spot one more time.
Yeah, no. Looks like leaning on my elbows for the rest of class is going to be my only option.
Perfect.
“Welcome, everyone,” a low voice says from the front of the room. “If you can find a seat, we’ll get started.”
The stragglers still standing each do as they’re told until the front of the class is finally in my line of sight, revealing the professor.
Professor Donahue, if my schedule is correct.
Leaning against the whiteboard with one leg crossed in front of the other, he continues, “As you can see, we’ll be learning about economics this year.
” The man surveys the room. “Welcome. I’m Professor Donahue.
This is a rigorous course. We have a lot to cover, and my standards for my students are higher than most. If that’s a problem, you know where the door is.
” He scans the room again. No one moves.
“Good. You’ve all passed your first test. There’s nothing wrong with expectations as long as they’re achievable and go hand-in-hand with the tools to reach them.
Which is why my email is always open, along with my door an hour before and after class.
My assistant is also willing to set up individual appointments if necessary. Mr. Harden?”
Professor Donahue turns to his right so he can look at the assistant in question.
My stomach dips. Jagger Harden. In the flesh.
Okay, technically his flesh is covered by a dark button-up dress shirt and charcoal slacks, but you know what I mean.
A nasty black eye mars his face, spreading along the edge of his nose, yet it only makes him more attractive.
Add in the still-healing cuts on his lip and above his brow, and I swear the girl beside me swoons.
He lifts his chin in acknowledgement but doesn’t interrupt his boss’s introduction. For some reason, it surprises me. I’d assumed someone like Jagger would bask in the spotlight, stealing as much attention as possible, especially when his professor gifted it to him. Hmm.
“Like I said, Mr. Harden schedules appointments outside of my regular hours. He also offers tutoring services, if necessary, and will assist in grading papers, keeping your grades up to date in our online system, etcetera. If I’m not available, Mr. Harden is.
Any questions?” The same solid pause is almost enough to drown out the ringing in my ears, but not quite.
No, I’m not that lucky because if what Professor Donahue says is true, it means Jagger has the power to grade my freaking papers.
To decide whether or not my insight is worthy of a pass or a fail.
And, to determine whether or not I keep my scholarship by the end of this semester.
Considering our first run-in, then the aftermath of last week’s fight, and his dark stare after the loss, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out his feelings for me.
I am so freaking screwed.
As Jagger begins his inspection of the classroom, I slouch in my seat, trying to look inconspicuous and invisible and—
Please don’t notice me.
I’m not sure why I bother. It’s only the first day, and it’s not like he doesn’t have access to the roster.
Then again, as far as I know, he still doesn’t know my name, so maybe there’s hope?
I could always shave my head. Maybe bleach my eyebrows.
There’s no way he’ll recognize me if I do that, right? Maybe?
The same familiar whoosh in my ear canals drowns out the rest of Professor Donahue’s introduction, and I finally steal the courage to peek at the man of the hour.
Big mistake. My body tightens. A boa constrictor squeezes my throat.
My sweat glands turn into faucets. And my lungs decide they’re nothing but a decoration. Useless. Absolutely useless.
Jagger Harden holds my stare from across the classroom, his head tilted to one side and his expression unreadable but oh so deliberate at the same time. He’s saying, “I see you, but nice try.”
I am so screwed.