Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
GREY
“Good morning, Miss Jamieson.”
The greetings float back and forth as I glide down the hallway.
It’s a familiar phrase. One I hear almost every day after parking in Redwood Prep’s fancy lot.
The hallway is crowded with students in sharp uniforms. Fancy sweaters. Pleated skirts. Knee-high socks. All the same, yet different because they customise their outfits. Accessorize with designer brands. Limited edition shoes. Expensive purses and wallets.
Perfect and privileged.
Kids like this were once my terrors and now, I’m their teacher. Strangely, it doesn’t feel like I’ve managed to climb above the ranks. It still feels like I’m serving the rich at Redwood. I just traded a mop for a textbook.
Whispers blaze like a fire as I pass by.
I’m painfully aware of the attention, but I can’t escape it.
Accusing eyes peer at me from all directions.
Seeking.
Prodding.
Curious.
What’s going on between you and Snare King?
Jinx’s text echoes in my mind.
For a brief moment, there’s panic.
A sharp, unhinging nausea.
I breathe deeply and slide my hand over my pencil skirt.
It’s been almost a year of teaching and it still happens. That discomfort. Like the first downward spiral of a rollercoaster. The way your stomach flops and jumps to your throat. The way you grip the bar for dear life. The way you scream as your heart is torn out of your chest.
But I can’t scream.
I can only smile. Polite. Put-together.
I can only step through the giant doors every day and enter this world of shadows and money with as much class as I can.
No one knows what I did with Zane Cross in that hotel room.
And no one knows why I’m really here.
As long as I keep pretending that I have it all together, maybe it will start to feel that way.
Smile fixed, I spot one of my students.
“Vanya,” I stop her as she’s rummaging in her locker, “remember to turn in your essay before four p.m. today. I’m not offering another extension.”
“Yes, Miss Jamieson.”
As gently as I can, I remind her, “I understand that you’re busy with the cheer team, but you can’t neglect your studies.”
She nods, studying her sneakers.
The boy beside her—I’m assuming he’s her boyfriend—stares at me with a sleazy gleam in his eyes. His cataloguing sweep ends with a slow lick of his lips.
“Mr. Hall,” I say curtly. My tone demands that his eyes return to my face. Immediately.
“Miss J.” Lifting a hand, he runs his fingers through his brown hair and the fancy watch on his wrist glitters. His Tesla key fob is hanging carelessly from a fisted hand. “I heard you denied my transfer again.”
My smile disappears. Woodenly, I say, “I’m pleased by your… enthusiasm to join my class, but I have a select number of seats. Maybe try again next semester.”
“You said that last semester.”
“And it still applies. If you’ll excuse me—”
He pushes off the locker. “Why are you playing hard to get?”
I freeze, my heels skating against the ground and turning into wooden pillars.
“Next year, I’ll be a senior. It’ll be my last chance. Your last chance.”
“Mr. Hall,” I struggle to keep my tone even, “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“You act all high and mighty with me, but you let Zane Cross bag a seat.” Voice low, he whispers, “Do you two have some other arrangement?”
I tense.
The students around me hold their breath.
Hall prolongs the silence, throwing down a challenge that I can’t back away from.
Prickles of irritation zip down my spine. “Perhaps, rather than worrying about others, you should learn to write your own essays. I’m sure your tutor is tired of doing your homework for you.”
Mottled red stains his cheeks.
I shove the knife in deeper. “Until you can form a cohesive sentence without assistance, it’s best you keep your mouth shut rather than spouting off nonsense. It only makes you look more foolish.”
A chorus of ‘oohs’ pepper around us.
Hall’s face is hard as he stares me down, but he has no comeback.
I maintain eye contact, letting the humiliation soak in.
There’s only one thing stronger than money here in Redwood and that’s the truth. When it’s on my side, I’m not afraid to wield it.
Satisfied that my point has been made, I continue on my way, clasping my books for dear life.
Stupid, Zane.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
I pass a private classroom with a card slot.
It’s The King’s practice studio.
If anyone needs evidence that Zane and his brothers run the school, it’s the fact that they have their own dedicated space and permission to play music during class time.
Snots like Theodore Hall understood the hierarchy.
Even if they didn’t like it.
But after Zane threw me over his shoulder last week, he broke the delicate balance. One impulsive move totally destroyed the boundaries I’ve tried to preserve with my male students.
This is his fault.
But ultimately, it’s mine.
Guys like Hall were a menace before and I, obviously, haven’t done a good job at controlling them.
This is Redwood.
A place where the most affluent, powerful, and entitled children are thrown into one extravagant building. Here, rules are foisted upon them that they don’t have to obey out in the real world.
And even inside Redwood Prep, there are some rules that can be broken for the right price.
It’s a scary, sinister game.
I learned very quickly not to show any signs of weakness. In that sense, Redwood has already changed me. Who’s to say if it’s for the worse or the better?
Musical chimes ring out.
I inhale deeply, enjoying the shift in energy as students make a frantic dash for the classrooms.
In a moment, the crowd is gone.
I take my time as I stroll, not ready to go to class yet. As a teacher, that’s my only privilege.
Redwood is particularly stunning today. Sunshine splashes over gleaming wooden statues. The hint of furniture cleaner and a light lemony fragrance fills the air, dragging my memories back to the days when I was more acquainted with the janitor’s closet than any other room.
I can appreciate the school for its beauty—now that I’m not the one preserving that grand display. Giant arched ceilings tower overhead. Delicate windows let in tons of sunlight. I look through them and see the elegantly maintained lawn.
Money. Pretention. Secrets.
It flows through this building’s veins.
Lockers mounted against the wall and the students in uniforms are the only indication Redwood serves a higher purpose. Everything about the architecture feels distant, like a cold cathedral.
I almost laugh. Redwood Prep may have the face of an ancient church, but the acts committed within these walls are far from holy.
My classroom is up ahead. I screech to a stop when I see Zane sitting in the back row. His blue eyes lock on mine, piercing me through the glass.
Unholy secrets.
I have a few of my own to toss on the Redwood Prep altar.
Heels clicking against the ground, I saunter into the classroom and set my purse on the desk.
“Good morning.” Carefully looking away from Zane, I face my students. “ Romeo and Juliet . Did anyone read the assigned chapters this weekend?”
Every hand shoots up.
I’m not surprised.
I run a tight ship. The students sitting in these chairs have earned the right to be there. They care about school, about college, about their futures.
My eyes slide past the raised arms until I get to Zane. He’s slouched in the back, the only one without his arm up.
I’ve done everything I can to try and kick him out of my class, but he’s still here, skating by and giving the least amount of effort.
My voice quivers. “Good. Let’s begin.”
As I turn and write on the board, I feel Zane’s perusal.
His heavy gaze is a relentless reminder of that night.
That mistake.
That pleasure.
I turn back around, my palms sweaty.
Zane’s still watching.
Taunting me with those sea blue eyes.
Distracting me with those full lips.
Making me feel like an awful human being for noticing those things about a student.
“Any questions about the chapter you read?” I ask.
A hand shoots up. “Not a question so much as a rant.”
“Go ahead, Maisy.”
“I read Romeo and Juliet and I still don’t understand. Why make life so complicated? If you know you shouldn’t be with someone, then don’t. I’m tired of the drawn-out, forbidden love story. Shakespeare should write something else.”
I lick my lips. “That’s an interesting stance. But I’d like to point out two things. One—Shakespeare wrote many different types of plays. Two— Romeo and Juliet is a tragedy not a love story.”
“I disagree.”
My pulse begins to hum and I look up with the rest of the class to the Redwood prince lounging in his chair.
Unlike the other students who at least try to adhere to the school rules, Zane doesn’t bother. He’s a walking dress code violation from his tight-black T-shirt to his scrunched up jacket sleeves, jeans and military boots.
Tendrils of his violet-black hair skate lazily over his eyes.
I fold my arms over my chest, heat skittering down my spine. “And what do you disagree with, Mr. Cross?”
“A tragedy. A love story.” He moves his drumstick back and forth. “It doesn’t have to be one or the other. It can be both.”
“Love stories should end in happily ever afters.” Maisy is my best student and she’s also competitive.
Her face mashes into a frown. “This play ends with the two main characters dying.”
“But they die because of being crazily in love. You can’t have the tragedy without the romance.
That’s like a one-night stand without the sex.
” A wicked glint in his eyes, he adds casually, “Romeo and Juliet were banging when they weren’t supposed to.
They knew what could happen, but they did it anyway.
Even if you don’t call it love, you gotta admit it’s something close. ”
Hot pockets of sweat roll down my back.
My nostrils flare.
Zane stares me down. “Right, Miss Jamieson?”
My chest heaves.
I curl my fingers into fists.
Maisy turns to look at me.
So does the rest of the class.