4. Margo
Chapter 4
Margo
R obert suggests I switch into one of his classes. Since I’m still in a smooth-everything-over mode, I readily agree. I don’t necessarily think I’d be good at art, but painting is better than doing homework in a study hall.
Monday morning, bright and early, he slides a wrapped box across the kitchen island.
“This is for you.” His voice is as warm as the coffee I’ve been sipping on.
It takes me a long moment to reach for it. Care went into folding the edges of the brown paper around the box. My name is written on the top in Robert’s block-style print.
I unwrap it slowly, savoring the pull and release of tape. I can count on one hand how many presents I’ve gotten from people other than my social worker’s obligatory Christmas present. When the wrapping falls away, I can’t stop the wide smile from spreading.
It’s the set of paints I had bought for him the other day, plus brushes.
“Everything you’ll need,” he explains.
“You were planning on me saying yes.” Why are my eyes burning? I blink rapidly and try not to think about the sentimentality of the gift.
He holds up his hands in surrender. “Guilty as charged. Art can be therapeutic and relaxing.”
“Even if I suck at it?” I ask.
“Yeah, even if you suck at it. But honestly, I don’t think you will.”
At school, Robert ushers me into the building instead of leaving me to wait for Riley in the courtyard. On one hand, I’m sorry to miss her, but on the other, I breathe a little easier knowing I won’t run into Savannah quite yet.
Her glare is burned into my brain, and I can only imagine what nonsense she’s been holding against me since I left. It seems a few people have a warped view of that year. Her. Caleb…
Robert talks to my guidance counselor. She switches me out of a study hall that was slowly boring me to death and into his painting class. When I have my new schedule printed and in hand, we’re released from her office.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
“I’m happy to have you,” he says. “See you at the end of the day.”
With time still remaining before the homeroom bell, I enter the courtyard and stick to the edges. Caleb and his crew are throwing around a football, taking up a huge space. I spot Savannah and her new friends in the corner. Some of the cheerleaders are smoking, cigarettes dangling from their fingers. My eyes almost bug out at the sight of it.
She’s a cool girl . The one who rebels in the name of fashion. Short skirt, long legs, uniform shirt unbuttoned one too low. A hot-pink lace bra peeks out of her shirt. I imagine she has guys drooling over her, but all she can focus on is Caleb.
I have a niggling suspicion that she’s the mysterious texter. The texter who has blissfully remained silent for the past week. I don’t know if she would warn me away to my face. Would that ruin her cool-girl fa?ade?
Underneath those layers, does the girl I was best friends with as a kid even still exist?
They haven’t seen me, which is fine by me. I sit on a bench and pull out homework due at the end of the week. Someone else sits on the other end, but they don’t get too close.
The bell rings with no sign of Riley, and I take a deep breath. I put my phone and pen in my bag, and my textbook slides off my lap. It hits the gravel. I reach, but a polished shoe steps on its spine before I can touch it.
“Hey—” I stop when I see who the shoe belongs to.
Caleb. There’s darkness in his eyes, and I want to crawl away from him. How many times do I have to remind myself that he isn’t the boy I knew? That something changed him for the worse, leaving this monster in his place?
“Thought I told you to leave.”
I grimace. “Did you?”
I tug at my book, but it’s useless. He leans his weight on it, crushing the spine.
Maybe he’ll do that to you, Margo. If you don’t listen to him.
I bolt to my feet, finding myself inches away from him.
“What’s your problem?” I demand. “Why are you such an asshole?”
His laugh goes straight through my chest and decimates me from the inside out. His hand winds around the back of my neck, keeping me in place. But it isn’t like I have anywhere else to go, with the bench right behind me and him at my front. I’m trapped whether he touches me or not.
Logic, however, doesn’t stop the thrill that zips down my spine at the heat of his palm on my nape.
“Go run to Savannah,” I goad. “Take whatever your problem is out on her.”
His eyes flash.
“I have, little lamb. I broke her, and she still follows me like a wind-up doll.” He tilts his head. “I have a feeling if I broke you, you wouldn’t do that.”
“What?” He wants to break me?
“Let’s play a game.” He leans down, until we’re eye to eye. “First one to fold loses.”
“Caleb—”
He pulls me forward by my neck, slamming his lips to mine. I fight him for a second. I struggle against the unyielding pressure of his lips on mine, but he captures my wrists behind my back with his free hand.
Hate radiates through me. He’s kissing me, but it’s all anger and fire. It’s hot and stupid. Honestly? I didn’t know kissing could feel this way. Desire and loathing rush through me in opposite directions—one to an unfamiliar pulse between my legs and the other straight to my head.
His lips slide against mine, soft and warm, and all I can picture is scratching his eyeballs out. Or tearing his clothes off.
What the hell is wrong with me?
His fingernails dig into the back of my neck, then relax.
He was the boy I used to love. I was ten and smitten. When we were torn apart, the thought of him was all that kept me afloat in the turbulent first few years of foster care. I wanted to get back to Rose Hill to see him, but it seemed like I could never get close enough. I’m strong enough to admit that I used to think about what grown-up Caleb would look like. What he would sound like. Sometimes I’d dream about him tracing my jaw, wrapping his arms around me and never letting go. Innocent touches for a preteen.
In my imagination, it was never anything like this bitter agony.
Here, now, he’s someone else. Someone meaner, angrier.
I just want my old friend back.
An irrational thought strikes me: He’s still in there . My friend is hiding inside this boy who loathes me—I just need to remind him who I am.
For an instant, I give in to the kiss. How could I not, with thoughts like these running through my brain?
My body softens, letting him mold me. It’s a relief for him to take over, for his lips to part mine. I wait for his tongue to sweep into my mouth, for the rest of the symphony to strike up in my mind. Him winning is bliss and sugar, and I’m drunk on it in less than a second.
And then he’s gone.
He releases me, and I sway. My eyes flutter open in time to spot his wince, but it’s quickly replaced by a smirk.
Back to cold, although he was affected by that kiss, too. You can’t tell me he wasn’t.
His expression is distant when he says, “You lose, Margo. You know what that means?”
I clench my fist to hide my trembling. Of course I lost a game I had no chance of winning. It was rigged against me before he moved closer. Although I have a sneaking suspicion he lost, too. He just won’t admit it.
Caleb has given me a handful of punishments in the span of a week. Even kissing Savannah on Saturday was some sort of payback. Why would this be any different?
“It’s going to cost you,” he continues.
Instead of telling me the price of my supposed failure, though, he steps away. My knees bang together, and I fall hard back to the bench. He strides away with his shoulders straight, bag slung over one shoulder. He’s the portrayal of perfection, and I am a wreck in comparison.
That was my first kiss.
He claimed my mouth like I’m no better than an object he’s writing his name on. The problem is—I’m not a puppet who will dance when he jerks my strings. I’m not soft—my childhood has seen to that. I will not bend to him.
And I will certainly not break.
I just need to remind myself of my strength when he steps into my space. There’s a flutter in my chest, although I can’t pinpoint if it’s nerves or excitement. Just being back in Rose Hill is a novelty.
After a long moment of trying to rein in my thoughts, I lift my textbook and brush off the dirt from his shoe. I stuff it and my notebook into my bag, skipping homeroom and heading straight for my first class. I’d be late to homeroom if I went now, and I don’t want to be the center of attention. For five minutes, I get to be alone in the hallway.
Silence prevails. I lean against a locker and blow out a slow breath.
Caleb Asher has turned this into a game—but what kind? From pushing me down to pressing buttons I barely knew existed, like kissing Savannah, or twisting my arm behind my back, it’s clear I am Public Enemy Number One.
But why?
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Unknown
Do you regret coming back yet?
Rumor has it, Caleb is out for your blood.
Fuck off.
I put my phone on silent, my mood officially soured. My lips still tingle from where Caleb touched them, and I can’t help but press my finger to them. Can’t help but replay that scene again, as twisted as it is.
The softening. The wince. The flutter.
The sneer.
I rub the back of my hand along my mouth, suddenly wanting to remove any trace of him. Disgust twists my stomach.
The bell rings, and I straighten up off the lockers.
In a matter of moments, the hallways are flooded with students. They stream out of the classroom I need to enter, the chatter loud and jarring. I am so apart from it, it’s almost like I’m invisible. Standing against the wall, while my peers pass me by without a second glance.
It’s oddly unsettling. But rather this than stares and whispers, which I’m sure will be Caleb’s eventual intention.
No one witnessed the kiss this morning. The courtyard was empty except for us.
Was that intentional?
He’d rather kiss Savannah in a crowded mall food court.
Finally, the room empties. I slip inside, crossing it and taking a seat. It’s the same seat I had before, because I don’t want to rock the boat and choose something new.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned across so many different schools: kids are all the same. Once they’ve claimed something—say, a seat in a class—they’d be loath to give it up.
The royalty comes in after everyone else. Caleb, obviously, but Ian—the lackey who picked on me the first day—is with him, along with a few girls I don’t recognize. They take their time moving through the students, greeting everyone, and finally sprawl out in their chairs, laughing with each other.
Mrs. Stonewater stands from her desk and closes the door with a purpose. “We’re going to start a history project that will carry us through the semester.” She passes out papers and explains the details of the project.
It sounds boring, honestly. History is one of my least favorite subjects.
Someone raises their hand. “Can we work with a partner?”
“Yes.”
“Do we get to pick?” another asks.
Caleb’s gaze burns into the back of my neck. I don’t have to turn around to feel it, and I pick at my nails to keep from squirming.
Our teacher’s cold gaze shifts around the room, and she seems to be deciding something. “I’ll allow you to submit three names to me at the end of class, and I’ll be making final decision on the partners by the end of the week. Moving on…”
“Better see my name on your paper, little lamb,” Caleb whispers. “We’re inevitable.”
This time, I can’t hide my shudder. It’s stupid that I can still taste him. I drag the back of my hand across my lips again, and he kicks the back of my chair. I repeat the motion, and he kicks harder.
Why? Because he doesn’t want me to be as disgusted with him as he as with me?
I’m beginning to understand this resentment he’s harboring. My own is growing.
“Stop,” I hiss.
“Make me.”
“Mr. Asher,” Mrs. Stonewater snaps. “Are you paying attention?”
“Trying to, ma’am. Wolfe here is quite distracting.”
The students snicker.
“Margo?”
Twenty-five pairs of eyes land on me, and I hunch lower in my seat.
“Sorry, ma’am.”
The students’ attention slowly drifts back to the teacher. We write out who we’d like to be partners with on papers that she collects at the end of her lecture, and I hate the way I only have Caleb’s name to put down.
There’s no one else in class I know. Familiar faces, like Ian Fletcher, I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. The girls seem to be all in agreement about hating me on sight, taking the lead from Caleb’s treatment.
The bell finally rings, and I book it out of the room. I leave Caleb and his judgment behind, dodging between people until I’m safely at my next class.
Rinse and repeat.
On the way to lunch, I manage to catch a glimpse of Caleb and his friends by the stairwell. It’s the main route to the cafeteria, and the way they’re taking their time raises my hackles.
They’re not waiting for me, right?
Instead of finding out, I take a hall on my left. I hurry, because with every second it grows emptier. I take a right, then go up a half flight of stairs. I haven’t been over here yet, and the next door I push through exits into a stairwell with rounded sides.
The steps go up and down in a spiral.
One of the towers, then?
Curiosity gets the better of me. I tighten my grip on the strap of my bag and go up. And up and up and up.
Finally, the stairs end at an open doorway. I step through, only a little surprised to find an empty classroom. The blackboard on a stand—not attached to the curved wall—has been wiped clean, and a small collection of desks face it.
I go to the window and look out. This one faces the second of the two front towers. Another window shows the front lawn and beyond, the houses speckled between the mature trees, the curving roads barely visible. In the far, far distance is New York City. The skyscrapers are just little sharp lines against the horizon.
“Contemplating jumping?”
I whirl around.
Caleb leans in the doorway, his arms crossed.
“What are you doing up here?” I ask.
He smirks. “I saw you trying to dodge us. Didn’t expect you to come up here, though…”
His perfect lips quirk as he waits for my reply. His stare is too intense, and I find myself pivoting slightly to face the window again.
Off to the left is where I used to live… in the house behind his.
“Funny how things change,” he murmurs, suddenly right behind me.
I stiffen, bracing for his touch. It comes a second later, his fingers brushing my nape as he moves my hair over one shoulder. A chill travels down my spine, goosebumps rising in reaction.
“What changed?” I grip the windowsill; I’m going to lose my balance if I don’t. My knees don’t seem steady around him, no matter what I do.
He leans in. Down. His lips coast against the top of my ear. “Everything except you.”
My heart squeezes. I close my eyes, but it doesn’t matter. He leaves me standing there with my heartbeat thundering in my ears.