Chapter 3 #2
“Our cat just had them about a month ago.” Marie’s brow furrows as she crouches down, holding out her hand and cooing softly. “Dad said he’d drown them if she had another litter after the last one. He’s an asshole.”
The word asshole sounds funny coming out of Marie’s petite little mouth, especially with that serious expression on her face.
“Yeah.” I squat beside her, keeping my voice low so I don’t spook the kitten. “I’ve got one of those, too. An asshole dad.”
The kitten finally crawls up into Marie’s hands, and she smiles at me as she lifts it back to her backpack with the other two. “I hid them under my bed, but he found them this morning.” Her voice goes small. Defeated. “I thought maybe I could give them away today.”
She looks up at me with those big eyes again. “You want one?”
“Oh, I—” I start shaking my head, ready with my excuse about how I can’t take care of a kitten when I’m trying to figure out how to escape back to Selbyville, but before I can get the words out, she’s already reached into her bag and plucked out Sox—the little gray one with the white feet—and plopped her against my chest.
The kitten immediately starts purring, booping my chin with her tiny nose like we’re old friends.
I lift an eyebrow down at the little furball. “Not fair.”
Marie giggles. Actually giggles. “Who can say no to a kitten? I figured if I could just let people meet them, I could find them homes.”
“Why not just take them to the shelter?” I stroke the kitten’s head with one finger, and Sox leans into the touch, purring even harder.
“Mom’s too busy with work and Dad—” Marie looks at the ground. “Well, yeah. I told you about him.” She picks at the hem of her skirt. “I’m on scholarship. You should probably know that before you hang out with me. It’s not good for people’s reputation to be seen with me.”
I bark out a laugh that’s sharp enough to make Marie flinch. “Sorry. That’s bullshit.”
I slip Sox into my backpack—carefully, making sure there’s an opening at the top—with a little smile and roll of my eyes at Marie.
Can I afford to take care of a kitten right now, especially when I’m trying to find a way back to Selbyville and Z?
Absolutely not. But Helen looks like all she’s missing in her perfect little suburban life is a kitten to round out the family portrait.
And besides, this little furball deserves better than being drowned by some asshole.
“Fuck these cunts, right?”
Marie’s eyes light up like I just handed her permission to be real for the first time all day. “Yeah!” Her voice gets louder, braver. “Fuck these cunts!”
AP English is after lunch, according to the color-coded schedule the guidance counselor shoved at me this morning. Room 207.
The little gray kitten—Sox—is snuggled in my backpack, being miraculously quiet.
I can feel her tiny warm weight against my spine through the canvas.
Hopefully, she stays asleep through English.
Last thing I need is to explain why I’m smuggling a contraband kitten into class on my first day.
Then again, I don’t plan on being here long, so who gives a shit?
I push open the door and immediately want to turn around and walk back out.
Because there’s McKenzie, perched on the edge of some guy’s desk like she’s posing for a catalog shoot. Strawberry lip gloss. Hair up with those stupid ringlets. Leaning close enough to some poor bastard that her tits are practically in his lap.
And the guy—
Fuck. I pause.
Fuck.
The guy is gorgeous.
Like, stupidly, offensively, shouldn’t-be-legal-in-high-school gorgeous.
Dark hair that looks professionally styled but probably just air-dried like that. Sharp jawline. Broad shoulders filling out a button-down and the ugly blazer in a way that makes it look good.
And his eyes. Even from across the room, I can see they’re this intense blue.
I slide into an empty desk in the back corner—my preferred location in any classroom. Easier to observe. Harder to be observed. Plus, if I need to sleep or text Z, the teacher’s less likely to notice.
My eyes drift back toward the hottie that McKenzie’s draped all over. He’s gotta be her boyfriend.
Although… he hasn’t looked up at her once. He’s bent over a notebook, pen moving in neat, controlled lines like he’s writing a manifesto instead of doodling before class.
I pull out my own notebook—mostly empty except for the sketch I was drawing last night when I couldn’t sleep—and try not to stare.
I fail immediately.
Because now I’m noticing details. The way his forearms flex as he writes.
The little furrow between his eyebrows when he concentrates.
The fact that his whole desk is organized like a magazine spread—textbook aligned perfectly with the edge, pens arranged by color, water bottle exactly one inch from the corner.
Jesus Christ. He’s one of those guys. The kind who probably alphabetizes his bookshelf and sets three alarms in the morning.
Fuck. Hot Boy Scout types are my kryptonite.
I bite my bottom lip. I’m the kinda girl who’s always been way more into Clark Kent than Superman.
McKenzie says something that makes her laugh—that trilling, artificial sound that sets my teeth on edge. She touches his arm. Lets her fingers linger.
He doesn’t react.
Interesting.
He’s not into her. Which means he’s either gay, ace, or he’s got taste.
Or maybe he’s just oblivious. Some guys are.
The bell rings, sharp and aggressive, making me jump. The kitten in my backpack shifts, and I freeze, but she settles back down without making a sound.
Good kitty.
Ms. Robertson—according to the nameplate on her desk—looks like one of those teachers who thinks she’s everyone’s cool aunt.
Mid-forties, wearing a flowy scarf and too much turquoise jewelry.
She perches on the edge of her desk like she’s about to deliver a TED talk instead of teaching high school English.
“Afternoon, everyone!” Her voice is aggressively cheerful. “I hope you all finished reading through chapter thirteen of Wuthering Heights. Today we’re discussing Heathcliff’s return, Catherine’s manipulation, and Isabella’s terrible, terrible choices.”
A few people laugh. I don’t.
I finished Wuthering Heights a couple of years ago when I was bored out of my mind during one of Darlene’s week-long benders. Read the whole thing in one sitting, hunched in the bathroom because it’s the only room with a working lock.
Ms. Robertson scans the room with predatory enthusiasm. “Isabella’s attraction to Heathcliff is almost willfully blind. Do you see her as a victim, or is Bronte criticizing her choices?”
McKenzie’s hand shoots up before the question’s even finished.
“She’s an idiot,” McKenzie announces, dripping with the confidence of someone who’s never made a questionable life choice. “Everything had finally worked out for her. Why is she even bothering with Heathcliff? He’s obviously a jerk.”
“You would think that.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
Every head in the room swivels toward me.
McKenzie’s eyes narrow into slits. “What would you know about it? You probably haven’t even read the book.”
I lean back in my chair, arms crossed. I let my drawl drawl just enough to sound totally nonchalant.
“Actually, I have read it. And Cathy’s just a victim of patriarchal expectations.
Same as Heathcliff. They could’ve been happy if they hadn’t been caught in a suffocating system that cared so much about wealth, prestige, and producing a male heir to inherit the estate. ”
Silence.
Then McKenzie scoffs like I just suggested the Earth is flat. “Uh, hello? They rescued Heathcliff as an orphan off the streets. Should Catherine have given up everything she had so she could go starve with him?”
Oh, this bitch.
“Because it ends up so much better for her?” My voice is dry as Texas in August. “Spoiler alert: she dies anyway. But maybe you think it’s a happy ending because Heathcliff ends up with a big mansion?”
“We haven’t read that far!” McKenzie’s voice hits a pitch that could shatter glass.
I smile as sweetly as Helen’s snickerdoodles. “I was joking about the spoiler. It’s in the first chapter.”
Muffled laughter ripples through the classroom.
McKenzie’s face cycles through about seventeen shades of red, each one more satisfying than the last. Her perfectly manicured hands clench into fists on her desk.
And that’s when the guy she was fawning over clears his throat.
“Both perspectives have merit,” he says, and his voice is—fuck—his voice is this low, grumbly thing that will probably sound great in a courtroom or a boardroom…
or a bedroom, my devilish little mind thinks with a swoop low in my tummy.
“We could argue that Isabella’s agency is constrained by the social structures of the time, while also acknowledging that she has more choices than someone in Heathcliff’s position.
The question becomes whether Bronte is critiquing individual choices or systemic inequalities. ”
I turn those words over in my head, biting my bottom lip.
It’s a well-reasoned answer, I guess. The kind of thing that makes teachers weak in the knees because it sounds smart without actually taking a position so that everybody can feel good about themselves.
It’s also the most chickenshit response I’ve ever heard.
“How diplomatic of you,” I say, and I can hear the challenge in my own voice. “Very... safe.”
His head turns.
Our eyes meet.
And holy shit. I lose my breath.
Up close, those blue eyes are devastating. Sharp. Intelligent. The kind of eyes that see too much and reveal nothing. There’s something careful in the way he looks at me—like he’s doing calculations, running scenarios, figuring out if I’m a threat.
But damn. How long has it been since a guy looking at me made my breath hitch? Has it ever happened? Sure, I hook up with guys sometimes, but that’s just—meaningless. A thing to pass the time. A way to scratch an itch.
“I prefer thorough,” Sexy Boy Scout says, voice level. Controlled.
“Right.” I struggle not to laugh at this carefully restrained boy. Is it wrong that all I want to do is ruffle those perfect little feathers?
I lean forward slightly and watch his body angle toward me in response. Unconsciously. Automatic. His eyes flick down to my collarbone—to the gap where I left too many buttons undone—then back up to my face.
Interesting.
“But sometimes the thorough answer is just the coward’s way of not taking a side.
” I let that land, let it sink in. Let him feel it.
“Maybe some situations don’t need diplomacy.
Maybe sometimes the system is wrong, and pointing that out doesn’t require a seventeen-point analysis to make it palatable for people who benefit from keeping things exactly the way they are. ”
The classroom goes dead silent.
Someone in the front row actually lets out a little gasp. What, do people not question Sexy Boy Scout often?
His jaw tightens. Just a fraction. But I see it. And I want to bite the little vein that pops out along his neck.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, even though we both know exactly what it means.
I shrug but don’t break eye contact. “Just that maybe you’re more interested in sounding smart than actually being right. There’s a difference.”
Something flickers in his expression. Anger? Frustration? Arousal?
Fuck, I hope it’s arousal.
Because I’m definitely feeling something, and it’s not just the satisfaction of winning an argument. Maybe I could have a little fun before splitting town and figuring out a way to go back and get hitched to Z.
Fuck, I’m such a slut. I readjust my crossed legs, thighs squeezing together unintentionally.
Ms. Robertson clears her throat, probably sensing that this is about to turn into a cage match if she doesn’t step in. “This is exactly the kind of critical thinking Bronte was hoping to inspire. The tension between individual agency and social constraint is—”
But I’m not listening anymore.
I’m watching him. Watching the way his knuckles go white where they grip his pen. The way a muscle jumps in his jaw. The way he’s staring at me like I just punched him in the throat and he can’t decide if he’s furious or impressed.
Good.
I grin and give him a little wink before settling back in my chair. He jerks in his seat before swiftly turning away and keeping his back to me the rest of class. I chuckle to myself.
It’s not nice to play with your food.
But since when have I been nice? I’m the bitchy, hard-shelled slut from the trailer park, right?
I’m Darlene Tucker’s daughter, and this little escape into a world of lemon-waxed floors and kittens and snickerdoodle cookies at bedtime isn’t real despite how much some stupid, soft-under-bellied part of me wants it to be.
Dad’s just running a con on that nice lady Helen, anyway. There’s no point in any of it.
Note to self: Don’t get distracted by gorgeous, blue-eyed boys.