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“More Ansley intrigue? You guys need to get a new obsession. I don’t think—”
“The principal is her uncle,” he finally grits out.
“Oh.” My steps drop heavier. Slower.
“And she and I—”
“You and Ansley?”
“Yeah. We, uh...”
“You two...?”
“Um...yep.”
“Oh.”
Oh.
It all snaps into hyperfocus and my stomach churns.
I break the link our hands made and swing the office door open.
“Nes! Wait a sec,” Doyle pleads.
“You’re going to be massively late for class. And then your ex-girlfriend will run and tell her uncle, and we’ll both be in detention together.” I shrug at him, every muscle in my back and neck tight. “Just when I think this place might not be so bad, it gets sucky on a whole new level. Shoo, Doyle. I’ve got unjust punishment to deal with.”
He thumps back a few steps, then jogs away, heavy on his boots.
I straighten and face the glass doors that lead to my possible doom. It’s not like I’m unused to principals’ offices. I love learning, but the rigidness of school grates on me. It was a problem even in my free-spirited Quaker school.
My easygoing Dominican father gave me his killer dance moves and quick smile, but I inherited my socially blunt mother’s explosive Irish temper. I plod to the line of plastic chairs—the hallmark of the naughty corner outside every principal’s office from Brooklyn to Backassward, Georgia—and announce my presence to a secretary, who shakes her head like she already knows my verdict.
Clearly guilty. Guillotine for me.
“Agnes Pujols?” a voice of manly authority bellows.
“Agnes Murphy-Pujols,” I correct before looking up at the voice’s owner.
“Excuse me?” A balding man at least seven feet tall with the crooked nose of a hawk glares down at me.
“My last name. It’s hyphenated. Murphy-Pujols.” We exchange a long, bristling stare, and I remember Doyle’s whisper outside Mr. Webster’s classroom. “Sir.”
“Come into my office, Ms. Murphy-Pujols.” My principal holds out his arm like he’s some overlord, el Matatan, inviting me in for war talks.
I force one foot in front of the other and realize, with a sinking heart, that I’m treading toward my scholastic doom. I’m not afraid to admit I’m scared. I went to a Quaker school for my entire life. Quakers are people known for friendship and brotherly love. I’m now walking into a disciplinary office in a state that was founded as a penal colony.
Coño, this doesn’t bode well.
FIVE (#u4b8ddb2a-06a8-5550-9d97-0fa8601bb316)
He busies himself with a thousand minute tasks while I sit and stare, the most basic technique in the campaign of intimidation meant to subdue me. I’m used to authority figures looking over their glasses, sighing, and telling me how disappointed they are. Armstrong is introducing a whole new set of tactics, but I’m nothing if not adaptable.
I just need to remember my sirs.
“Agnes, this is your...second day at Ebenezer High.” His mouth sours.
“Yes...sir,” I say, even if it makes the hair on my arms stand on end to say it.
“And I assume you got the student handbook when you registered.” He folds his hands, desperate prayer-style. On his left ring finger he wears a plain gold wedding band. On his right he wears what looks like a huge class ring, with a sparkling ruby and a screaming eagle etched into the gold.
“Sure did, sir.” I keep my voice chipper enough to set his teeth on edge. I got the fat packet in the mail, pulled out the few necessary papers, and forgot the rest.
“Then you know we have rules here at Ebenezer. I know you don’t come from around here, so you may not realize that we take pride in being the best high school in the area.” His smile is smug.
I put a tight lid on the snort that nearly bursts out of my nose. Best high school in this area isn’t saying much. The abysmal testing rates were one of the things I threw in Mom’s face. She begged me to consider private schools, but I figured if I was going to have my life fall apart for a few months, I’d do it without the additional torture of a tartan skirt and knee-highs, thank you very much.
“No, I’m not from around here,” I agree, zero hesitation. “And I understand that there are rules, but where I come from I guess we’re a little more direct. So when I said what I did to Ansley—”
“Ansley Strickland has nothing to do with this situation, Agnes,” Mr. Armstrong cuts in too quickly, his tone testy. I clap my mouth shut while he lies to my face. “Several of your teachers mentioned dress-code violations. I sense that there may also be an attitude problem.”
“Dress code?” I echo.
Which teachers? Why didn’t they tell me? My brain whirs, searching for answers, and then it all snaps together. This is like some John Grisham novel where they can’t get the guys on murder, so they finger them for a million counts of petty mail fraud.
He can’t let me know Ansley tattled, so he’s going to invent other trumped-up charges.
“First of all, there’s the problem of your piercing. The rule book clearly states two holes in each ear is the maximum allowed, and any other piercings are prohibited.” He glares at the tiny diamond stud I’ve had on the side of my nose since I was a sophomore. I got it the day Ollie got her Monroe piercing and the studs we chose wound up so small, it was a pretty underwhelming rebellion. “It’s also been reported you have a tattoo.” In front of him is a paper that maps out a never-ending bulleted list.
“My tattoo?” I squawk the words like a repeating parrot, even though I clearly heard Captain Buzzkill the first time.
I do have a tattoo... A red A in fancy cursive, my own scarlet letter. On the back of my neck. Considering my bob grew out and my thick, curly hair now reaches my shoulders, no one would have seen that tattoo.
Except that I do tend to pull my hair up when I’m busy with classwork. Like Hemingway notes. But a person would have to be sitting behind me to notice.
Huh, isn’t it funny that Ansley happens to sit right behind me?
“That tattoo is covered by my hair—” I begin to object, totally losing my cool, but my new principal’s face is bland as he interrupts me.
“I’m glad you mentioned your hair. I hope that color is some kind of washout, Agnes—”
“This color cost a small fortune and was put in by one of the hair technicians who worked on What Not to Wear—”
“Speaking of ‘what not to wear,’ as a young lady trying to make positive first impressions in a new school, you may want to reconsider your wardrobe choices.”
I yanked on this particular T-shirt this morning because my sunburn made my back and shoulders a tight, itchy swath of irritated skin. I dripped as much aloe as I could on it after sobbing through an icy shower. My choice in clothes was completely comfort based: Ollie and I organized a breast cancer 5k freshman year and completed it in our Save the Tatas shirts, and I’ve worn mine so many times since then, it’s now tissue-weight cotton that doesn’t cling or rub. Perfect for sunburned skin. And to raise awareness for breast cancer, of course.
Because who wouldn’t want to save tatas? A man who’s willing to play head games on a high school level would clearly be adverse to tata saving. Jerkwad.
Make that Principal Jerkwad, sir.
“I’ll give you to the end of the week to sort your issues out, Agnes. We’re not looking to pick on you here at Ebenezer High. We want to help you fit in and have a positive experience. Welcome to our school.”
He says those last four words without a trace of irony. And just like that, I’m dismissed back into the cold halls of Ebenezer High, the school I thought I could take on. Now I realize those movies about clique-run, autocratic high schools that treasure conformity and beat down the slightest rebellion get made because those high schools exist, and the rebels survive to tell the tale on the big screen.
I think I’ve just become the president of Ebenezer’s goddamn Breakfast Club.
Which is fine, except for the fact that I might also be the sole member.
I look at my pass and realize the secretary scribbled the time illegibly and a person could read the minute spot as a twenty or as a fifty. Which means I can hole up for half an hour and still use my pass.
Gone are the days when an understanding school counselor I’d known most of my young life would pull me into a cozy office, hear me out, and help me smooth things over. I’m on my own here. And with a so-obvious target on my back, I’ll have to keep my eyes wide-open or I’ll wind up smiling at a cheering crowd while buckets of pig blood get dumped over me.
And, with that macabre image in my head, I duck out a side door that leads to a sunny courtyard and feel the rough clamp of a hand on my shoulder. I open my mouth to scream, but a second hand covers my mouth.
SIX (#u4b8ddb2a-06a8-5550-9d97-0fa8601bb316)
“Nes, shh. It’s me. It’s jest me.” I hear Doyle’s voice and quiver like a plucked bowstring.
I beat my fists on his chest as he yanks me under the shade of some trees. Real trees with wide, glossy leaves so dark green, they’re almost black, and white flowers that smell like rotting summer.
“You scared the crap of me,” I hiss.
His chuckle mixes with the lazy, hooded look in his eyes and takes the wind out of my fury. “I was worried about you. Was it bad?”
“Armstrong just basically told me to buy a cardigan and join the cheer squad.” I spit out the words as we hunker down on the soft grass, hidden in the hot shade.
“Are you into that? Cheer?” Close-up, I’m able to confirm that his eyes are almost a light purple, like a lavender. What a waste, for a boy to have what my abuela would call “Liz Taylor eyes.”
Though, waste or not, they’re throat-closingly beautiful.
“What do you think?” I walk my fingers along his hand because I can’t help it. “And why are you here? You should go before your ex gives her commandant uncle stalker notes that detail your every move.”
“I think I’d rather have you on my baseball team than cheering for it.” His voice is all hungry and honey. “And I think Ansley might be targeting you because things didn’t end well with us, so I’m feelin’ kinda responsible for this BS.”
“Great. Of all the boys who could have been landscaping half-naked in my backyard, it had to be the queen bee’s ex. What are the chances?” I should feel prickly, but those eyes...looking into them is like sliding into a hot tub. Their warmth bubbles all around me like the jets are on high.
“I thought about what ya said. To Ansley. And about me and her. And you’re right. It’s time for her to get off her damn pedestal. I’m tired of how everyone jest lets her get her own way all the time.” Fury must change his eye color, because they’re a deep blue now, like the clouds around a full moon.
“There’s a whole system stacked in her favor, Doyle. I should have listened to you. I should have kept my trap shut. Unfortunately, I suck at that.”
He leans close, predator-like, and I feel very ready to be devoured. And equally ready to bolt.
“Goddamn, I love the way you can’t keep your mouth shut, Nes. You’re the first person around here in a long time who’s had the balls to jest say what’s on your mind to anyone, no matter who they are. It’s sexy as hell.”
My hand twitches, and he takes it in his.
He threads our fingers together like being this close is no big thing. And I guess I overplayed the whole flirty, badass NYC vibe...because my heart is a bird throwing itself against the bars to escape its cage, but he’s looking at me like we’re both cool with everything happening at warp speed in the secret shade of this tree.
I love the way our fingers lock together, but this is fast. On top of the dizzy feeling I get when I hold hands with Doyle, I’m upset about my idiotic trip to the principal’s office, I’m miserable over facing Ansley, I miss Ollie so much it feels like I have a cough drop permanently lodged sideways down my throat. And there’s Lincoln.
I want... I have no idea what I want. My vision goes grainy and Doyle’s voice coils softly through the fog of my chaotic thoughts.
“Yesterday, in your yard after school, I was actually hatching this whole plot to get your attention somehow next time I saw you. Then you jest walked outta your house in a bikini. Hand to God, I thought I was bein’ punked.” His ears burn pink.
“Your ears are blushing,” I whisper.
He leans lip-to-lip close. Every nerve in my face goes tight. I smell his warm hay scent mixed with the heady aroma of those heavy cream flowers sizzling in the morning sun.
The bell screams, and the courtyard fills with students. I jump up, my pass a congealed wad of pulp in my sweaty palm. “Crap! Doyle, I skipped. Like I’m not in deep enough trouble!”
“It’s okay. Teacher’d have to remember to check when you left the office, and Webster won’t bother. You’re fine.” His voice is laid-back as he reaches out to take my hands. I can see that he still wants to cash in on the promise of a kiss that was only barely possible when I was under his pretty-eyed spell.
“I’m not fine.” I slap his hands back. “My life is out of control. You know what? I should never have left Brooklyn, but now that I’m here, I can’t be some psycho debutante’s target. I need to lie low.”
“Meaning what?” Doyle’s mouth twists with a disappointment he doesn’t have any right to feel.
“Meaning, you and I should probably cool it, and I gotta go now so I can make it to my next class on time.” I brush grass off my butt.
“So that’s it?” His eyes flash. “Nes, girls like Ansley have been gettin’ whatever the hell they want since they were spoiled toddlers. No one ever stands up to her and her kind. It ain’t right.”
I shoulder my backpack. “Well, Doyle, maybe guys like you should stop giving girls like her whatever they want. She’s your psycho ex. I’m not about to make this year any harder than it needs to be. I told you—my objective is to get out. Gone. Done. And I’ll forget this place like it was a bad dream as soon as it’s in my rearview.”
“So you’re going to sit back and take it? Let her and Armstrong and all the rest stomp on you? After standing up to her today? Seriously?” Doyle’s mouth pulls tight.
Inside, the crowds in the halls are thinning already, students ducking into classrooms like I should be, and I have no energy left to stand here arguing. I’m not even halfway through my day, and I’m flattened with exhaustion.
“Seriously. Look, we hardly know each other, okay? Sorry if you thought I was going to be the badass rebel who’d shake up the end of your boring senior year, but I’m not here for your entertainment. Or Ansley’s. This semester is my probation, and I’m just biding my time till it’s over.” I walk backward to the door and shrug. “See you around, Doyle.”
I leave him standing in the middle of a last scurrying surge of students, and notice Ansley skip up, grab him by the arm, and stand on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. A long shock of blond hair falls down her back and shimmers in the blistering sunshine.
It’s so cliché, it hurts. And my jealousy is extra cliché. So I clamp down on it, head to US history, and grit my teeth when Ansley and Braelynn jostle against me on their way past, knocking me into a water fountain. Doyle sees me from down the hall and battles against the flow of traffic to make it to my side, but I slip into class before he can, my face hot, the tears so close to falling, I can taste the salt in the back of my throat.
I run my hand behind my neck, above my aching sunburn, and touch my scarlet A, the tattoo that was a fierce joke and a mark of pride.
“‘Pride cometh before the fall,’” I mutter as I pull out my textbook and try to bleach my brain of this whole place.
By the time the final bell rings, I realize that I’m going to spend a lot of time trying to avoid Doyle at every turn because he’s not letting our conversation drop.
“Nes!” Doyle sprints to my car as I throw my bag in the window, lean against the closed door, and cross my arms. When he’s finally standing next to me he just stares, like he’s not sure what to say.
For once in my life, I’m right there with him. But it’s unnatural for me to say nothing, so I say the first thing that pops into my head. The thing I hope is the shortest path to getting him out of my life.
“Look, it’s not personal, okay? I like you. I do. But we just met, and things are already too complicated, with Ansley and Lincoln and—”
“Who’s Lincoln?” His eyebrows knot over his gorgeous eyes.
“My ex.” My voice hiccups over those words, because they’re strange. Deep in my secret romantic heart, I imagined I’d never have to say the words my ex and Lincoln in the same conversation.
