One by one they peel away. Cleo shoots me a triumphant smile as she loops her arm in Noah’s. The two of them climb the stairs, their heads bend together in whispers. Eli looks like he wants to argue, and he’s got his blazer off now and is holding it out.
“I said, go to class, Mr. Hart. I’ve got this under control.”
Eli’s eyes flick to mine, as if asking my permission. I nod. He backs away, his gaze not leaving mine until he’s around the corner and out of sight.
Ms. Drysdale shrugs off her jacket and loops it over my shoulders. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Is this a joke?”
“No joke,” I say, my face serious. “It’s my political science project. How did I do?”
Her eyes bug out. “What?”
“You told us to explore propaganda and social justice movements. I’ve done that by using my body – a woman’s body, which has long been exploited for political propaganda – as a tool to reclaim my own narrative.” I skim my hands over my breasts, smudging the M of Mackenzie. “You have to admit, if the idea is to get people to pay attention, ithasbeen remarkably effective.”
Ms. Drysdale’s mouth quirks up. “You’ve got some ovaries on you, Malloy. Tell you what, I’ll give you a perfect grade if you go back into the changing rooms and put your uniform back on.”
“I can’t. My clothes were stolen.”
She sighs as she yanks her coat closed across my chest. It’s a dark maroon trench reaching to my knees, and I belt it at the waist to cover all my lady bits. It’s an awesome coat – the kind of thing I might have worn in another life. Now that I’m covered up, she snaps her fingers. “Come with me.”
I follow my history teacher into a cramped office at the back of the Humanities block. She gestures for me to sit as she roots around in a suitcase behind her desk. I stare at my feet, which I kick out in slow circles. My toe brushes the corner of a quilt tucked under her desk.
“This is cool.” I hold up a corner of the quilt. It’s covered with different-shaped helmets from history – the Corinthian helmet of the Greek hoplite, a Roman centurion’sgalea, a medieval great helm. It looks hand-stitched.
“Oh, that.” Red flares in Ms. Drysdale’s cheeks. “It gets cold in here. This patriarchal establishment wasn’t built with a heating system because they believed frostbite would turn boys into men, and I’m not allowed a space heater because it’s a fire hazard. Even with two layers of thermal stockings, I freeze my ass off in winter.”
I nod, but I can’t help but notice the pile of clothes in the suitcase in the corner, the takeout containers scattered across the desk, and the corner of a pillow behind the bookshelves. Ms. Drysdale is sleeping in her office.
I shouldn’t give a shit, but it seems so ridiculous that I have this whole big house with twelve bedrooms and its own indoor bowling alley, while the only person in this entire shitty school who has actually been nice to me is sleeping in her office. I open my mouth to say something, but Ms. Drysdale dumps a load of clothes on my lap.
“Put those on and get out of here. You won’t be allowed back into class without your uniform.” She holds up a crumpled Mötley Crüe band tee. “I’ll be expecting these back.”
I finger the edge of the t-shirt, loving the distressed fabric. “I would, too. You have great clothes.”
“Please,” she scoffs. “You could trade my entire wardrobe for one of your designer handbags and still have money to spare. Don’t try to butter me up to get yourself out of trouble for this ridiculous stunt. I’m concerned about you, Mackenzie. From the minute you walked into Stonehurst, you’ve been determined to paint a target on your back. And you never got a tutor as I suggested—”
“I tried. Noah refused to tutor me.”
She sighs. “That’s unlike him. I’ll find you a tutor.”
“That’s okay, I’ll—”
She didn’t let me finish. “You clearly enjoy history, which is rare in a school like this. I stand at the front of class and look out at future leaders and influencers, and not one of them understands how important it is to look to the past. The triumphs and the mistakes.Especiallythe mistakes. You could do well here if you gained a better grasp of academic writing, and that’s a skill you can learn with the right tutor. I’ll help you, but you’d better not let me down.”
She says it with a little tug of her mouth, to show she’s half-joking. But I suddenly don’t want to disappoint her. Ms. Drysdale points to the door. Her elbow hits a takeout container, batting it off the edge of her desk and into the trash. “Go home, Mackenzie.”
I leave her office, wrapping her coat around me to ward off the chill as a light breeze blows off the ocean just down the road. I debate ducking into a bathroom to change into Ms. Drysdale’s clothes, but her coat covers me fine and I really just want to go home. I hurry down the front steps of the school and check no one’s looking before I hurry toward the bus stop. I check the schedule – twelve minutes before the next bus leaves for Harrington Hills. I pull up the collar of the coat and shrink against the shelter, hoping no one will—
“Well, well, well. Mackenzie Malloy waiting for the bus, looking like Holly GoLightly’s sexy cousin.”
I whirl around, my heart pounding. Gabriel Fallen steps out from behind a tree, a joint dangling from his fingers.
“I’m going home,” I snarl.
“That’s unlikely. Mackenzie Malloy doesn’t ride the bus like a pleb.” Gabriel pauses. “You should see the inside of my tour bus. Nowthat’sa bus. I’ve got a king-size bed in back, silk sheets, a fully-equipped bar. This swing that you hook to the ceiling—”
I turn away so he can’t see the blush creeping across my cheeks. I’ve read wild stories in the tabloids about Gabriel and that swing. And the idea he might want me to be on it… “Maybe Mackenzie Malloy is trying to save the environment.”
Gabriel chuckles. He reaches out and takes my hand, leading me back into the trees that line the parklike-grounds of Stonehurst. He holds out the joint for me. “I heard what happened in gym. Cleo’s an evil wench, but you are something else. Want to hang out?”
