“Damien,” I say, injecting interest into my voice. “Would you be able to help me find my first class? I’m new here.”
Her gaze travels from my casually styled dark curls to my lips, my open collar, and lingers where my shirt seams strain over my purposefully tensed biceps. When she flashes her smile again, it’s genuine.
“I’d be happy to.” Another squeeze on my arm. “You’re a senior?”
“Yeah, for the next three months.” I add a derisive laugh. “They kicked me out of my last school just for keying a teacher’s car. Can you believe it?”
The calculated hint of rebellion results in an immediate payoff, and she leans towards my chest, eyelashes fluttering. “You don’t have to worry about that kind of thing here. The cameras are to protect us, not them.”
She leads me to homeroom, her shrill voice imparting gossip. Students nudge each other and pull faces as we pass. At the English block entrance, I turn back, watching Ophelia vanish into the building opposite.
That glare? Sweet perfection.
But I wrench my gaze back to Chelsea. Despite what my father thinks, I can control myself when it suits.
Ophelia’s trapped in this teen prison, same as me. I’ll see her again.
And next time, I’ll break more than her glasses.
I tapthe boy’s number into my phone. “Jameson,” he reminds me, and I add ‘essays’ to the surname field.
“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver.”
He grins. “Bit premature, but I appreciate it. Got a list of your subjects?”
I find the confirmation on my phone, forwarding it while Chelsea surveys us both, biting her lower lip. “He’s great. The eight hundred words he did on Erewhon last year were like… university level. The teacher gushed.”
In the four hours since meeting Chelsea, she’s namedropped two dealers (one weed, one pills), a ‘tutor’ who’ll sign me out of classes without an alert going to my dad and a solid lead for the final English exam, ten weeks before we sit it.
All for a reasonable cost.
Jameson is the first tangible, but I’m happy she’ll produce the rest in time. Drip-feeding me to keep her leverage, same as I would.
He sucks air over his teeth, mouth pulling down. “Can’t do music. That’s fifty percent aural exam, fifty percent original work.” He shrugs. “Writing songs isn’t in my repertoire.”
My jaw hardens at the news. I haven’t studied music outside of piano lessons as a kid. Never done economics either, but at least Jameson has that covered.
Seems Regency High just slotted me anywhere they had space, and with my father insisting I attend, I can’t really complain.
“But the rest are fine?”
“Yeah. Five hundred per paper plus a dollar per word.” He grimaces as if the cost is out of reach when to me, it’s a bargain.
“Thanks. I’ll start sending you stuff once I work out what’s assigned.”
“Do you want to go to the mall after school?” Chelsea asks in a tone that suggests I should feel privileged. Her perfectly manicured nails tap against her phone case, impatient for my answer.
“The mall?” I echo, dragging out the question with just enough scepticism to make her pause.
“Yeah.” A flash of vulnerability shows before her expression hardens. “I just need to pick up—”
“Got a shrink appointment,” I lie, and she swoons. Nothing like addressing a mental health problem to get the juices flowing. “But I could do a movie tomorrow if you want. Pick you up at eight?”
“I’d love that!” Her fingers dig into my forearm, leaving half-moon imprints. “What d’you want to see?”
I trace her jawline with my knuckle, leaning close enough to count her fake lashes. “Why don’t you decide for us?”
Something cold flickers through me, then dissolves into nothingness as I press my lips against hers. Just the bland connection of skin on skin—I could be kissing my arm—but her eyes sparkle when I pull away.
