CHAPTER ONE
My life is noneof their business.
I don’t want to be up here, don’t want to explain my reasons, but I can’t afford to miss another assignment.
I smooth my crumpled piece of notebook paper on the top of the podium. There’s a cough in the back of the quiet classroom, and even my teacher looks bored as he sits in the faux leather chair he brought over from his last school—a school that could afford fake leather chairs, apparently. Mr. Jimenez is definitely slumming with us.
“My brother has an intellectual disability,” I read, pausing once the words are out. I feel judged, exposed, and I look up at the class, anticipating a reaction. “He’s not stupid,” I add defensively. “He just learns differently.” One guy curls his lip like he has no idea why I’m talking about this. A girl in the back pops her gum. The gravity of my confession is lost on them and it pisses me off. Pricks of anger crawl up my arms; anger at whom, I’m not sure. All of them, I guess.
I grow flustered and lose my place on my page, the already smudged ink going blurry. I look up accusingly. “And if any of you even think of making a joke about him, I swear I’ll—”
“What are you gonna do, Savvy?” Gris calls from the front row. He’s leaned back in his seat with his long legs stretched under the desk, his immaculate Timberlands begging to be stomped on. “You gonna stab me like you did your boyfriend?”
I put my elbows on the top of the podium and lean forward, narrowing my eyes. “Give me your pencil, and we’ll find out,” I say.
Gris smiles, and the scar on his cheek is shiny under the fluorescent lights of the room. I sneer and rest back on my heels. Aaron Griswold is an alcoholic loser, and I’ll tell him so the minute I’m finished. Just because we’re both stuck in Brooks Academy doesn’t mean we’re friends. He isn’t shit to me. But still, when he blows me a kiss a moment later, I nearly laugh.
“Enough,” Mr. Jimenez calls from behind his desk. “Knock it off or I’ll see you both after class. Savannah,” he says to me, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up on his nose. “Can you please continue?”
I’m not sure I want to—this is such an incredible waste of time. But I need this class to graduate, so I swipe a tangle of red hair behind my ear and begin again.
“Because of my brother’s condition”—I lower my voice—“I picked a special-education teacher for my career project. The pay is terrible but the hours aren’t bad. I think I’d be good at it. And I wouldn’t be one of those condescending ones either. I’d be cool. I’d help the kids feel cool.” I look out at the room of blank faces and sigh. “So, yeah. The end.”
There’s a halfhearted attempt at applause before Mr. Jimenez comes to stand next to me, barely two inches taller. He smells like copy machine ink and cough drops, and he’s generally tolerant of our disinterest in learning.
“Thank you, Savannah,” he mumbles, picking up the class roster.
I shrug and walk back to my seat, flipping off Gris before dropping down in my chair. As the heat begins to fade from my cheeks, I chip the clear polish off my fingernails.
“Nice speech, Sutton,” Cameron says. He’s in the desk next to mine, staring straight ahead and not looking at me. He never looks at me.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
I wish he never talked to me either. Things here at Brooks Academy are usually pretty simple. We show up and listen to the druggies, the criminals, and the anger management cases—like me—give speeches (or whatever pointless project is assigned), then we go home.
This is where the district sends the students they’ve expelled, keeping their funding by continuing our education. Yep. Glorified GED classes equal an education around here. But it’s fine. I came to class and minded my own business.
Then Cameron Ramsey showed up, all sexy and quiet. None of us even know why he’s in here. He definitely doesn’t fit. I mean, the kid drives a BMW.
He’s a distraction. And for some reason, I’m the only one privy to his one-liners. Nice speech? What the hell is that about?
“Cameron?” Mr. Jimenez calls from the front. “Would you like to participate?”
Cameron closes his notebook and shakes his head no. I wonder if he didn’t do the assignment or if he just hates people. I understand either way. When the teacher moves on, Cameron takes out his phone and begins playing a game under his desk.
Mr. Jimenez leans on the podium, clearly exhausted. “Well, unless anyone else has something to add, I guess we’re done for the day . . .” He leaves his offer open, but if he thinks any one of the twelve of us is going to prolong class, he’s obviously having an acid flashback.
“Good-bye,” Mr. Jimenez announces loudly and turns away. I feel sort of bad for the guy. He’s youngish—young enough to still think he can make a difference in our lives. But he’s our third savior this year. I wonder how many times a day he wishes he went into business management instead.
I stand and swipe my notebook into my bag, relieved the day is over. I turn just as Cameron shoves his phone into his pocket. Without looking at me, he smiles.
“I’ll see you around, Sutton,” he says.
“Uh . . . yeah,” I respond. “Tomorrow. Here.”
He laughs and starts walking away. “Right,” he says. “That’s what I meant.”
