Anger management is also in red, but in my defense, I acted appropriately and reasonably to the situation. I’d steal my phys ed teacher’s diary again, the same way I’d destroy Kohen’s house again.
“You can only get better if you want to be better.” The headmaster of Seraphic Hills Reformatory Academy for the troubled rich brats has been in denial since the day I got here. “If you don’t take your well-being into your own hands, then your grandfather and I will beforced to make decisions concerning your future—and for Christ’s sake, stop picking on Sarah.”
I roll my eyes and slump down my chair. Wrinkles over there has been singing the same tune for the past two months. I’m bored of hearing the same thing every time I get dragged into his office by the stun gun–wielding security guards. And, unfortunately, there’s no way to slip one of those bad boys out without someone noticing and throwing me back in here with the man who wears cheap cologne.
“Speaking of my grandfather, how’s his gout? Is it any closer to killing him?” I ask hopefully.
His white beard twitches as he slaps the table, then puts a hand over his beer belly like nothing happened. It’s a wonder how these pretentious parents trust McGill with their beloved brats. The guy is 30 percent mustache, 5 percent people skills, and 65 percent incompetence.
“Your grandfather is one of the finest men I know. You should show some gratitude to him for reaching out to me, rather than sending you to juvie.”
I stick my bottom lip out. “Awww, then how would he and I have our weekly grandfather-granddaughter bonding session?”
In the past two months, I’ve seen my grandfather for a total of twenty-three minutes. He walked into the holding cell, told me what a disappointment I was, then tried getting me to beg him not to send me to juvie. Joke’s on him; I’m not stupid enough to not realize that landing my ass behind bars wouldn’t look so good on Jonathan Whitlock Sr.’s portfolio when he’s bankrolling an election campaign.
When I asked him where my mother was, he gave a stern, “Taken care of.” When I questioned my father’s continued existence on this earth, he looked at me blankly and asked, “Who?” Then he turnedaround and threw over his shoulder, “There won’t be a next time, Marie.” I bristled at his use of my hated middle name. Unsurprisingly, my prim and proper grandpa isn’t impressed by my junkie mother naming meBlaze.
He ended the entire interaction with, “If you don’t clean your act up, this is the last time you will see me.” Which was funny because by that point, I hadn’t seen him in a year and a half.
Headmaster McGill leans forward in his seat. “Do you know what juvie does to girls like you?”
“The same thing the history teacher does to the boys here?”
His eyes flash and his entire body twitches like he wants to slap the shit out of me. In a show of superior self-restraint, he surprises me by saying nothing, just taps a single finger on the armrest of his big, fuck-off wingback chair. Flattening a hand over his fake designer tie, he gives me a smug look that wipes the grin off my face.
This can’t be good.
McGill hums, and I butt in as soon as he opens his mouth. “Oh, another question. Did the third Mrs. McGill finally take the kids, or are you still fighting to have a 20/80 custody arrangement?”
And I wonder why he hates me.
I’m not the first student to get under his skin, but I’m probably one of the select few students he canlet loosearound because no one will care about what happens to me.
Oh, I also may have punched him during my first week here.
And threw a chair at the douchebag security guard, Boris.
And got caught with rat bait before I got the chance to put it in the star quarterback’s food after he asked me whether the curtains match the drapes.
Needless to say, McGill hates my guts. Knowing good ol’Whitlock Sr. probably has Mustache over here by the proverbial balls, and that’s why McGill hasn’t gone to a judge to throw my ass in prison. All I know is this asshole got the green light from the big man to treat me like shit.
Headmaster Bad Cologne cocks his head to the side like he has a secret he knows would well and truly ruin my already bad year. The heavy chair scrapes along the rug as he rises to his feet. “Come.”
“I’m good.” He doesn’t usually escort me to solitary. Normally, he’d push a button, and security would come drag me to my time-out room, either while I’m kicking and fighting or half comatose from a syringe or taser—I’m not sure if either of those are legal to use on students.
I bite down a hiss as he yanks my head back with a fist around my ponytail. “I will repeat myself one more time, and one time only. Come, or I will report that you attacked me. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal,” I say through gritted teeth.
The first and only time I attacked him, he let Boris, the sexually repressed security guard, do to me tenfold what I did to him. I’m pretty sure he broke my rib when he yanked me down by my tit, kicked his boot into my side twice, then threw me into solitary without food for forty-eight hours.
Of course, Whitlock Sr. knew and consented to the punishment. I overheard the two old men talking about it over the phone, and my dear, loving grandfather suggested they should take more extreme measures next time.
McGill releases my hair and claps his hands together, pleased with himself, nodding toward the door expectantly. I glare his way as I push myself onto my feet, grab my backpack, kick the chair away for good measure, and hold his stare until my fingers wrap aroundthe brass door handle.
I don’t break eye contact until I push the handle down. The last thing I see on his face is an excited grin that shows off his bleach-white smoker’s teeth.
My foot crosses the threshold into the foyer, and every fiber of my body stiffens when I hear the voice that’s been haunting my dreams ever since I was young.
