Page 86 of Anarchy at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 4)
“Handling what?” I ask instead, forcing her to make her question more specific.
“Everything,” Ms. Keating repeats, pointedly ignoring my move to corner her. With a sigh, I come around the chair and sink into it. “You don’t have to tell me, but I thought you might like a safe place to talk.”
I lean forward in the chair and exhale.
“Have you ever wanted everything to stay the same, but also have it all change, too?” I ask her and she nods, slowly, like she’s actually thought about it. “That’s where I’m at right now.”
Ms. Keating looks at me sadly.
“I have to, in good faith, let you know that I’ll no longer be responsible for anything regarding you or your friends. Anything your teachers—or your parent, even though you’re emancipated—has to say will be reported directly to the police.”
After a moment, I just stand up and leave the room. Instead of going back to class, I go sit outside on the top of the yellow Firebird, wishing it were the Camaro and wondering when the fuck I’ll get to drive the Eldorado.I like it so much that it hurts
Like the sunlight that falls through the window, white as cream against the tangled sheets.
I like it so much that it makes me hate you
Like the pain of your hand in my hair, but the pleasure of your body between my thighs.
I like you so much that it hurts
Like the feeling of losing myself, just so I can find you.The poem is for Mr. Darkwood’s class, and it’s late because I just can’t be fucked with poetry lately. But I like it. I like writing it and discovering things; the words only have to mean something to me. That’s what matters.
I drop the poem off before the end of class and meet Vic outside, climbing on his bike, and curling my arms tightly around him.
“I wrote about you today,” I say. He says nothing, but he fucking heard me. He’ll probably steal my poem out of the trash when I get my grade back—it’ll likely be a C-minus or a D-plus—and read it anyway. He’ll probably tuck it in his back pocket, act like he was going for a cigarette, and keep it to reread later.
Fucking asshole.When Heather and I lived with Pamela and the Thing, the morning consisted of oh shit, let’s get the fuck out of here! while possibly stealing a stale granola bar from the cabinet, one that I’d pinched from the delivery truck outside the cafeteria. Didn’t hurt that every time I walked by, I might see Hael Harbin smoking over by the dumpsters.
Mornings at Aaron’s house depend on which guy is sleeping beside me. Or comes to find me. Or corners me against the wall in the hallway and shoves my pajama pants down my hips, grinds me into the wall to the left of the staircase. Covers my mouth with his hand. Moans huskily against my ear.
Callum is fucking me so hard that I can’t breathe, that I don’t dare make a sound. The girls are upstairs, and I don’t need them wandering out of their room to see this. When he comes, I relax a bit, holding tight to him so he won’t move for a second.
The sound of the door opening upstairs gets us both moving and quick. He sets me down and fixes his shorts while I pull up my pajama pants and underwear.
“Can I use the bathroom?” Heather calls out, and I close my eyes as Cal chuckles.
“No! It’s my turn next,” I yell back, wondering how the fuck I lived in Pam and Neil’s house for so long. The tension was so tight, you felt you might slip off the tightrope of it and break your goddamn neck at any second. It’s much better here. Same amount of tension, but a different kind. It isn’t all focused on my throat like a garrote. It’s more … diffused. “What are we doing today?” I whisper as Heather whines and stomps back down the hall toward the room she’s been sharing with Aaron’s sister, Kara, and their cousin Ashley.
“It’s Friday, so … something,” Cal says, pausing as Aaron shuffles out of his room toward the top of the stairs. He’s here every night, obviously, but the other boys come and go, depending on their living situations at home. Vic is here as much as he’s legally allowed to be. Maybe a tad more than he should. He’s cutting it too close.
I feel irrationally irritated all of a sudden and scrub my hands down my face.
Vic met with his mother on Monday—in a very public place—and told her that he agreed. She gave him paperwork. We gave it back. Now we’re waiting. I feel sick, and I hate every second of this. We go to school every day like things are normal. But they’re not. Nobody understands that better than me, I think.
