Page 23 of Outcast
In English Literature, Miss Oakley handed out copies of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales and told us to pair up. I glanced at the empty seat between mine and the wall, dreading having to ask someone to be my partner. As people got up and walked around, forming pairs, I glanced out, looking for a not-so-hostile face, when a huge body blocked my view of the class.
“Budge up,” said Henry.
My insides shriveled with trepidation, along with the moisture in my throat. This was the most he’d ever said to me. Ever. Henry always stared, but always remained silent. He’d never even called me a yank or a trollop or some other combination of insult. My breath stuck in my gullet. Blake must have told him about the recording and he wanted to threaten me into handing over my phone and password.
“Hey, budge up,” he repeated.
Charlotte, who hovered at the desk in front, fixed me with her filthiest glower. “There’s a free space here.”
Henry dropped his satchel onto the desk next to mine, walked around my chair, and lowered himself into the empty seat.
“What are you doing?” I hissed.
He stared straight ahead. “Miss Oakley said to pair up, didn’t she?”
“Yes, but why are you sitting next to me?”
He fixed me with a blank stare. “Plebs don’t get to make choices.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “I’m surprised you know the meaning of that word, considering that you and your friends act the textbook definition of plebeian.”
The corner of his lips curled into a smile.
Anger flared across my chest. He probably saw me and my suffering at his friends’ hands, as a huge joke. “Oh, I know your type,” I spat out what I thought would be the most degrading insult. “You’re one of those weirdos who like being verbally humiliated. Do you need me to get Miss Oakley’s cane?”
Henry barked out a laugh.
Charlotte spun around in her seat. “See, Henry? I told you she was a whore. She just offered you BDSM!”
Henry dipped his head and opened his satchel, acting as though he hadn’t heard her. I glanced up at Charlotte and raised my brows. Perhaps she should have been trading insults for Henry’s attention instead of trading blowjobs for crumbs with Blake. I itched to say the words, but clamped my lips shut. Revealing the illicit activities of that night would break our truce, and they would do much worse than the shampoo prank.
Miss Oakley got us to read aloud the medieval English and to translate it line by line.
“Right,” said Henry. “You do the first few pages, and I’ll jot down the notes.”
Giving him a look that I hoped would project my skepticism, I said, “Nice try. We’re doing this together or not at all.”
He ran his fingers through his hair. “Here I was thinking you were intelligent.”
I smirked. “Intelligent enough to recognize a slacker.”
“Very well,” he said with a mock grumble. “What does the first line say?”
“You read it out. It wouldn’t sound authentic with my accent.”
He chuckled. “I suppose not. Here we go: What that Aprille with his shoures soote, the droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote.”
I flipped to the glossary and looked up the words I didn’t understand. “Ummm... When April with its sweet showers has pierced the drought of March to the root.”
Charlotte turned around. “Wrong, trollop! It’s sweet-smelling showers.”
“Ah…” I gave her a sage nod. “Something you’re sorely lacking. Thanks for the insight.”
Henry jerked forward and choked on a laugh. Charlotte’s face fell, and I would have felt bad for her if she and her pals hadn’t nearly blinded me days before.
Throughout the rest of the exercise, Charlotte turned around to stare at Henry and to glare at me, but I focused on the work and ignored her attempts at distraction. It was the best way to hurt the little gold digger.
The truce continued for several more days until Mr. Jenkins walked into the dining hall and stood at the side of the head table. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.”
