Page 24 of The Sun
August 1999
Aloud crack of thunder rattled the single-pane window to the classroom. Dark storm clouds churned the sky. Gloomy and foreboding, much like I assumed my senior year would prove to be. I halfway smiled at the irony while twisting the silver moon ring on my finger. Sometimes I wondered why I still wore it. Maybe I had kept it because even though I hated that I lost him, I loved the memory of him.
Students filed in, groaning and moaning about the summer’s end. The jocks strutted through the door, wearing football jerseys. Two emo kids slunk in, dressed in long-sleeved black T-shirts and jeans despite it being hotter than the devil’s butt crack outside. And the populars—Jenny and Valeria and Kristen—all sauntered in with their sundresses and wedges, nails freshly painted.
Flicking her hair over her shoulder, Jenny took the desk diagonal from mine and in front of Daisy. Then she gave me a glance that was just quick enough for me to catch an eye roll. Jenny had hated me with a passion ever since I punched her in second grade.
“Oh, I like that shirt,” Daisy said, snagging the sleeve of my new Nirvana tee and tugging. She gave me a once over. “You know, you look kinda like a rock star and a pageant queen had a baby.”
“Um.” I wrinkled my brow. “Thanks?”
Daisy was—unique. She desperately wanted to be part of the populars, for reasons unbeknownst to me, yet she dressed. . . well, there were no words for how Daisy dressed, although Momma said she looked a little on the slutty side. Especially to be a preacher’s daughter.
That day Daisy had opted for a red-lace fly away over a leopard-print leotard and black jeans. It was actually cute and stylish until the Airwalks on her feet came into view.
Rain pelted against the roof. Lightning bounced off the walls, and I threw my head back, fighting the urge I had to close my eyes. Boredom and the lull of the storm would easily put me to sleep.
I had halfway dozed off when one of the guys in class whistled, and Daisy leaned over the aisle, swatting my shoulder. “Oh my God.” Her eyes motioned toward the new teacher at the front of the class. The first thing I noticed as the teacher leaned over to put her purse away was the insane amount of cleavage her low-cut dress revealed.
“Daddy said she’s new in town,” Daisy whispered. “Fresh outta college. He said she was gonna tempt the boys into sin.” She smiled as though the idea of those boys sinning sent a tingle of excitement darting through her.
It turned out, my first day of the twelfth grade was Miss Weaver’s first day of teaching. Ever. Which meant she was at best twenty-three, so not much older than us. All the guys in class stared at her with drool dangling from their chins. Thomas Radcliff, Robertsdale High’s classic troublemaker, whom all the girls swooned after, nudged quarterback Ben Jones with his elbow, then pretended to grope a pair of boobs.
The guys all snickered while Jenny sunk down in her seat, mumbling the word slut.
The bell rang, and Miss Weaver stood, smoothing her hands down her inappropriately tight dress. All I could think was that the length of that skirt and the height of those heels had to be against dress code, but I had to give it to her; the woman had curves.
Just as she cleared her throat, the door banged against the wall, catching everyone’s attention.
“Day-um,” Jenny whispered, straightening in her chair and primping her hair.
The guy in the doorway stared down at the slip of paper in hand while rain puddled around his combat boots. From where I sat, and thanks to the damp, ebony hair matted to his cheek, I couldn’t make out his face. But everything else I could see was enough to keep my gaze locked on him. His soaked shirt clung to muscles teenage boys shouldn’t possess—much like the sleeve of tattoos covering his arm and the stubble on his jaw. Until that day, Thomas Radcliff had been all I’d known of a bad boy, and while I saw the certain allure in Thomas’ rough-around-the-edges looks, the guy in the doorway made Thomas look as innocent as a choir boy. And Thomas must have known, because he slouched in his seat, grumbling, “Who’s the dipshit?”
Ben and the football players at the front of the class chuckled. Miss Weaver shot them a disapproving glare. “May I help you?” she asked, taking a slow step away from her desk.
“I think I’m in this class.” His voice was deep, ominous, almost identical to the thunder rumbling outside.
Miss Weaver leaned over the desk to check the roster, putting her cleavage on full display. Of course, the guys all grinned. “Oh? What’s your name?”
“Elias Black. Ma’am.”
My heart stopped for two full seconds. Daisy spun around in her chair, her eyes wide, mouth agape. “That can’t be? Is it?”
I shrugged even though I knew it was him.
“Yes. You’re in the right place,” Miss Weaver said, her voice entirely too peppy. “Just take a seat at one of the empty desks.”
Elias adjusted his backpack on his shoulder and then ran his hand over his hair, the movement creating a fine mist of rainwater.
Mine and every other girl’s eyes—including Miss Weaver’s— were glued to him as he moved through the class and took a seat by the window. Elias slouched in his chair as he opened his notebook, not even bothering to glance around the room.
Daisy still stared when Miss Weaver went to the whiteboard. “Sunny, did he look that hot the last time you saw him?”
“Kinda.” But definitely not that grown.
“Holy crap.” She faced the front for a few seconds before she spun back around. “You think he’s been in prison? I mean, look at the tats,” she whispered.
“He’s not old enough to have been in prison.”
