Page 107 of Satan's Spawn
“If you say so.” I go back to flicking the lighter on and off, no longer caring enough to argue.
Rebecca begins fiddling with her pink pen, bugged by my lack of rebuttal. Until it makes her unsure of herself.
“Or maybe it’s about his father who abandoned him?” She stares at the paper, rereading the poem I had memorized at thirteen.
“Sure.” Is all I respond with, which, of course, turns her doubt into infuriation.
“Will you please participate in this damn assignment, Crayton?”
I offer her a sideways grin. “Careful, Little Ghost. Hearing you beg makes my cock hard.”
Rebecca huffs and rolls her eyes. “Oh, fuck this. I’m going back to my desk.”
Before she can stand I swipe the paper from her, folding it into an airplane. “This poem has nothing to do with anyone else but Poe himself. The demons inside him he constantly fought but never conquered, the ones that darkened him beyond repair.” I toss the paper Felix’s way, and it soars right into the back of his head.
Bullseye.
Rebecca pays no mind to my aviation skills or Felix’s glare on me, instead, she becomes intrigued.
“Huh, I didn’t think of it that way.” She crinkles her nose. “What the heck do you know about poetry?”
I ignore another one of her endless questions and go back to playing with the lighter.
“Do you read it often? Have a favorite?”
Why the fuck is she so interested in what I read?
“I do not,” I lie. “Poetry is nothing but a compilation of painful tragedies. I have enough of my own.”
Why the fuck did I say that?
And whythe fuckis she looking at me like she’s telling herself “I told you so”?
“Well, maybe poems like these were made to release that pain.”
That one felt personal.
I don’tdopersonal.
I give her my best rancid smile. “Maybe you should worry about dealing with your own pain.”
Rebecca instinctively reaches for her necklace, like she’s protecting it from me. “Do you always have to be so volatile?”
That would be a yes.
“Do you always have to be so fucking irritating?”
“Screw. You.” Rebecca flips me off, turning on the desk to write down whatever the hell poetry discussion she’s pretending we had.
I look over to find her friend Hendrix’s angry gaze on me, pretending to slice her neck with her thumb in threat.
I’d probably do the real thing to her if I didn’t find her lack of fear of me entertaining.
“Times up!” Mr. Beckett shouts after about fifteen minutes of silence between his new star student and I. “Now before class ends I want to remind you about the project due in less than two weeks. If you need a reminder it’s the one costing you a quarter of your grade, which I also want done before the homecoming dance. This way I know who’s actually allowed to go.”
Unhappy groans and huffs fill the classroom after Becketts announcement.
Well, fuck. There’s no way I can get Rebecca to write a poem on my behalf. Especially not one based around what inspires me.
