Page 55 of Satan's Spawn
A popular jock may be just what I need to get out of this persona non grata I’ve been thrown into.
When I look over at Archer, he doesn’t seem as enthusiastic as Hendrix, if anything wary. Probably of Felix’s intentions.
I don’t blame him, but nobody's intentions can be worse than the monster sitting two seats to my left murdering Felix with his eyes.
Knowing my acceptance will enrage Crayton for reasons I can’t comprehend, it’s still not enough to ditch my friends.
But I can find a very happy medium that benefits us all.
“How about—”
“Am I interrupting, Mr. Crimson?” The sharp tone of Mr. Beckett’s voice has my mouth clamping shut, sinking into my chair as Felix turns around without another word.
“Unless the conversation taking place has anything to do with eighteenth century American literature, I suggest you save it for after class.” Mr. Beckett goes back to writing on the board again, just as a classmate coughs out “cockblock” under their breath.
Snickers erupt throughout the entire class, even from Saint as he continues typing on his phone. Everyone but Crayton and Alexis seem amused: since his hard gaze is slicing to me, and Alexis’ is slicing to him.
Awesome. This should make for more interesting stories and fake professions. Afterall, hell hath no fury like a female narcissist not getting all the attention.
Mr. Beckett ignores the childish remark, I’m sure accustomed to the immaturity that oozes off the kids in this school, and continues on with his lecture as if nothing ever happened.
I’m taking down notes for homework when a folded piece of paper drops onto my desk. I look up to see it’s Felix trying to get my attention. He nudges his chin for me to take it, so I do, and when I open the note I find the questions“So, whaddya say? Can I take you to the party?”written in a surprisingly neat script.
I peek over at our teacher who’s deep in explaining the historical importance of poetry from both the loyalists and continentals during the revolutionary war, and quickly jot down a response.
Can I meet you there? I already told my friends I’d go with them.
Folding the paper, I pass it back to Felix who opens it immediately, then whispers over his shoulder, “Let’s meet outside Sampson’s house at one.”
With a nod, I continue writing in my notebook as he shoves the paper in his khaki’s pocket.
“What the hell did you tell him?” Hendrix buzzes behind me, so close I can smell the peppermint from the gum she’s chewing.
Reaching for my green pen, I keep my eyes on Mr. Beckett as I write out yet another silent response. On the palm of my hand this time.
Told him I’d meet him at the party
Not showing up w/o you and Archer
When I hold my hand out for her to read it, she settles back in her seat, writing something onto her hand too. When she lifts it up I find the word “WINNING” in all black capital letters.
The remainder of the class is spent doing a group activity which Archer, Hendrix, and I are getting very little done. Or should I sayArcher and Hendrixare getting very little done, since I’m the one doing all the work. They are using this time to get filled in about what went on with Crayton earlier.
“So, what did the headmaster say? Did Crayton get a similar speech?” Hendrix asks as I continue writing up our interpretation of the poem “Song of Marion’s Men” by William Cullen Bryant.
My pen pauses over the worksheet, and when I look up, the expression on Archer’s face tells me what he’s already assuming. His grandfather did nothing.
“He questioned Crayton first as I waited outside, so I’m not sure. All I know is Crayton told the headmaster it was my idea to cut class.” I keep the explanation short and curt, not wanting Archer to feel worse than it’s obvious he already does. “I dropped the pursuit on the lock situation. Since I doubt anything will come of it.”
“I’m really sorry, Bex. Grandpa was good friends with Campbell Shaw, Crayton’s grandfather before he died. The Shaw’s do a lot for the school so he tries to, you know…” Archer shrugs, defeated. “It’s not okay but he’s set in his ways in worse circumstances than this, trust me.”
He’s not kidding, I’m still appalled at his grandfather’s openly sexist remarks.
“There’s no need for you to apologize,” I tell Archer, squeezing his arm, then gesture my pen around the room. “I’m not naive to the order of things in a world like this.”
“I can try talking to him. Explain how Crayton makes you feel threatened.”
“Absolutely not.” I shake my head. “I won’t become a statistic. Plus”—I nod over at Hendrix who’s doodling more of her cartoon characters in a notebook—“we have a plan, remember?”
