Page 45 of Web of Lies
“No? That’s it?” I ask, my jaw dropping at his pointed answer. No? Freaking, no?
“That’s it, Miss Cole, no desk. Now take a seat where you belong,” he says again, the last part a little too loud for my liking. I look over my shoulder at the other kids, their eyes trained on me.
I frown, running my tongue over my top teeth, staring at the tiny spot where my desk used to sit. There isn’t even another desk to spare. Just the floor or—aha! I make my way towards the window sill, propping myself up on the ledge. It’s like a large shelf leading to the old-fashioned push-out windows, and a perfect seat for me, perfectly fitting my ass. The air conditioning vents sit in the marble of the ledge, keeping me nice and cool. So, this is a win in my book. No desk, no problem. They can take my seat away, that’s fine, as long as this birdy perch remains an option.
Carter smirks as he makes his way back towards his desk. “Hanging in there, Little Troll?” he whispers from beside me. His warm breaths linger across my face, as I stare up at him.
His body towers over mine, like an impressive hulk. Tattoos peek out of the collar of his shirt, there’s no hiding those for him. Anyone else hides them away with cover-ups and long sleeves, but not this guy. No, not this hulk of a man. My eyes connect to the ice in his too beautiful brown eyes, shivers running down my spine. How rude for him to be blessed with such beautiful eyes and eyelashes when the inside of him is so corrupt.
“I suppose so,” I say with a shrug, swinging my feet again. The toe of my shoe connects with his bent knee, and he growls at me.
“Watch yourself,” he barks, slamming his teeth together like a rabid dog on the attack.
My heart pounds into my ribs like a runaway drum. Watch myself? Carter has threatened me before, making me believe he’s the one behind this. The puppeteer pulling the strings of all his little sheep, blinding following his bullying orders. But why? What kind of pull does Carter Cunningham have?
Before I came here, I investigated him. His parents. His grandparents. Anyone and everyone associated with him. Everyone surrounding him is clean. But as I’m finding now, my research was lacking a lot of information. For one, his father apparently married Piper’s mother over the summer, and the internet held no record of it.
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath, stupid anxiety filling my mind. I didn’t research enough. I didn’t do enough. I’m not prepared for this. Why did so many unexpected pieces come into play? I had this all planned out down to the T, every single detail and now it’s all falling apart in front of my eyes.
The teacher again, like every teacher in this building, pays zero attention to me. I’m the invisible student in the back of the class perching on the ledge. The warm sunbeams come in through the window, warming my lap. I write several notes, trying to pay attention as best I can, but he drones on and on and on and on about numbers. Honestly, if it weren’t for the whole invisible me thing, I’d love every second of this class. Numbers. My greatest love, the one aspect of my life that makes sense. Everything runs on them. Money. Ratios. Statistics. Numbers are life.
The monotone moron finally releases us from class. I take my time packing up my books, the last thing I need is another book dumping in the hallway. As I’m making my way out of the classroom, the moron clears his throat.
“Miss Cole, your tutoring details.” He holds up a white folded piece of paper. “We require you to meet in the library three times a week from four to six every Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Your pupil or pupils will meet you there at your assigned table. If you have any, that is.” My fists curl at my side, fingernails biting into the palm of my hand. Rage courses through my veins at the audacity of this teacher. If… if I have any? He said it with snark and malicious intent, and I can’t stand for that.
“So very kind of you, seriously.” I snatch the piece of paper from his hand, stuffing it into my bag.
A frown forms on his lips. He seriously doesn’t understand what he’s said to offend me. Screw him. He’s on my shit list too. The other teachers ignore me too, but this prick always has something bad to say.
“I’d recommend leaving that attitude checked at the door, Miss Cole,” he sneers, standing to his feet.
I fake salute him, scowling, as I head to the door. “I wouldn’t have such an attitude if you treated me with respect,” I mutter under my breath, walking down the hallway wishing I could have said it to his face.
Several hours later, the sun descends in the sky, painting the clouds in its golden hues, signaling the end of another horrific day. The surrounding nature soothes my soul, much like a walk in the woods. The light breeze of the late summer evening carries the sound of the other students’ laughs and cries. Several students lounge in the courtyard studying or playing football or soccer, as I make my way towards the library for my first tutoring session.
The large, dome-like building sits off by itself. Windows make up most of the structure, allowing the natural light to fill the space perfect for reading. Nature surrounds the building like a beacon pulling in students. Rose bushes, greenery, and other colorful flowers line the flowerbeds. It almost seems like a slice of heaven all on its own, to me, anyway. I could probably spend hours upon hours in the library finding new books to get lost in. Magnolia and I used to spend hours buddy reading books. The most fun we had was arguing over which ones to read next and which ones to add to the list. It was our thing and I miss it.
No one acknowledges me when I enter the library, not even the librarian working behind the counter. I pull out my piece of paper, making my way to a group of tables in the middle of the dome. A red “reserved” sign sits on the edge of my assigned table. Looking around, I see only a few other tutors sitting at two other tables. Only two, well—three, because of me. The other tables have at least 3 students to each tutor and mine? Mine has none. Are people so repulsed by me that they won’t try to get better in their subjects? Ridiculous.
I set my books down on the table, sighing. If no one shows up, I’ll at least have these few hours to get work done on my own. I start with my English homework, the bane of my existence. Numbers are my jam; I can work them all day long. But prepositions? Nouns? Fucking verbs and sentence structure? No. I just don’t get it. Maybe I need a tutor for my grammar insecurities. It’s like the information filters into my head and goes right back out. I can’t seem to keep English in my brain at all. If it came as easy as math, life would be good. And that—
Books slam onto my table, skyrocketing my heart, and sending my mind back to the present. My body jumps on impact, as my eye connects with the jerkhead owner. Green menacing eyes stare back at me, rage building from his narrowing eyes.
“Fuck no,” Seger growls, grabbing his books again. He stomps out of the library, throwing a tantrum. He huffs and he puffs, and I’m surprised he doesn’t blow down the entire library.
I stare at his retreating back, jumping again when he slams the library door, making its deep bang echo through the glass structure. The librarian jumps from her seat, jogging after him, shaking her hand in the air. Well-so much for the extra fifty dollars a week. Screw this and screw him. First, he denies me my dinner, and then he denies me the money I want to save for myself.
My teeth grind as I get back to work again. But my brain is so focused on the steady anger building in my guts, I can’t focus on English. Not now. I switch to math, peering at the numbers on the paper. An instant calm washes over me, cleansing me of my anxiety and anger. Holding onto this much anger and pain isn’t good for my health. I’ll be back in therapy before I know it, just to hang on to some sort of sanity.
I get halfway done with my math and jump again. Seger slams his books down onto the table, jostling everything around, and sits. His arms cross over his chest and he huffs in angry pants.
“I want half of whatever they’re paying you to do this.” He has the nerve to say, reaching to open his book.
I freeze on the spot, lifting my eyes to his. “No,” I say, shaking my head.
My pencil moves across the paper I’m working on, trying to ignore the douche canoe across from me. How’s he going to come into my tutoring session and demand my hard-earned money?
“I said I want it, it’s the only way I’ll stay here.” I snort in response like I’m the one who needs to be here. A week ago, I considered him a friend, and now? No. He’s like everyone else. Just like Magnolia described him in her emails.
