Page 56 of Reckless At Raleigh High
Principal Darhower is visibly shaking as he rocks back in his chair. “To what end, Cameron? What good would any of that do? Stirring up painful memories is only going to hurt—”
“I don’t care who it hurts,” my father hisses. “I care about my daughter and the shit that she’s been through. Now you make that call right the fuck now, while I’m sitting here in front of you, or I swear on all I hold dear, I am quickly gonna become your worst fucking nightmare.”
27
ALEX
Muffled chatter leaks into the hallway, spilling out from the gaps underneath the classroom doors as teachers mark off their students one by one. I should be in my own home room, grunting out a response whenmyname is called out, but my perfect attendance record is irrelevant now. Maeve and Rhonda might leave a voicemail, griping about my decline in fucks given, but frankly I couldn’t care less. I have an itch that needs to be scratched, and it isn’t the kind of itch that’ll just go away on its own. Left unchecked, this itch will turn into a full-blown obsession, liable to cause some serious trouble.
From around the corner, footsteps, quick and urgent, echo off the walls, growing closer. I take a step back into the recessed doorway to the men’s bathrooms, willing the shadows the hide me. It’s only that Mr. French is heavily distracted when he comes into view, lasering in on the door opposite me, that he doesn’t notice me lurking in wait.
He raps briefly on the classroom door but doesn’t wait before steamrolling in. I get a brief snapshot of students sitting at their desks, faces turned up to Mr. French as his hushed voice disturbs their morning ritual. “Ah, Ms. Jarvis. Sorry for the interruption. I need to see Jacob Weaving.”
The door closes, blocking my view of the intrigued faces beyond and stealing away the sound. I bounce on the balls of my feet, impatience running rife in my veins. Any second now. Any second…
“THIS…CAN’T DO THIS…FUCKING BULLSHIT!”
Only half of Jake’s outraged shout is audible through the classroom door, but I get the gist of it. He’s making a scene. I paint the mental picture—Jake, sitting behind his desk, oozing swagger, smug as the obnoxious prick he is, planning out how best to taunt the girl I love with his presence. Then, Jake suspicious, wondering why he’s being beckoned out of class already, when the day hasn’t even started. Jake, asking questions, demanding answers. And now, losing his fucking mind when that poor bastard French tries to ‘manage’ him.
“NO! I’m not…anywhere. I… is myright! The cops… sorry you ever… hands off me, you…”
I smirk into the collar of my leather jacket like the sick motherfucker I am. Inside the classroom, there’s a scraping of chairs and a stifled shout. Loud clattering follows, and the sound of Ms. Jarvis’ shrill voice rising into a startled yelp. A second later, the classroom door opens, and a confusion of sound and movement pours out. Jake stumbles—Did French justpushhim? My god, has he been a secret badass this whole time?—catching hold of the doorjamb for balance. His bag skates along the ground in front of him…and comes to a stop right at my feet.
Jake’s eyes travel from my Stan Smiths all the way up my legs, my stomach, my chest until they reach my face, and a look of abject hatred twists his features. “What the fuck areyoulooking at?” he snarls, snatching his bag up from the floor.
Yup. Nothing’s changed. He’s still the same arrogant cunt he was before he got locked away. You’d think becoming intimately acquainted with the inside of a jail cell would have humbled him a little. Some guys rot in that environment, though. The vilest things about them, their anger, their prejudice, their vitriol, fester in the dark, and when they step out into the light again, they have become the very worst possible versions of themselves. I didn’t think Jakecouldget any worse, but seems as thought I was wrong.
“Look like you lost some muscle, Jake. Most people pack it on in prison.” I can’t help it. It’s in my nature to want to destroy this evil cocksucker. I want to take hold of something serious and sharp and drive it up underneath his ribs until I hear his breath turn wet and crackling. I want him to experience a paralyzing level of pain that will make himbegfor death. A verbal jab won’t come anywhere close to satiating my need for violence, but unfortunately it’s going to have to do.
An ugly sneer contorts Jake’s face. “Getting shot’ll have that effect,” he snarls. “I spent weeks on a hospital ward because of you. You’re lucky I didn’t die.”
“Lucky?” I step out of the bathroom doorway, my mouth turning down as I pretend to consider this. I don’t stop walking forward until I’m good and right in his face. He smells like laundry soap and expensive, fancy cologne—some ultra-masculine scent that probably has a name like ‘Victory’or ‘Warrior’. I can still smell the metallic, unpleasant, desperate odor of prison on him, though. It’s a smell like no other and takes a long-ass time to fade. “Luck’s subjective, I guess. Personally, I would have felt a little luckier if you’d bled out and expired—”
“Moretti, what the hell are you doing out here? Get to class!” Mr. French storms out into the hallway, his face a livid shade of red. I almost pity the guy; he wasn’t built to handle this kind of situation. He trained to become a teacher, not a glorified bouncer, tasked with dragging wayward teenagers across school grounds. From the looks of him, his grip on this situation’s weak at best.
I flash a stark, hostile smile at Jake, staring him down, before taking a healthy step back, holding my hands up in the air. “Just saying hello to an old friend.”
“You’re so fucked. You know that, right?” Jake thunders. “You don’t know when to play it smart. I’mout, Moretti.” He holds his hands out, posturing as he looks around, proving his point. “I’m out, and I’m not going back. My old man’s taken care of everything. There’s nothing you or that cunt girlfriend of yours can d—”
“NO!” Mr. French roars, grabbing Jake by the scruff of his shirt. “Absolutely not. No chance. That is not a word I will tolerate. Get moving.Now.” He shoves Jake, who hardly even moves. Baring his teeth at me, he pointedly ignores the teacher.
“Wait and see, Moretti. Your precious social worker can vouch for you all she wants, but you’re on borrowed time. Dad’s going after Monty. How long do you think it’ll be before that stupid motherfucker turnsyouover to the feds, huh? They know about the drugs and the guns. They know all about your little midnight deliveries. And who have you got, huh? You think your dad’s got enough pull to negotiate a deal foryou, asshole? Hell no. I know all about your old man and he’s a fucking dumb, drop out loser, just like his son.”
I mean to throw the right hook in my head, but somehow the imagined action fights its way out into reality. My fist connects with a satisfying crunch, and a stunned, laughably hurt expression flickers over Jake’s features before he staggers back, tripping over his own feet and landing hard on his ass.
The classroom door’s still open. Jake looks over his shoulder, his eyes wide with embarrassment as the students, who have all been watching on, look away, suppressing smiles and whispering to one another. None of his brainwashed football buddies are here. No, the students sitting at the desks are mostly girls. Once upon a time, they would have had his back. They would have urged him to get up and return the hit. Now, they look disdainfully down on the boy they used to worship, and their message is clear. Even I can hear it, silently screamed, as one by one they all avert their eyes.
We know what you did. We know what you did. We know what you did.
“You saw that, Mr. French. You were witness. He attacked me,” Jake spits, scrambling to his feet. He turns to the other students. “You all did!” he rages. “My lawyer’s gonna want witness statements from all of you!”
No one says a word. Ms. Jarvis appears in the doorway. She refuses to meet Jacob’s furious gaze. She looks to me for a second, and—what is that in her eyes? Condemnation? Commiseration? Looks more like gratitude—before she slowly swings the classroom door closed.
“Fuckingbitch,” Jake hisses.
“Enough!” Mr. French grabs Jake by the arm, jerking him toward the exit. “This is over. Time to go, Jacob. One more word out of your mouth and I’m gonna have to have you forcibly removed.”
“By who?” he snorts, ripping his arm free. “You really think you can take me? You’re pathetic, French. You couldn’t fight your way out of a wet paper bag. You’re gonna tell them what Moretti did to me or my father’s gonna sue for you every penny you have.”
