Page 17 of Riot Rules
Of course, Principal Harcourt has rejected every single offer that’s landed on her desk. She’s of the opinion that her school isn’t some sort of tourist trap. As long as she’s drawing breath and has any say in the matter, there will be no gauche Hollywood productions shot on school grounds.
Pax trudges up the steps into the school with his head bowed, hanging off his shoulders like the world’s about to end. Wren follows, his ever-present, ever-confident swagger giving him the air of a man about to walk onto the stage at the Oscars to accept his award. Somewhere in between the two, I bring up the rear, trying not to grind my teeth.
I’ve never given a flying fuck about this place. It’s never made much of a difference to me if I have to come here and serve out my time during the academic year. I’ve been with Wren and Pax, and that’s all that’s mattered. But holy fucking shit if I’m not pissed as hell that I have to come here today.
Pax neglects to hold the door open for us in the same way that he purposefully neglects to doanythingthat might be helpful to anyone else. Wren laughs scathingly as he opens the door again and we head inside. I’ve barely taken three steps when an arm locks around my throat and I’m being folded over into a headlock. “The fuck’s the matter with you, Eeyore?”
I go still. “Get the fuck off me, Pax.”
He snickers as he whispers into my ear. “Not until you admit it. Your dick shriveled up and fell off, didn’t it?”
For fuck’s sake. He’s in one ofthosemoods. He’s not going to let me go until I give him what he wants. This requires swift, decisive action. In one quick move, I hook my foot behind his, bend my knee so thathisknee has to bend, bring my arm forward and then forcefully piledrive my elbow back into his ribs.
A second later, he’s on his back, sprawled out on the marble.
“FUCK!” Pax wheezes out the curse word. He can’t seem to gasp down any air. “Motherfucker!”
I stand over him, regarding the arms and legs bent at weird angles for a moment, before offering him a hand. “Better if you don’t mess with me today, man,” I tell him.
“I see that.” He accepts my hand as begrudgingly as a person can. He scowls at me deeply once he’s back on his feet. “And people are always sayingI’mthe reactive one.”
“No. You’re the annoying one,” Wren corrects.
“Hah.” Pax is not happy about this. “And what does that make you?”
“The hot one. Naturally.”
This earns him an eye roll from both Paxandme. Truth is, Wolf Hall is comprised of three YA novel-style factions. There’s Team Wren, Camp Pax, and then there are the Dashettes. It’s impossible to figure out which girls are members of which faction. You can’t tell by the way a girl dresses, or how smart, or friendly, or shy, or cocky she is. The only thing you can guarantee about a female student at Wolf Hall is that sheisa member of one of the factions, and probably a die-hard member at that.
There have been fist fights at Wolf Hall over which Riot House boy is the hottest.
And Pax only instigatedoneof them.
He gives me raging stink-eye. Apparently, he’s not going to forget about the fact that I just put him on his ass. “If you’re gonna be a salty piece of shit all day, it won’t just be me putting you in a time out. Jacobi’ll hand your ass to you, too, and you won’t be able to fend both of us off.”
Wren grunts at this. “He does have a point.”
I don’t want to mention how fucked up I am over my father’s email. My old man is the verylastthing I want to talk about, so I do the only thing that makes sense: I lie. “I’m fine. I didn’t have time to jerk off this morning, that’s all. I’ll be fine by lunch. Come on. How about you both stop giving me shit and we get to class before Fitz skins us alive for being late.”
Wren arches a dark eyebrow, huffing out a breath of laughter. “Fitz loves us. He won’t do shit if we’re late.”
Our English teacher, Dr. Fitzpatrick,hasbeen a little more lenient with us of late. He still reams us out when we pull shit in his class, but he’s more bark and less bite these days. God knows what could be inspiring this level of tolerance for our bullshit, but I’m not complaining.
We arrive at the den, Fitz’s office/library/classroom, just after the man himself. Compared to the rest of the dinosaurs that teach at Wolf Hall, the guy’s practically a fetus. He dresses well—tailored shirts and pants that my father would probably approve of. He slicks his hair back like a hipster, though, and his glasses make him look like Clark fucking Kent. There’s something a little too polished about him that I don’t like. Pax gets it. He snarls under his breath as we file into the room and the teacher starts slow clapping us.
A fucking slow clap? I’ll give you slow clap, motherfucker.
“As always, making a fashionably late entrance. Please take your seats, gentlemen. We have a lot to cover today. I’d hate to have to call you all back here at lunchtime to make sure we get through the material.”
I smile a cutthroat smile. The very same one my father used to brandish at a political opponent whenever they made a pointed comment. It’s a casual upward tilt of the mouth that says:I’ll hold my tongue because I am a gentleman. But fair warning. One more incursion and I will open-palm slap you in public like the little bitch that you are.
Fitz chuckles, like he has a front row seat to my inner monologue and finds it justdarling.One day, I’m going to wipe that smug smile off the fucker’s face. That day can’t come soon enough.
The den is not your average English classroom. It’s casual. Comfortable. There are no rows of desks and chairs for the students. The high-ceilinged space is massive. To the rear of the room, rows of book stacks hold everything from the classics to contemporary literary works, not to mention a large number of random historical texts. There’s a grand brick fireplace and flue in the back wall that Fitz lights in the winter. The right-hand wall is primarily made up out of casement windows. Everywhere you look, there are overstuffed wingback chairs and ottomans, beanbags, stools, love seats and well-worn sofas. Wren parks himself on his favorite leather sofa. I sit my ass down on the floor underneath the window that overlooks the gardens. Pax usually sits at the old Victorian writing desk to my right, but this morning he sinks down next to me on the floor, giving me a churlish smile. I glare daggers at him; he’s been trying to taunt me into a fight all morning. “Come on, dude. Enough.”
He pouts, shaking his head in mock surprise. “I’m not doing shit. I’m just sitting next to my friend.”
“Right. And I’m the king of England.”
