“Why? I never do homework,” he replied.
His mates laughed.
“Which is why I need to talk to you.”
“Sure, miss, whatever you say, miss.”
I waited until the rest of the class had left, then walked over to him. He was still sitting behind his desk, with his feet resting on it. “Did’ja enjoy the show?” he asked, giving me a wide grin.
I crossed my arms over my chest, willing myself to stay calm. “I should report you for what you did with that girl.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Then, how will you explain not stopping us? Instead, you stood there, gettin’ off on watching me.”
He was right. But it didn’t mean I could admit it. “I was just shocked,” I said instead. The truth. “People react differently to seeing shocking things.”
“You didn’t see anything, only heard it.”
“I was still shocked. Also, that girl was a senior. You’re only fifteen years old.”
“While you’re even older. By the way, it almost felt like we were having a threesome.”
I bit my tongue, forcing myself not to lose my temper. All I wanted to do was to slam my hand against his desk, making him jolt in his seat, giving him the fright, making him nervous, but I couldn’t afford to lose control.
“I’m not going to react to your goading,” I finally said, “so you might as well stop it. Also, you won’t say a word about what happened to anyone, including Jasper, or I will go straight to the principal and report you.” I leaned my face closer to his. “And guess who he’ll believe.”
His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Ooh, you’re playing dirty. I like it. But I should warn you, I’m the king of dirty, baby.” He leaned forward and ran his hand up my leg.
I smacked it off and took a step back. “Why do you act like this?”
“I don’t act, I do.”
“Stop turning everything sexual.”
He swung his feet off the desk and stood up, making me take another step back. “This is just the way I am. I couldn’t stop it even if I wanted to. And don’t worry, I’m not a nark, I’ll keep what you did a secret.”
“What I did?”
“Yeah, you got off on me. Your knickers are sopping, admit it.”
“Dante! I’m warning you!”
“Just promise me one thing.”
“What?” I replied, my inner pendulum constantly swinging between anger and remorse.
“When Mr. Hatton fucks you next,” he smiled, “think of me.”
He slipped past me, brushing his hand over my hip. Before I knew it, he was gone, leaving me a quivering mess.
I slumped down in his seat and covered my face, wishing I’d never met him.
13
DANTE
Smiling, I headed down the empty corridor to my music class, still on a high over Mrs. Hatton’s reaction to my blowjob. I’d thought she’d yell at me, not watch me. I closed my eyes briefly, remembering what she’d looked like in the restroom. Her eyes had been so big, her cheeks so red, the arousal on her face undeniable. I wondered whether I should make a serious play for her, because I definitely wanted to play with her.
Considering it, I pushed open the door to the music room, stopping at the sound of singing. Phelia was standing in front of a microphone, belting out a godawful love song to the class, the words so corny I felt like chundering. She came to an abrupt halt and looked over at me, appearing annoyed I’d interrupted her pathetic song.
Ignoring her, I headed for one of the seats in front of the microphone, noticing Mr. Grey also looking annoyed. My music teacher was sitting off to the side with a pad on his lap. Although he was in his forties and had a head full of hair the same colour as his name, he had a pretty-boy face that got the food tech teacher foaming around her dentures. The amount of times Old Lady Stewart had interrupted Mr. Grey’s lessons had become a running joke. She always pretended that she had something really important to tell Phelia, since the cocksucker was in her class. But we all knew it was an excuse to see Mr. Grey, who she giggled around like a lovesick schoolgirl.
“I warned you not to be late today,” Mr. Grey said. “Now poor Phelia has to restart her song.”
I shrugged. “Blame my English teacher. She held me back,” I replied, taking the chair next to Mr. Aston’s niece. I twirled the chair around and sat down, leaning my arms against the back.
Mr. Grey frowned, but instead of making an issue out of it, like dickweed Aston would have, he turned back to Phelia. “I’m sorry, please start again.”
She scowled at me. I pursed my lips, blowing her a kiss. Her scowl morphed into a smile. She patted her hair, then leaned toward the microphone and started singing her song—the assignment we had due today. Although she had a gorgeous voice, she sucked at writing, not to mention her rhyming was lame.
Still singing, Phelia’s gaze shifted to my right, giving someone a stink eye. I turned to see who was upsetting her, finding Mr. Aston’s niece staring at me. The redheaded chick quickly dropped her gaze, pretending to focus on a piece of paper on her lap. I glanced at it, the title Losing Love catching my attention.
I leaned over, whispering into her ear, “Can I have a look?”
Keeping her gaze down, she handed it over with a shaky hand. I knew she had a crush on me, which probably pissed off her uncle no end. Jasper had tried to talk me into fucking her to get back at Mr. Aston, but I’d refused. The girl was too sweet to mess with. Plus, it wasn’t her fault her uncle was an arsehole.
I took the sheet of paper out of her hand and read over the lines instead of listening to Phelia’s crap. To my surprise, Annabelle’s song wasn’t a sickly-sweet love ballad, like most of the chicks wrote. Instead, it described the loss of her family. Although it didn’t go into the reasons why she’d lost them, I could feel the pain in her words. Wondering what had happened, I looked up at her. She was staring down at her shirt, picking at the hem like I did when I was nervous.
I held her song out for her to take, whispering, “It’s really good.”
Her gaze shot up to mine, her expression surprised. Then a big smile lit up her face, making her look lovely. “Really?” she asked.
I nodded. “What happened to your family?”
Her smile dropped.
“You don’t hafta tell me if you don’t wanna,” I whispered, knowing it hurt when people asked about my mother.
“Ma wee brother and parents died in a boating accident,” she muttered with a much stronger accent than Mr. Aston’s. “It’s why I live with ma uncle.”
“My mother wuz murdered.”
“I know,” she said. “Ma uncle mentioned it.”
“I bet he told you to stay away from me.”
She nodded. “But I dinnae listen to him. He’s a numpty.”
I stifled a laugh. She smiled back at me, her green eyes sparkling.
“Dante and Annabelle; please be quiet,” Mr. Grey called out, Phelia having finished her song. “If you want to talk, ask Phelia a question about her song.”
I zipped my mouth, smirking at Annabelle, who did the same. For a second, I wondered whether I should ask her out, but decided against it, thinking she didn’t need my baggage added to hers.
People started asking Phelia questions, the normal Q and A that happened after every performance. Someone tapped me on the shoulder, pulling my attention away from her. I glanced back at Mason, a stoner who I supplied.
“Why haven’t you been answering my messages?” he whispered. “I’m desperate, man. You can’t leave me hanging.”
“I didn’t get any messages,” I said.
“I sent you three.”
Frowning, I patted my pocket, not finding my phone. I checked my other pockets, then grabbed my bag and searched through it, still not finding it. Shit!
“Dante,” Mr. Grey said. “Put your bag down and pay attention.”
I dumped my bag on the floor, wondering whether I’d left my phone at home. I turned my gaze back to Phelia, who was an
swering a question about the ‘meaning’ behind her words.
“I wrote the song ’bout someone I love.” Her gaze moved my way, pretty much letting me know it was about me. “Though, he doesn’t deserve my love.”
“He doesn’t want it either,” I retorted, thinking it was pathetic she was writing love songs after giving me one blowjob.
“Dante!” Mr. Grey said. “Questions only.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Okay, I have a question for Phelia. The guy in your song, whoever he is, sounds like every chick’s wet dream...”
A few of the students sniggered.
“...but how can you love him when you hardly know him?”
“Dante,” Mr. Grey interrupted again. “You’re making this personal.”
“Just stating that she can’t really love the guy she’s singing about, since she’s basing things on how he looks, not what’s in here,” I said, tapping my head.
“There’s nothing in her song suggesting that,” he stated. “She’s singing about her feelings. And since you’re so quick to criticise other people’s work, how about you go stand up there and sing us your great masterpiece, oh flawless one,” he said, his English accent dripping with sarcasm.
“If you say so,” I sniggered, pulling my poem out of my bag. I pushed to my feet, getting a scowl from Phelia, who walked past me, handing her song to Mr. Grey.
I put my poem, slash song, on the music stand and adjusted the microphone higher, since Phelia was a short arse. When ready, I focused on Mr. Grey, waiting for his signal to begin. He indicated for the camera guy to start filming. Taking the same cue, I began rapping my poem. As I finished the third stanza, Mr. Grey called out, “Stop!”
I scowled at him. “Why’d you do that for?” I asked, wondering whether he was teaching me a lesson for interrupting Phelia.
“You should know why.” He pushed out of his seat and walked past the other students, stopping next to me. He picked up my poem and looked down at it, his frown growing as he read it. Once he’d finished he looked back up, the dude a few inches shorter than me.
“Drug dealing is an inappropriate topic to sing about,” he said.
“No, it ain’t. Rappers sing ’bout it all the time. Bone Thugs-n-Harmony’s 1st of tha Month has dealing in it, and that song wuz nominated for a fuckin’ Grammy—”
“Language, Dante.”
“And what ’bout the Notorious B.I.G? His Ten Crack Commandments is numero uno.”
“Those rappers aren’t fifteen-year-old high school students.”
“Teenagers sell drugs too,” like me, “hell, even younger kids do,” like I used to. “It’s the real world. You can’t stop it from happening, so you shouldn’t stop me from rapping ’bout it.”
“This is my class and I won’t allow it.”
“Why?” I sneered at him. “Cos you wanna protect our innocent ears? Get real, Mr. G. All the kids in ’ere have either bought drugs or have seen someone snort or light up. No matter how much you want to, you can’t shelter us from the real world. If a fifteen-year-old wants to buy weed or crack, they will find a dealer.”
Mr. Grey’s expression grew concerned. “Is your song personal?”
I barked out a false laugh that would make Mr. Aston proud of my acting skills. “Hell, no, I don’t sell drugs.”
The stoner sniggered in the second row. I shot him a glare that said he wasn’t getting any weed if he didn’t shut the fuck up. He covered his mouth, still looking amused.
I refocused on Mr. Grey. “I just thought I’d write ’bout sumpthin’ real, sumpthin’ that people hafta deal with in my hood.”
“I understand what you’re saying and I’m impressed with your thought processes, but I still cannot film you rapping that song. I could lose my job.”
“Don’t cha think that’s bein’ a bit overdramatic?”
“Maybe, but my decision remains the same. Plus, you should be writing about things that relate to you personally.”
“I may not sell drugs,” I lied, “but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t affect me personally. I know what it does to people, to families. My father used to be a meth head.” I scowled at Mr. Grey, angry he was making me feel guilty for dealing. Though, meth was the one thing I didn’t sell, refused to go near, that shit having almost destroyed my dad. “Where do you think he got his supply from? The supermarket?”
Mr. Grey didn’t reply, his expression turning sad.
Not wanting his sympathy, I pushed on, determined to get him to accept my rap. “And music shouldn’t ever be censored.”
“But it is. They block out swearwords all the time on the radio.”
“I only said fucked up in my song.”
“And bullshit, but that’s not the issue. Those can be fixed, the topic can’t.”
I waved my hand at Phelia. “So, you’d prefer I write shitty love songs that make me want to chunder?”
“Hey!” Phelia yelled.
Mr. Grey shook his head at me, looking as annoyed as Phelia. “That’s not a very nice thing to say about someone’s work, Dante. How would you like to be told your writing is ‘shitty’?”
“I’d much rather be told, than live in la-la land, thinking I sound like hot shit instead of horseshit.”
Phelia yelled again.
Not doing it to be spiteful, I made no apologies. “You should help Phelia make her writing better instead of using it to put mine down.”
“I’m not putting it down. Your poem is very good. If it wasn’t about drugs I would’ve given you an excellence. But unfortunately it is, so you’ll have to redo the assignment. I’ll give you a week to write another one, that is, with an appropriate topic.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Keep your bad language out of my classroom, Dante. Unlike other teachers, I won’t tolerate it.”
“You’re not bein’ fair.”
“I am. I’m giving you an extra week to complete your assignment.”
“I’ve already completed it, which is more than my other teachers get.”
He exhaled. “Look, I have other students I need to help, so let’s talk about this after class.”
“Not interested.” Pissed off to the max, I snatched my poem out of his hand and grabbed my bag. Hooking it over my shoulder, I headed for the door, pausing at his voice.
“Dante, I’m not doing this to upset you.”
“The result’s still the same.”
I kicked the door open and stormed out of his class, heading back down the corridor. A door banged behind me, followed by Mr. Grey calling out for me to stop.
I spun around. “What?!”
He strode up to me and extended his hand. “Give me your poem.”
“Why? So you can burn it with all the other shit you censor?”
“Just give it to me.”
I exhaled loudly and held it out. “Take it, then.”
He took it and walked past me.
I frowned. “Your class is the other way.”
“Follow me,” he said, disappearing through the door that led to my English class.
I remained where I was, not sure what he was playing at.
A few seconds later he poked his head out of the doorway. “Dante, I told you to follow me.”
I swore under my breath and headed for the room, Mr. Grey holding the door open for me. Except for Mrs. Hatton sitting at her desk, the classroom was empty. Piles of assignments were stacked in front of her, this period obviously a free one.
She glanced up at me, not looking happy I was here. “What’s he done now?” she said to Mr. Grey.
“Dante wants to read you something,” he replied.
“No I don’t,” I grunted. “I don’t wanna read you anything. I’m outta—”
“You do if you want me to reconsider my opinion,” Mr. Grey interrupted, holding out my poem for me to take.
“Bullshit,” I said, realising he was going to use Mrs. Hatton to back him up. “You just want her to prove you’re right.�
��
“What did I say about swearing?”
“In your class, not hers.”
Mr. Grey sighed. “Look, Dante. I know how much you like my class and I don’t want this disagreement to fester into something that stops you from coming to it.”
“Then, accept my work. You said it wuz excellent.”
“Except for the topic. And since you apparently think I’m an old prude who should accept whatever you write, I thought I’d ask the opinion of a younger teacher. Mrs. Hatton’s also qualified to judge poems. If she thinks it’s inappropriate like I do, then you have to write another poem or song, but if she doesn’t, I promise I’ll send it to external assessment and mark it as an excellence on my side.”
“No way!” I snapped. “You teachers all stick together.”
“Fine, don’t read it, it’s no skin off my nose,” Mrs. Hatton said, looking back down at the stack of papers in front of her. “Mr. Grey’s probably right, since you do have a habit of saying inappropriate things.”
“He’s not right.”
“He is until I hear differently,” she said, not taking her eyes off the papers. She picked up a pen, totally ignoring me.
I looked over at Mr. Grey, who was smirking as though she was one-upping me, which was more bullshit. Only a short time ago I had her all hot and flustered, yet he thought she was beating me?
“Okay, I’ll rap it.”
Still looking at her papers, she muttered, “This isn’t a music class, so if you want me to listen, read it.” She ticked something on the top page.
I grimaced, wondering whether she was feigning disinterest to get back at me for earlier.
She glanced up at me with a raised eyebrow. “Well? Either read it or leave. Unlike you, I’m busy.”
Mr. Grey snorted out a laugh.
I threw him a glare, then stalked over to Mrs. Hatton, slamming the poem down on her desk. “Since you’re an English teacher, you should read it.”
Sighing, she picked up the piece of paper and focused on it. All sign of annoyance left her expression a second later, her eyebrows lifting ever so slightly. She stopped reading and held it out for me to take, no way having finished it that fast.
Broken English (Broken Lives Book 1) Page 12
