Delinquent (Academy of Misfits Book 1)

by Bea Paige

  This time, he doesn’t follow. I should feel relieved, only I’m not. I feel very, very alone.

  15

  Later that same week, I sit in the spacious art studio with my teacher Miss Moore, or Ros as she likes to be called, a thirty-something art enthusiast. The only other student is some nameless boy from the No Name crew who I’ve no intention of getting to know any time soon. Looks like art isn’t a favourite subject of most of the residents at Oceanside Academy. Not that I care, because frankly it’s bliss. I can actually relax a little without fear of some snide comments or food missiles coming my way.

  For the first time since arriving here, I feel another emotion other than a constant low level pissed-off. I’m almost… happy. Well, as happy as I can be when I’m continuously worrying about my best friend and waiting on tenterhooks for the moment I get jumped by HH crew. I’ve been in a state of fight since I arrived here and for the first time in years, I’m getting the urge to run. Not because I’m weak or afraid, but because I’m tired. Tired of fighting all the damn time. A week in and I already feel worn down. How the hell am I supposed to last three years here?

  Picking up my acrylic pen, I press the nib against the thickened paper and begin to colour within the pencil outline I’ve just laid out. It’s not the same feeling that I used to get back home in Hackney when I was painting murals with my cans, always on the lookout for a copper. The excitement and adrenaline rush were addictive. This kind of feeling is nothing compared to that, but at least I can express myself, even if it that expression is confined to just a sketchpad.

  “Nicely done,” Miss Moore murmurs as she looks over my shoulder. I automatically hunch over, not used to anyone praising my artwork. “The shading’s beautiful, Asia.”

  She hovers for a little bit but when she realises that I’m not about to start up a conversation with her, she leaves me be. I like that about her. She gives me space and doesn’t try to force a relationship between us. All the other teachers, except for Mr Burnside the therapist, are jerks who want to enforce their rules on me. Thing is I can’t be ruled, that’s why I’m here after all.

  For the next five minutes I’m so consumed with my artwork that I don’t notice another student enter the room until said student has pulled up a chair and sits down next to me. I don’t bother to look up, because I know who it is from his signature scent of coconut and sea breeze. This guy even smells like a surfer on some faraway beach. He’s a walking, talking contradiction given he’s nothing more than a petty thief.

  “There’s plenty of other tables in the class, Sonny. Take your shit and sit somewhere else,” I snap, feeling both irritable that he’s invaded my sanctuary, and unnerved at his closeness. This guy really can’t catch a hint.

  “How’s this?” he asks, getting up and moving across the table from me.

  “Not nearly far enough away,” I retort, refusing to meet his gaze and look into those baby-blues that have somehow managed to infiltrate my dreams this past week. I don’t want to dream about him, but somehow, I manage to.

  “Is that a person?” he asks, half a beat later.

  From beneath my lashes I can see him leaning over the table trying to get a look at my drawing. Instinctively, I wrap my arms around my sketchpad. Funny how I can spray a six-foot wall with my artwork and not care that the whole world will look at it, but I can’t let this one guy look at my quick sketch. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good drawing. Actually, it’s pretty fucking great but I hadn’t offered to show it to him, so he shouldn’t assume it’s okay to catch a glimpse.

  “Are you drawing me, is that it?” he says with a smile in his voice.

  This time I lift my head and meet his gaze. “Not you, no,” I respond.

  He pulls a face. “As if there’s anyone better. I’ve got a pretty fucking fantastic face, Asia, no wonder you’re committing it to paper.”

  The arrogance! Determined to swipe that smile off his face, I do something reckless and twist the sketchpad around so he can see who I’m actually drawing. It takes monumental effort not to laugh when his mouth pops open and his eyes widen when he sees just who it is that’s caught my attention.

  “Ford?!” he shouts, gaining a cross look from Miss Moore. “Sorry, Miss,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes at me. I shrug, twisting the pad back around to face me and loving the fact he’s so pissed off. That’ll teach him.

  “He’s your fucking muse?”

  “What can I say, he’s got an interesting face,” I respond, biting my lip to prevent the laughter from escaping. This is just way too much fun. And whilst, yes, Ford does have an interesting face, so too does Sonny. Even though they’re similar in colouring and could even pass for brothers, they’re actually polar opposites and definitely not related. Ford is broody and cross most of the time, constantly tense and on the lookout for the next fight. Whereas Sonny is effervescent, happy, light-hearted even. He always has a joke on his lips and a glint of mischief in his eyes. And yet beneath Ford’s brooding countenance is a warmth waiting to escape, just like there’s anger bubbling under Sonny’s skin. Their outer appearance and inner secrets make for interesting subject matter, but I’m not about to tell Sonny that. Let him believe what he wants. Besides, confidence is attractive, arrogance is most definitely not. Maybe he’ll learn something today.

  “Interesting face?” he mutters, a muscle jumping in his jaw. He cocks his head and stares at me for a full minute before pulling out a dogeared sketchbook of his own.

  For the rest of the lesson Sonny remains uncharacteristically quiet. He doesn’t crack a joke or even try to start a conversation. I’m pretty sure I’ve successfully knocked the wind out of his sails. When it’s time to pack up, he rips out the page he’s been working on from his sketchpad and hands it to me before striding from the room without a backward glance.

  When I look down at the drawing it’s my turn to feel shocked. On it is a stunningly intricate drawing of a girl with bright blue hair and a lip ring… a girl that looks exactly like me.

  After lunch, my final two periods of the day are taken up by group therapy. It’s Friday afternoon and I’m expected to sit here with a bunch of strangers and talk about my feelings.

  Not. Going. To. Happen.

  I don’t care how nice Mr Burnside is. I’m not opening up in front of everyone. My one-on-one session on Wednesday might have gone okay, but this is way out of my comfort zone. Way, way out. Especially since my group consists of Sonny, Ford, and two dudes from the No Name crew. I’m the only girl and completely outnumbered. Mr Burnside coughs, drawing me out of my thoughts and bringing me firmly back into the present. He looks at each of us in turn, his warm hazel eyes kind and intelligent. I instantly feel threatened. Intelligence I can handle but kindness… that’s a whole other ball game.

  “By now, each of you have had a one-on-one session with me this week so I don’t need to introduce myself again, and we don’t need to go over how I’m Mr Carmichael’s partner. Pretty sure we’ve dealt with that part of my private life already, yes?” he says, looking pointedly at the kid from the No Name crew who just shrugs in response. “Good, because the gay jokes get boring. My personal life is private, and I expect you all to respect that.”

  “Yeah, but you expect us to chat about our personal shit in front of everyone. How’s that fair?” the boy he’s addressing asks. I hate to admit it, but he’s got a point.

  “Part of the deal in gaining a placement at Oceanside was your agreement to attend therapy sessions, both one on one and in a small group setting like this. If you choose to walk out of here, then you know what the alternative is.”

  “Yeah, but no one actually said anything about this group shit,” the same boy persists.

  “It’s in the brochure that each of you would’ve had chance to read before arriving here. In addition, your social worker should’ve made you aware of the requirements.”

  I can’t help it, I laugh at that. “My latest social worker said barely two words to me the whole time
I was in her care. You honestly think she told me about this?” I say, moving to stand.

  Mr Burnside holds his hand up. “Sit down, Asia.”

  “I signed a bit of paper that says I must attend the therapy sessions. At no point did it state that I must partake. So, if you don’t mind, I’m going to make myself comfy over there and sit this shit out.”

  Mr Burnside gives me a look of disappointment, but he doesn’t argue with me. Instead, he turns to the rest of the group. “Anyone else?”

  Everyone bar Sonny stands up, finding their own spot in the room. Opposite me, Ford leans against the whiteboard, his face void of emotion. I’m not surprised he’s opting out given the guy’s a therapist’s wet dream. Admittedly, even I’d like to know what’s going on in his head. Right now, I can’t even begin to decipher what he’s thinking. Ford catches me staring but his expression remains neutral, and for some reason that pisses me off even more.

  Across the room, Mr Burnside sighs heavily before grabbing a seat and sitting opposite Sonny. “Looks like you’ve got yourself two-hundred and fifty credits, Sonny,” he says, flashing us all a look.

  “Fuck yeah.” Sonny grins, looking smug as shit.

  “Yep, enough for a whole eight hours freedom from this place on any weekend of your choosing. The rest of you are deducted ten points. That will continue to happen every time you refuse to partake.”

  Sonny laughs, whilst the two guys from Ford’s crew swear loudly. Ford remains tight-lipped as usual.

  “That ain’t fair,” one of them says. I think he calls himself Dagger, but I can’t be sure.

  “I think it’s entirely reasonable,” Sonny responds mimicking a random posh accent. I watch as he folds his arms and smiles at Dagger who steps forward with a growl.

  “Don’t,” Ford snaps from his spot in the corner of the room.

  Sonny’s smile widens as though he’s the cat who got the cream and I wonder, not for the first time, what the deal is between those two.

  “So, Doc. What do you want to know?” Sonny asks, stretching his legs out before him and crossing them at the ankle.

  “Whatever you want to tell me. Pick a subject and start talking,” Mr Burnside responds, leaning back in his chair, his pen ready and poised over his notepad. For a while Sonny just muses over what he can talk about, tapping his chin for effect.

  “Any subject at all?” Sonny asks, glancing at me then back to Mr Burnside.

  “Yep, absolutely anything.”

  “Well, if I’d known we weren’t talking about ourselves I might’ve taken part,” Dagger grumbles.

  “Perhaps next week you might want to do just that. For now, you can sit this out with the rest of them,” Mr Burnside responds as he starts scribbling on his pad. “Start talking, Sonny.”

  Over the next hour Sonny gives us a rundown of his favourite subject: Victoria Secret underwear models. I can tell he’s enjoying himself immensely and is particularly smug about the fact he’s managed to nab himself two hundred and fifty credits for doing so. I’m also pretty sure he thinks he’s managed to swerve any kind of in-depth psychoanalysis. Except Mr Burnside is smart, and by the end of the session has successfully turned the discussion on its head and has somehow managed to get Sonny to open up a little about his obsessive desire with all things beautiful. Concluding that perhaps Sonny’s childhood lacked the kind of beauty that he seeks out so relentlessly now, both in the things he’s stolen over the years and the women he’s pursued.

  Clever.

  When the session ends, Sonny smiles widely slapping his hand on Mr Burnside’s back, congratulating him on being a sneaky bastard. And whilst he appears unbothered about it, I see what lies beneath the bravado. I see the fear and the pain just as much as Mr Burnside, confirming that Sonny isn’t as one dimensional as I’d first thought. Today has shown me that he’s just as layered and complicated as the rest of us, and fuck if it doesn’t intrigue me more.

  16

  The first thing I do when I wake up the next morning is call Tracy. It’s almost lunchtime on Saturday and I’ve already missed breakfast, but that doesn’t matter, Eastern does. It soon becomes apparent that she has no more news since the last time I spoke to her. Eastern is still AWOL and I can’t even reach him on the hotline. Tracy had managed to get news on my brothers and I’m thankful that they at least are unaffected by all this shit. The less they know the better but I make a mental note to contact them just as soon as I get my own head straight. Though that doesn’t stop me from trying to reach Eastern again the second I get off the phone from her.

  Eastern, please. It will only get worse. HAND YOURSELF IN!

  The message is read almost immediately, and I wait for a response. An hour later I finally give up staring at the phone and stuff it back into the hole I cut into my mattress.

  “Arsehole,” I mutter, picking up my rucksack and stuffing my sketchpad and pens into it.

  On my desk is the drawing Sonny did of me yesterday, I run my finger over it, marvelling at his talent for a few minutes.

  “There’s more to you than meets the eye, isn’t there, Sonny…?”

  And now I’m talking to myself, about Sonny no less? Fucking great.

  Pulling out my sketchpad, I slide the drawing inside before stuffing it back into my bag. I don’t want to leave it here in my room because I don’t trust creepy Bobby not to invade my privacy, let alone any of the other bastards in this building. Pretty sure most of them know how to pick a lock. Deciding that I need to keep my head occupied with something other than thoughts of Eastern, Ford and now Sonny, I head outside bumping into Kate on the front steps of the main building.

  “Hey, Asia, we missed you at the canteen. You going to grab some lunch?” she asks.

  “Nah. Not hungry. I’m heading to the library for a bit.”

  “The library?” she asks, surprise written across her face.

  “Yes, the library. Got an issue with that?” I snap, not feeling particularly friendly right now. She winces, giving me an apologetic look. Yeah, she’s not the only one with a brain. Though I’m not going to the library to study or anything, just chill, but she doesn’t need to know that.

  “Did I just hear you’re going to the library?” Pink asks as she exits the building and joins us. She’s munching on a cake, little flakes of pastry falling onto her bright pink top.

  “Jesus fucking Christ. Yes, I’m going to the library. Why is that so hard to believe?”

  “Oh, I get it! You’re meeting Sonny there, aren’t you?” Pink wiggles her eyebrows at me. When I don’t answer she sucks in a breath, her eyes widening dramatically. “Ford! You’re meeting Ford, you little sneak. He’s got to you, hasn’t he?”

  I roll my eyes just as dramatically. “I’m not here for any of that shit. I haven’t got time for romance…”

  “Who said anything about romance? I’m pretty sure both would be happy with a quick fuck.”

  “Jesus, Pink. Shut up!” Kate says, shoving her a little before they both start laughing.

  When I don’t join in, they stop giggling, training their smiles behind wobbly lips.

  “Well, enjoy your time in the library,” Kate says eventually.

  “Yeah, when you’re done come swing by my room, we’re gonna hang out for the rest of the day. Might even head down to the rec room after dinner for some Netflix minus the chill,” Pink adds with a wink.

  “Sure, maybe,” I respond before heading inside.

  “Oh, and make sure you avoid the gym. Monk and his crew have taken it over. It’s like a testosterone bomb has gone off in there. Either that or they’re all hyped up on roids. I walked in and walked straight back out again. Fortunately for me I don’t have a target on my back…” Pink slams her mouth shut, realising how shitty that sounded. “Sorry… that was a crappy thing to say.”

  “It’s not, it’s the truth. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful to avoid the area. Catch you later, maybe,” I say, jogging inside before they can stop me.

  �
��Need any help, Asia?” the librarian, Ms Mariner, asks me.

  I shake my head. “No, I’m good.”

  “Well, I’ll be here if you need me,” she responds as she settles behind her desk and starts tapping at the computer. “If you want to get ahead with the English coursework, I can help. There’s plenty of Charles Dickens you can choose from.”

  “Sure,” I mumble from my spot at a desk in the corner. I don’t particularly want to get into a conversation with her, but I don’t want to be rude either. Ms Mariner is nice, if not a little boring. Truth is, I dislike English as much as Maths, but I do the work I’m given so I can get enough credits to earn a day out of this place. I wasn’t actually planning on doing any homework today. I came to the library to get a change of scenery and to do some art given the studio is closed over the weekend. Besides, I feel a certain kind of peace here with all the musty old books and lack of people.

  The library itself takes up almost half of the first floor in the main building and sits directly next to the art studio. It’s light and airy, and perfect for drawing with all the natural light pouring through the floor to ceiling windows. Not only that, none of Monk’s crew would be seen dead in the library, and on the handful of occasions I’ve been up here, I’ve only ever come across one member of the No Name crew.

  Today’s it’s just me and Ms Mariner, and that’s the way I like it.

  Glancing over at her as she taps away at her computer, a pencil gripped between her teeth, I wonder why the library’s open on a Saturday given no one bothers to use it during the week, let alone the weekend. Not that it appears to bother Ms Mariner. I’m guessing she gets paid double time for coming in on the weekend and given she seems happy enough to be here, what do I care?