Misbehaved

by Charleigh Rose

  Tattoos galore.

  The scent of possessiveness, poverty, and despair in the air.

  Yes, they all have a smell. They smell like Ryan.

  “Yo, Rem! Look at your fine ass in that uniform.” Ry laughs like it’s the first time he’s seen me like this, pulling out his helmet and checking me out without even hiding it. I immediately turn scarlet red. He’s supposed to be my brother. Supposed being the operative word. I can see Christian staring at me from my peripheral, wondering what the hell is going on. My hold on the straps of my backpack tightens, and I force a smile. Funny how aware I am of our inappropriate dynamic now that I’m at West Point.

  “That’s my stepbrother,” I say, putting emphasis on the word step. I don’t think pseudo-incest will earn me any brownie points in this school. Even cool-as-a-cucumber Christian will frown upon that. “He’s my ride.”

  Christian just nods, and the movement is faint, just like his wary expression. I know that look. I’ve seen it before, so I look away. Pity.

  Don’t you fucking pity me.

  “See you tomorrow?” Christian asks. And my gaze drifts back to him because looking away was a huge mistake. Now I know for a fact that everybody around us is looking back and forth from Ryan to me, trying to fill in the blanks.

  “Sure will.” I give him a fist bump—and damn, if the prospect of a new friendship doesn’t cheer me up a little—and take a brave step toward my stepbrother. Then another and another. I descend the massive stairs leading to the fountain overlooking the high school’s entrance, and when I’m close enough to Ryan, he pulls me in for a hug. An incredibly awkward, greedy hug. I don’t have biological siblings, but I’m not sure our groins are supposed to touch.

  Ryan lets me go after long seconds, and with each passing one, I realize that I’ll never fit in here. And it’s not just my worn-out shoes. When he releases me, his nostrils are flared, his jaw clenched, and he’s staring straight at Christian. I bring my hand up to cup Ryan’s jaw, brushing my thumb along his stubble, quieting his storm in the way only I seem to be able to. Panic swirls in my gut. I know what he’s thinking, and I need to distract and defuse. Ryan has always been overprotective, but over the last few months, he has crossed defensive territory and is now squarely lying in batshit-crazy zone.

  “Missed you today,” I murmur, holding my breath. I wait for his reaction and sigh with relief as his eyes soften at my touch.

  “Guess what?” Ryan smirks, and I know Christian is forgotten. For now, anyway. Ryan is gorgeous, there’s no denying that, but instead of swooning over that smirk, I’m jaded to it.

  “What?” I ask, still standing too close to him and too close to his bike and too close to the situation I’m desperate to get out of.

  “Got you a present.”

  “You did?” I raise an eyebrow, skeptic. He nods, turns around, and pulls out a brand new, shiny red Shoei helmet. My heart drops. He can’t afford this.

  “Check it out,” he says. I grab it. It’s heavy as hell, but I’m not complaining. It’s much better than the German style one I wore on the way to school that looked like an old school military helmet. But I also know that Ryan is broke as hell, so the fact that he has money worries me. There is no way he came by it honestly.

  “Ryan?” I don’t need to ask the actual question. Just the fact that I’m looking at the helmet like it’s a bomb and not a gift spells it out for me.

  Ryan clears his throat. “What? Been picking up extra shifts at the garage lately,” he says. He could be telling the truth. He has been gone a lot lately, but the look in his eyes tells me he’s hiding something.

  I have so many things I want to say to him, but the only thing that comes out is “okay”. Because I know he is volatile, and I don’t usually mind—I can take care of myself—but I don’t want a scene. Not here.

  “Get on the fucking bike, baby. I don’t got all day.”

  I hop on, eager to get out of here. Ryan has always been my safe place. My comfort zone. But right now, it feels like two worlds are colliding, and I’m desperate to keep them firmly separate.

  He snakes his hand backwards and gives my thigh a squeeze before he starts his Harley and revs it up, leaving a cloud of dust and smoke behind us.

  Through the veil of filth, I chance one last glance at West Point High for the day.

  I see Christian on the stairway, watching us with a concerned expression, his backpack still slung casually on one shoulder.

  A group of snobbish girls look at us from their place, sitting on the steps with their lattes clutched tight.

  And Mr. James standing there—hands in his pockets—looking even more pissed off than he was earlier.

  Where the hell did she come from?

  Not from here, that’s for sure.

  I’ve been teaching privileged kids long enough to know the odd one out when I see one. Not to mention, I was one. When I walk into class and see her in the first row, I ignore her completely, just like I do with the rest—high school girls tend to be a little overzealous—it’s best not to encourage them. I don’t notice the way her wide, innocent eyes take me in. I don’t notice her crimson pout. And I definitely don’t notice the way her body fills out her uniform unlike any other girl her age. To me, she is just another student. At least that’s what I tell myself.

  She doesn’t look like the rest of them.

  That’s my second thought, and it’s somewhere so deep in the back of my head, I’m not sure I have the necessary access to wipe it from my mind. I’ve taught Speech and Debate at this school for four years now, and I know all these students. I don’t mean the names or the faces. The type. The ones who think they are only as good as their worst grade. The ones who will scheme and plot and betray if it means being the best, even at someone else’s expense. That’s what Headmaster Charles gives me. The best. We give them the tools and discipline they need to succeed in whatever careers their mommy and daddy have chosen for them, and they go on to be perfect, little carbon copies of their parents.

  With her dirty white Converse and chipped black nail polish, I know she’s different. Either way, I was caught off-guard when she called me out in the middle of class and I was forced to respond quickly.

  I told her to get her stuff and leave, and almost regretted it, because I’m not sure what her story is. She’s either rebelling against her parents or a scholarship student. Those are the only two options at this school. My guess is she’s a little bit of both. I know the type, because I was the type. I fought and resisted my parents every step of the way growing up. I wasn’t fit for life as a robot. I liked music and art and drinking. A lot of good that did me. I’m still the black sheep, but somehow, I ended up teaching in the same world I rebelled so hard against, only I was in California. Imagine that.

  I scrub my hand down my face and close the laptop screen I’ve been staring blankly at for the last ten minutes.

  Why the fuck am I even giving her a second thought?

  I leave my belongings and decide to grab a pack of smokes and a Cherry Coke from across the street before I come back to finish putting together the rest of the syllabus for the year. See? Rebel. These should’ve been ready to pass out on the first day.

  Then I see Remington Stringer.

  And she is not alone.

  She is walking over to a guy who looks like a Sons of Anarchy dropout, and he throws his arms around her. She accepts his embrace. I can’t see his face, but she seems almost nervous, which I guess seems very out of character for a girl who calls out her teacher on the first day of school. They are basically grinding in the parking lot, and somewhere in my head, I know I should put a stop to it. But they’re like a car accident that I can’t look away from. If I wasn’t sure before, it’s clear now. She’s no West Point princess.

  He grabs her ass, looks over her shoulder, and spots the blond kid she walked out of school with. Christian Chambers. I taught him his last period. Obviously gay, but there’s no way for the simpleton on the bike to k
now that from looks alone. Remington’s gaze follows her biker boyfriend’s, and when her eyes land on Christian, her whole face drops in horror. She schools her features quickly and turns her attention to pacifying him. If the whole scene weren’t so creepy, seeing him fall under her spell as quickly as he did would be comical.

  He hands Remington a red helmet, and when he turns around to mount his bike, his eyes meet mine for a split second. And that’s all it takes for me to recognize him. I stuff my hands into my pockets to keep them from strangling the bastard right here and now. What the fuck is Remington doing with this guy? Ryan Anderson. The man I’ve been trying to find for the past year. The man who ruined my family. The man I want dead.

  The school year just got a lot more interesting. Thank you, Remington Stringer.

  I swing open the chain-link fence in our front yard and make my way past the collection of empty beer cans and mismatched chairs—that have permanent ass prints from Ryan and his good-for-nothing friends—before heading inside. The inside, unfortunately, is not much better. We live in the ghetto of Las Vegas, where the houses are overrun with bionic sewer roaches, and the streets are overrun with tweakers. Ironically enough, all the streets in our neighborhood are named after Ivy League schools. I live on Yale, which I figure is about as close to an Ivy League school as I’ll ever get. West Point could change everything, though. And boy, was I off to a great start. Not.

  Ignoring the mountain of dishes in the sink, Ryan’s random tools lying everywhere, and a suspicious wet spot on the old green carpet, I head straight to my room. Let’s be honest—this place isn’t ever The Ritz, but when Dad goes out of town, it goes from bad to worse. And I can’t bring myself to care today. I pause to look at my giant corkboard full of photos above my dresser. I see my mom pregnant with me. My dad taking me for a ride on the back of his old Softail, rocking a Kool-Aid smile and ratty light brown hair. Then the more recent ones of Ella and me smoking weed in her car on an old back road while we were supposed to be in school. And Ryan. So many pictures of Ryan. Teaching me how to skateboard, sitting with me in the hospital after I broke my ankle on said skateboard later that week, putting our tent together on our camping trip with Dad, selfies from concerts we snuck into, and tons of sunsets and scenic shots from the countless times we drove around just to escape the hellhole of Las Vegas. I flop facedown onto the pale blue comforter on top of my old twin bed. I toe my shoes off, not moving from my face-plant on the bed, thanking my lucky stars that Ryan had plans. He disappeared right after dropping me off. Again. I’m not sure where or what he’s up to, but right now, I’m grateful for the silence. I roll onto my back and stare blankly at the popcorn ceiling above and count the revolutions of the fan blades.

  What a day.

  Mr. James’ face flashes in my mind, unbidden, and I cringe. Of course, I’d have the hottest teacher to ever grace a classroom, and of course, I’d manage to make him hate me twenty seconds into meeting me. Not that I blame him. My verbal diarrhea was in full effect today. It wasn’t all bad, though. The rest of my classes were fucking hard—as to be expected—but it felt good. Really good. I was totally overwhelmed and out of my element, but at the same time, I felt like I was exactly where I belonged. Meeting Christian was a plus, too.

  I pad out to the kitchen and snatch a Hot Pocket out of the freezer. After wolfing that down, I decide to call it a night. I peel off my knee socks, skirt, and shirt and fold them carefully. I only have the one skirt and one extra shirt, so I’ll need to keep them as nice as I can for as long as I can.

  I’m too tired to even take a shower, so I throw on a big, white, cotton T-shirt—either Ryan’s or my pops’—and hop into bed. I focus on the sounds outside to distract me from my thoughts. I hear the bass thumping from a car a few houses down, a group of teenage boys heckling each other, sirens in the distance, and the rhythmic sound of the wheels of a skateboard hitting the cracks in the sidewalk. And before long, the soundtrack of my city lulls me to sleep.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep when I feel two strong arms around me and a nose nuzzling my neck. Ryan. Lately, he only sleeps with me when he’s fucked up. I can smell the alcohol seeping through his skin, but somehow, it’s still comforting.

  “You can’t leave me, Rem,” he whispers into my ear, his voice as rough as his touch. The desperation in his words breaks my heart and reminds me of the wounded boy he once was.

  “You’re almost done with high school.” He continues, “And soon, you’re going to go off to college and leave us behind. I can’t protect you if you’re not here.”

  “Shh, it’s okay.” I soothe him, rubbing his arm like I always do when he’s like this and avoiding the topic altogether. I know I shouldn’t lead him on. I know this is going to blow up soon, but now—when he’s drunk, vulnerable, and unstable—is not the time to serve him a healthy dose of reality. I’ve got defusing the bomb that is Ryan down to an art form, and nothing I say right now will go over well. Not when he’s in this state.

  He squeezes me tighter, and a few minutes later when his breathing evens out and I know he’s passed out, I succumb to the security of his arms and drift back to sleep.

  I reach blindly for my phone on my nightstand, knocking a water bottle off in the process before I finally feel the cool plastic of the case in my hand. I open one eye and try to focus on the time. Once my eyes adjust, I spring out of bed like it’s on fire. School started ten minutes ago.

  Shit. Why the hell didn’t my alarm go off?!

  I’m kicking myself for not showering when I had the time last night. I yell out Ryan’s name on my way to the bathroom, but I don’t get a response. I brush my teeth while I go in search of him. This place is a shoebox, so he shouldn’t be hard to find.

  “Ryan!” I yell around a mouth full of toothpaste. “Where are you?”

  I shove his door open, only to find his empty bed.

  Jesus Christ. I’m late for my second day of school.

  I get dressed in record time and throw my unwashed hair into a messy fishtail braid. I swing my backpack over my shoulder and run outside to see if by some miracle Ryan got up early to work on his old school Firebird that’s been sitting on blocks in the driveway for the past year. Nope. No such luck. And even worse, his bike is gone.

  Come on, Ryan. Don’t fuck me over like this. Not today.

  It’s way too late to catch the bus now. I’m weighing my options in my head—all zero of them—when I hear the telltale rumble of his Harley in the distance. Halle-fucking-lujah.

  Ryan swings into the driveway and lifts one leg like he’s about to get off his bike.

  “No, no, no, don’t you dare! I have to leave, like, five minutes ago! Where were you?” I screech, scrambling toward him.

  “Back off, Rem, and get the fuck on. I had some shit to take care of early this morning. I’m fuckin’ tired, and I don’t got any patience for your tantrums right now.”

  I don’t know what could have possibly gotten him out of bed before noon, short of the world ending, but I don’t have time to hound him for answers. I snatch my new helmet off the old metal patio swing and hop on behind Ryan. He takes off like a bat out of hell, and I’m forced to hold his middle tighter. He weaves in and out of traffic and somehow manages not to get stuck behind one single red light.

  We pull into the parking lot, and I don’t know what time it is, but the horde of students outside tells me that second period is about to begin. I think Ryan is going to let me off, but much to my utter horror, he keeps on going. Straight for the fountain. Straight to where half the school still lingers. He romps the sidewalk and slides to a stop parallel to the fountain, effectively creating a scene.

  “Here you go, princess,” he taunts. I roll my eyes while I unbuckle my helmet and start to slide off, but his huge hand grips my thigh, keeping me in place. I arch an eyebrow in question.

  “Say ‘thanks’, Rem.”

  “Thanks, Rem,” I grit through clenched teeth.

  “Say it
sweetly, baby doll,” he insists. All eyes are on us, and to them, it probably looks like nothing more than a little PDA. But Ryan’s hand squeezes my thigh so tightly that my eyes water.

  Who is this person?

  “Ryan. Enough. I’m already late.”

  “Not until you thank me,” he says with venom in his voice and points at his cheek.

  Fuck this, I think, and once again, try to get off the bike. His fingers crush my leg, but it’s his thumb digging into my inner thigh that causes me to cry out in pain.

  “What the fuck, Ryan!” I practically scream, and I’m thankful that most of the other students have gone inside. The fear of being tardy trumps drama—yet, another difference between West Point and Riverdale. Ryan points to his face one more time with a malicious glint in his eye. He’s an asshole, but I’ve never known him to be cruel. This is not the Ryan I grew up with, and this new realization hits me right in the stomach. Gone is the boy who made me mac and cheese and reluctantly let me tag along with him and his friends to the skate park, the boy that I idolized and worshipped. This is a stranger wearing my stepbrother’s face.

  And this guy plays by different rules, so I better start adapting, fast.

  I smack a quick kiss on his cheek, but he grips my chin in place and turns to plant his lips on mine. I squeal and jerk back, but he simply laughs.

  “Fuck you,” I spit. I jump off and scramble toward the front doors.

  I’m almost inside when I hear him yell out, “Bummer about your alarm, Rem. You should be more careful next time!”

  I never told him that my alarm didn’t go off. That motherfucker.

  After I make a quick stop at the office for a late slip, I run through the hall, not even stopping at my locker. Strands of hair have come loose from the ride here, and I rub at the tears that are starting to dry on my face. I’m a mess. I skid to a stop in front of the door to Mr. James’ class and take a second to gain my composure.

  Get it together. Every second you waste is another second you’re late.