by J. A. Huss
Contents
EIGHTEEN (18)
DESCRIPTION
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Epilogue - Mateo
END OF BOOK SHIT
About the Author
Edited by RJ Locksley
Cover Design by J. A. Huss
Copyright © 2015 by J. A. Huss
All rights reserved.
ISBN-978-1-936413-95-9
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
DESCRIPTION
And so is Mateo Alesci.
Hard to read, hard to predict, hard in every way that counts.
He wants things from me.
Dirty things, nasty things, forbidden things.
And I have to give in.
His attention is completely inappropriate, but I can’t say no.
The way he looks at me… the way he watches me through my bedroom window… the way he drags me deeper and deeper into his completely forbidden fantasy just… turns me on.
He knows it turns me on.
He holds all the power. He holds all the cards. He holds my entire future in his hands.
And I have to give in.
Because Mr. Alesci is my teacher.
And I need everything he’s offering.
Chapter One
If anger could kill, everyone in this room would be dead. “What do you mean I’m not going to graduate?” I cannot be hearing him correctly.
“I’m sorry, Miss Drake, but you’re short.”
“I’m not short,” I snap. “You just showed me my transcript and I have seven credits more than required for graduation.”
“And I just explained to you,” Mr. Bowman says with forced patience. “You took your last math class”—he looks down at my schedule and his finger traces the line over to the class name—“AP Geometry, in tenth grade.”
“So?”
“So here at Anaheim High School we require you to take one math credit in ninth grade.” He looks at my schedule again. “And you did. You took AP Algebra. And then you needed to take another math credit as an upperclassman. You took both your math credits as a lowerclassman.”
“But I took them both. That’s the important part here. I took both.”
“I’m afraid these are the rules, Shannon. There’s nothing I can do.”
“Well, that’s fucking stupid.” I blurt it out without thinking and I wait for Mr. Bowman to get angry and write me a detention. But he just pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.
This makes me brave. “It’s stupid,” I repeat. “You’re punishing me for getting my math credits completed early.”
“Well, they might make an exception, except that you spent the first half of your junior year in this…” He looks down at my transcript again. “Alternative school.”
“I was taking graphic web design. It wasn’t some loser school.”
“You didn’t take math.”
“I was done with math!”
“You didn’t take science either. That’s another problem.”
“I took AP Biology.”
“In tenth grade. Not eleventh.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you people?”
Another guidance counselor looks over at me and scowls. Boy, these Anaheim people must be used to the f-word. Back in Ohio, I’d be expelled if I talked to a counselor like this. But back in Ohio I was ahead in credits too.
“So you need to make up PE.”
“I knew that part. You told me that last month. And I have a note from a doctor explaining that my knee was injured last year and it’s still very painful, so I have to sit PE out.”
“You need to make up driver’s ed.”
He ignores my note excuse. I don’t really mind driver’s ed. I don’t have my license yet and it’s already on my schedule, just like PE.
“You need to make up one semester of science and you can take the other one this semester. And you need to make up one full year of math. We don’t have room for you in AP Trig. We don’t even have room for you in regular trig this semester. All the trig classes were cancelled since no one passed the first semester.”
What kind of school has no trig class? But more importantly… “AP Trig? Are you on drugs? I’m not taking AP Trig. Do you see that D there?” I tap my finger on my schedule over the grade I got for AP Geometry. “I only passed that class because my teacher paid a mafia guy to kill his wife while he was out to dinner with the chief of police and was distracted with attempted murder charges. He said if I got an A on the final, he’d pass me with a D.”
Mr. Bowman smiles at me and takes his glasses off. “So you got an A?”
“I did.”
“And stop making up stories like that, Shannon. It makes you look crazy.”
“That story was true, asshole. When you’re living a life like mine, there’s no need for lies.”
He sighs. Loudly, like he’s just about done with me. “The important part of your statement was that your teacher challenged you and you rose to the occasion. I’m confident you will rise to the occasion again.”
Defeat washes over me. Dear God. Can this life suck any worse than it already does?
Why, yes, God says. Yes, it can. You cannot graduate high school, Shannon. Even though you’re seven credits ahead.
I’d get angry, except I’m already angry. I’d yell and scream, but I’m already doing that too. I’d walk out, but what the fuck? I did the work, goddammit. I did the fucking work. How can they punish me for getting it done early?
“Are we in agreement then?” Bowman asks. “You’ll do the extra work?”
I look down at my feet for a few seconds before going for pity. “I don’t want to rise to the occasion, Mr. Bowman. I want to skate through this last semester the way I’ve skated through all the ones that came before this.” I look up and meet his eyes. “I don’t want to think very hard about anything, I just want to exist right now. And there’s no way I can skate through AP Trig. I’m not even good at math. They put me in AP Algebra in ninth grade by mistake. I swear to God. And then they refused to let me drop down to a lower class. They forced me to take those AP classes. I can’t do trig, Mr. Bowman. I’m not even kidding.”
He sighs again. “Look, I should’ve told you all this when you transferred here last month. But it was two weeks before Christmas vacation and I figured it was best to break the bad news after the holidays. You’ve been through a lot, Shannon. You’ve b
een to five different high schools, three in your junior year alone. So I understand that you’re upset and life is difficult right now. But it’s not the best time to give up. It’s the best time to work harder.”
“Upset? Upset doesn’t even begin to cover it. You told me I was ahead last semester. I had so many free periods, I was working in the office and the library just to fill out my schedule.”
“Again,” he says with his practiced sympathetic tone, “I’m sorry. We didn’t know what to do with you. Your school in San Diego had you working in the office and library, so we just did what they did.”
“Because at that school, I was ahead. And it was a helluva lot nicer than this dump.”
“And now at this dump, you’re behind. I’ve talked to everyone I could. Now, I can make one more plea before we finalize this, but I’m warning you now, the administration will not give in.”
I sigh. I might cry, that’s how frustrated I am.
“Would you like me to ask one more time?”
I nod, swallowing down my tears.
“OK. Stay put. Calm down. And I’ll be back.”
This is not an office, per se. It’s a room filled with desks and counselors. Like half a dozen of them. And there are kids everywhere. I suddenly realize lots of people are staring at me, watching me have a meltdown.
My whole face heats up as I glance at the guy next to me. He’s built like a quarterback and if he wasn’t wearing a black Taking Back Sunday concert shirt, I’d have pegged him as one. But the shirt is a dead giveaway. In high school you are what you wear. “Nice shirt,” he says, pointing to my white one that says Cage the Elephant. “You ever see them in concert?”
“Where the fuck do you think I got the shirt?” I snap.
He puts his hands up and smiles. I look away real fast, afraid that he will realize I’m about to start sobbing. I get by in school by being tough. Not mean, just tough. No one can hurt me. But crying in the counseling office does not scream tough. And snapping at a cute guy who was just trying to be nice screams bitch.
Despite my best efforts, my eyes begin to water and my nose starts to run. I start sniffling like crazy.
A thick folder thumps down on Mr. Bowman’s desk in front of me and I look up, startled. I stare into the most brilliant green eyes, the most handsome face. He’s got a two-day-old beard and I concentrate on his lips as he talks. “Can you let Bowman know that’s from me?”
I nod yes, like an idiot. He shoots me a grin and my eyes travel down to his leather jacket and then his hands, where tattoos peek out from under his sleeve. I look back up again, but he just turns away and walks off, his biker boots thudding on the cracked field floors.
What the hell is a guy like that doing in a high school? Probably a narc.
He stops just before turning to leave the outer office and talks to someone. Mr. Bowman peeks his head inside and looks at me.
Then the tattoo guy looks over at me too. What the hell? Definitely a narc.
Mr. Bowman smiles, shakes his hand, and then walks over to me as the biker guy leaves. “OK, well, I did not work a miracle, Shannon. But I did call the alternative school down on Gilbert. That’s where you’ll need to register for science and math.”
Oh, my God. This is really happening. I have to go to night school.
“Your science class is on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, but you need to get down there today and pre-register. If they don’t have enough students before the first day, they cancel the teachers and it’s tough getting kids to show up first semester, let alone the second one. We’ve arranged an exception for your trig class. You are the only student.”
“Wonderful.”
“I worked very hard to get you that class, Shannon.”
I look up at Bowman, feeling a little ashamed. “Sorry. And thank you.” But I’m still about to cry over this.
“Now, can you get a ride from your…” He looks down at my folder on his desk. “Brother?”
“Brother-in-law,” I correct him.
“Right. Can he take you over to Gilbert for registration after school today?”
I shake my head and look at my shoes.
“Can you ask him?”
I shake my head again.
“Why can’t you ask him?”
“He’s at work all day and he can’t take off for me.”
“Can you take the bus?”
“Bus?” Is he kidding? “I come from a small town in Ohio, OK? I took the bus once last year when I lived in San Diego. My best friend and I were trying to go to the mall, but we ended up in Rancho Bernardo. That’s a lot of miles in the opposite direction of Fashion Valley Mall, in case you’re wondering.”
Mr. Bowman laughs. “Well, Gilbert School is straight down Lincoln Avenue. No transfers or anything. Just get on outside the school and get off at Gilbert Street.”
I say nothing and just keep looking at my shoes.
“Can you do that, Shannon? Will you go register today?”
“Maybe I don’t need to graduate.”
“You do. You need to graduate and go to college. You’re bright, Shannon. Don’t throw your life away because you have a few challenging months ahead of you.”
The bell rings so I grab my backpack and stand up, one hundred percent defeated. “Do I at least get to sit out PE?”
“It’s this period, and yes. I put you in the modified class. They meet out at the picnic tables next to the bleachers.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, pushing my way past Taking Back Sunday.
“And Shannon?”
“What?” I say, looking into Sunday’s dark eyes as he stares back.
“Happy birthday. Welcome to eighteen.”
Chapter Two
After going into the bathroom to smoke and calm down during the class break, I make my way over to the gym. There’s a bazillion other students waiting to get into the field and people are touching and jostling me as we wait. “What the fuck is going on?” I mutter to myself.
A short girl, who I recognize from the arcade across the street from the high school, smiles at me and starts talking in Spanish.
I scowl at her. “I’m not fucking Mexican.”
“Oh,” she says. “Sorry.” And then she realizes she should be offended by my tone, if not my words, and mutters something else in Spanish which I can only conclude is, Bitch.
Well, they’ve got me pegged. First day of the new semester and I’ve thrown a fit in the counseling office and insulted someone’s culture. I’m going to hell for that last one.
Someone finally unlocks the gate that leads to the athletics field and people start moving forward. The offended girl pushes past me and disappears.
Good going, Shannon. I didn’t mean it to come out so rude, but I’m still upset about my counseling session. So yeah, it was rude. But I’m not used to people speaking another language. I’m from Ohio. No one spoke Spanish in my high school there. We had three nationalities—German, Polish, and Italian. And no one spoke any of those languages either. California has been one long string of culture shocks.
Here at Anaheim they have two major ethnic groups—Filipino and Hispanic. White people are few and far between. On my first day of school last month they had announcements in Tagalog and I seriously thought I was still high from the night before, that’s how dumbfounded I was.
I’ve gotten used to it though. Plus, it helps keep me on the outside and I like being on the outside. There are gangs here like crazy, and girls regularly beat the shit out of each other in the bathrooms.
No one even looks twice at me. Not one of them has ever come up and started shit. Which is more than I can say for my experience in San Diego. Those girls were intense. And that was a rich snobby school. Jill, my sister, was dating a Navy guy at the time and we were living in military housing attached to a wealthy neighborhood. So we had all kinds there. I had to use my tough card more than once.
But here, I’m ignored. Completely, one hundred percent ignored.
; I scan the field for the picnic tables, find them, and wander over. “Hey,” I say to the two girls sitting on the bench. The Hispanic one has those crutches that attach to the arms. Her legs are bent in a weird way. The African-American one is wearing the thickest coke-bottle glasses I’ve ever seen and she’s holding a white cane between her legs, so I can only conclude she’s legally blind. “I’m Shannon. Is this the modified class?”
They both smile at me, the blind girl squinting. “Yeah,” the one with the arm crutches says. “I’m Mary and this is Josie. Those guys over there are Lewis and Albert.”
Lewis and Albert don’t have recognizable disabilities, and they don’t even acknowledge me, so I ignore them back. “Is this it?” I ask, looking around.
“This is it,” Josie says. “Why are you in here? We haven’t had a new student in… what?”
“Two years,” Mary says.
“Oh,” I say, pointing to my leg. “Bad knee. I faked the excuse, actually. I just don’t want to sweat during school, if you know what I mean.”
They both laugh and I take a seat next to Mary. “So what do we do? Do we have a teacher?”
“Oh, Mr. Fowler is always late. Sometimes he never even shows up.”
“Really?” I get a little excited as I wonder how much that happens. I could skip and go hang out at the arcade.
“We just throw darts or do lawn bowling,” Josie says.
I’d laugh, but I don’t think she’s joking.
“Drake!” a blond guy wearing cargo shorts with a preppy polo shirt yells as he walks up to us. “You Drake?”
“The one and only,” I say back.
“OK.” He looks over at my new friends. “Hey, girls. Looking good this semester. You know what to do, so choose your weapon.” He nods to a box of lawn bowling equipment. “Drake, run three laps around the track.”
“I’m not running laps. I’ve got a bad knee.”
Fowler looks up from his roster and scratches his head with a pen. “You’re lying. We all know you’re lying, we just don’t feel like fighting about it. So you’re here. Congratulations on making it into modified PE. Now you’re going around that track three times at the start of every class or you’re gonna fail. Got it?”
