Bad Guy: Providence Prep High School Book 1

by Allen, Jacob

  I didn’t want to learn American cultures and customs. I didn’t want us to anglicize our last name. I didn’t want to do any of that.

  I wanted to be back home with my friends. I wanted to grow up and live my life in the comfort of our culture.

  But no matter how much I fought against my father, he insisted on it. He promised that American would offer me better education opportunities and a better quality of life. He promised that it would give more freedom.

  Freedom isn’t worth it, though, if it means I have the freedom to have no friends.

  “It will be all right,” my father said. “In time, you will come to love America.”

  “Hush, Vladimir,” my mother said, snappy from not having had any alcohol since Helsinki. “Let’s just get to the hotel room. You do have a hotel room, right?”

  “Yes, Maria,” my father said with an exasperated sigh.

  I followed them silently through the airport, doing my best to understand the English I saw. I had a decent understanding of the language, but it was not fluent by any means—and I only had about two months before sixth grade started and I had to understand enough to take classes. It was yet another reason that I felt very uneasy doing this.

  When we got to the hotel, my mother went to the bar and got herself a drink of vodka. My father took me up to the hotel room. When we got inside, I went to the couch and sat down.

  And it all hit me hard.

  I was thousands of miles away from my closest friends. I was in a foreign land that didn’t have the best of relations with my home country. I was an alien.

  I began to cry, putting my head in my hands and sobbing hard. My father came over, sat beside me, and kissed me as he held me close.

  “I know this is hard, Emily,” he said. “But this will give you opportunities your mother and I never had in Russia. You may not believe this now, but we did this for you, not for us.”

  I didn’t say anything, because I didn’t want to sound like a sobbing mess when I spoke to him. It took me a couple of minutes, but eventually, I got my crying under control enough so that I was merely sobbing and choking on my breath and not pouring out salty tears.

  “I know, Dad, I know,” I said. “But…”

  I couldn’t find the words that I wanted. I needed to express myself in terms of emotion; my father wanted to express things in terms of logic. It’s what made him so smart and so good, but it’s what also left me feeling like I was talking to a computer sometimes.

  “Just remember what I say,” he said. “Trust few, forgive fewer, and forget no one.”

  Despite how intimidating it sounded, my father had always meant it as good, useful advice. He meant it in the sense of having a few great friends rather than having several dozen OK friends.

  “You do this, and everything will be fine,” he said. “I promise you, my little Emily.”

  He kissed me on the forehead, and I leaned in to hug him. He patted me on the back, stood up, and sighed.

  “I suppose I should go and get your mother before she makes too much of a fool of herself,” he said with a sad laugh. “Will you be OK here?”

  I nodded. It wasn’t like the hotel room was suddenly going to take me to South America or somewhere in Africa. It was hard to feel any more uprooted and dislodged than I was now.

  My father left a few seconds later. As I watched him going out, I couldn’t help but wonder if my father would feel he’d made the right choice in the future.

  Coming to America was only going to highlight the differences between us, not bring us together. My friends always felt I was a rebel in the strangest way, in that I was nicer and kinder to everyone because of my parents. My mother had depression and drank a lot; my father kept his distance and viewed the world as a puzzle to solve.

  As a result, when people wronged me, I tried to forgive them. When people acted cruelly, I tried to empathize. When people felt left out, I tried to include them. It was rebellious against my parents’ tendencies, but rebellious in a way that I figured helped others.

  I had no idea if this would still be the case in America. What little I knew about Nashville was that it was a region of the U.S.A. called the South, where people were apparently friendly and nice—but also distrusting and cold to outsiders.

  I only promised to be myself. That’s what everyone said worked best, anyways. So I would be sweet and kind to everyone as best as I could.

  And if I got hurt, I would forgive and try to learn.

  * * *

  Present Day

  I sat on the front steps of Adam’s mansion, crying so much I didn’t believe I had this many tears to shed.

  I couldn’t believe how cruel this boy had become. It was one thing to intimidate me in private, to try and scare me into leaving. But when I was only trying to get Samantha and Jackie so we could leave together? When I was only trying to make sure my friends were OK? For Adam to do that…

  I couldn’t stop crying.

  What happened to the boy I had said I loved? What happened to the eighth grader who made me feel like I was the happiest girl alive?

  It wasn’t like the change was gradual, either. It wasn’t like we got into a fight one day, a worse fight a week later, a worse fight a month later, and then the ugliest fight ever two months later. It was like we graduated eighth grade and felt on top of the world… and then, in the span of about two weeks, Adam had pushed me out of his life and gone from sweet and polite to cruel and almost evil.

  Something had happened, but I’d never been able to find out what. I wanted to forgive Adam and to empathize with whatever had happened to him, but I couldn’t forgive what I didn’t understand. I tried to find it in me to forgive him, but it was so damn hard. He was mean seemingly without cause, a bully who relished humiliating me quite literally in front of my entire class.

  “Emily!”

  I turned to Samantha running out. I waved a dismissive hand at her.

  “Leave me alone,” I said as tears streaked down my cheeks.

  “Emily, are you OK?”

  “What do you think,” I said, sniffling. “I don’t know why that asshole hates you.”

  “I don’t either,” Samantha said. “Are you going home?”

  I nodded. I already had an Uber on the way over, only about four minutes away. Four more minutes than I cared to spend on the Collins’ property.

  “I tried, Samantha,” I said through choked up words. “I tried to ignore him. I tried to stay away. But Adam’s not just a bully. He’s a hunter. He sought me out. He picked me out back there. And…”

  “Fuck him?”

  It was nice to say. But I couldn’t quite bring myself to say it when I had no idea what had happened. I didn’t think understanding him would suddenly make me like him again—God, that was an impossibility of epic proportions to believe—but I at least wanted to believe we could pass each other in the halls without my hair standing on the back of my neck in nervous fear.

  “I just want him to leave me alone,” I said.

  Samantha, bless her, reached over and hugged me tight. The two of us sat in silence for the next couple of minutes. I only cleared my throat when I saw headlights approaching the house, seemingly my Uber to take me home and out of this hell.

  “Any luck with Jacob?” I said through a sniffle.

  “Oh, him? No. He’s fine. I’m gonna come home with you.”

  “You sure?” I said. “Jackie—”

  “Is doing Jackie things. Trying to make Kevin like her.”

  Oh, Jackie. You don’t have to make everyone happy. You don’t have to appease everyone.

  “Come on,” Samantha said, walking up to the Uber and opening the door. “Let’s go.”

  Sometimes, the best part about a friend like Samantha was knowing that we didn’t have to talk for us to comfort each other. On that ride home, I didn’t want to talk about Adam. I didn’t want to talk about how everyone would laugh at me in school for the rest of the year. I didn’t want to speak about h
ope in the future.

  I just wanted silence and peace. I wanted the greatest sound in the world—a lack of yelling, a lack of fighting, a lack of tension—to fill my ears. I just wanted to be.

  Samantha actually fell asleep in the Uber, but that only made the situation better. I had the assurance of knowing she was there with me, but she didn’t have to speak or be my therapist. She could be that in the morning.

  When we got back to my place, I gently nudged Samantha awake. She woke up with a startle, which I chuckled at. It was nice to have something lighthearted to laugh about.

  “Spend the night in my room,” I said. “Did you drink at all tonight?”

  “One glass,” she said.

  But one glass to a girl as skinny as Samantha, no matter how tall she was, was enough that I didn’t want her to risk it. Even if she got pulled over and passed the sobriety test, she’d get caught underage drinking, and a girl with Samantha’s potential didn’t need to incur any risk.

  “Then come with me.”

  Samantha nodded as we leaned on each other going into my house. I stole a glance to my right and saw my mother passed out on the couch, a bottle of liquor by her side, probably vodka. I heard my Dad snoring when we got upstairs. If my parents truly had come to America for me, they seemed intent on sacrificing their own happiness for me.

  Don’t turn into them, I thought. Don’t let the world knock you down. Be grateful for what you have and be a happy person.

  Positive thoughts could not completely wash away the stain of Adam’s words. I wasn’t sure anything could other than plenty of time and a great deal of distance.

  But it at least ensured I didn’t fall asleep in tears. And after the way tonight had gone, that was all I could really ask for.

  * * *

  When I awoke, Samantha had already left. I checked my phone to a text from her and Jackie. Samantha thanked me for letting me crash, while Jackie’s last text had come around two in the morning, asking where I was. I bit my lip and held my fingers back from saying anything mean—I’d explain to her in person why I had left early later.

  I looked at the clock. It was just after nine in the morning, meaning I had less than an hour to get ready for my part-time job delivering pizza for Dimo’s, a local chain. Thankfully, Dimo’s didn’t have the same dress code as a high school party; as long as I had on closed-toe shoes and clothing that didn’t reveal any cleavage, I could really dress however I wanted.

  This, however, did not mean I had all the time in the world, as the drive to Dimo’s took about twenty minutes, and I liked to get there five minutes beforehand to settle in. The hurry, though, was a plus—it meant I didn’t have to think about last night until I was showered, dressed, and in the car, heading toward the pizza store.

  The questions, not surprisingly, had not gotten any new answers in the time since I had last thought them, and so I turned on the radio, blaring Fuel’s “Falls on Me” as I drove closer to Franklin, the small town that had Dimo’s. I sung along to the lyrics, which kind of worked for keeping me distracted. When the song ended, I skipped through my Spotify until I found another song I liked—this one “American Idiot” by Green Day.

  I found plenty of empty sets in the parking lot of Dimo’s. Most of the store’s employees, the manager aside, either showed up late or not at all. I needed all the money I could get, especially since my parents liked to be stingy and frugal if it was not related to education. That, and I liked to have some measure of independence from them.

  “Ayy, what’s going on, Emily?”

  I turned to see Russell, a white guy who liked to speak as if he were on a Dr. Dre or Snoop Dogg song, waving at me and nodding his head to me.

  “Hi, Russell,” I said.

  “Ay girl, whatcha got goin’ on?” he said. “Ya lookin’ kinda tired there. Ya party hard last night? Get crunk?”

  That’s another reason why I appreciate this job. It’s a way of telling me that I need to work hard so I don’t stay here.

  “It was fine,” I said.

  “Fine, eh?” he said. “Fine like ya beautiful body?”

  I rolled my eyes. Russell was actually a nice guy when he wasn’t trying to be a poser, but unfortunately, that wasn’t very often. If ever I needed a reminder to stay true to my beliefs and values, all I had to do was look over at Russell to realize acting as he did didn’t result in much.

  “Let’s just get this shift through, shall we?” I said.

  For the next seven hours, the shift went fine. I made some deliveries, got a good tip one, no tip on two, but all in all, I had some decent money to make do with. I had no illusions that the kind of money I was making as a pizza delivery girl were anything in comparison to my friends at Providence Prep, but I kind of liked it that way; when I finally would make the kind of money to treat myself as Adam’s parents treated him, I would appreciate it more.

  I had an hour to go shortly after 5 p.m. when the manager, a woman named Michelle, called for me.

  “Delivery, Zane!” she shouted.

  I packaged about three boxes worth of pizza and read the label.

  118 Broad Street, Franklin, Tennessee.

  No. Fuck. No…

  “Zane? Is something wrong?”

  Oh, quite.

  That was Adam’s address. I didn’t think he knew that I worked at Dimo’s—I almost never delivered to my peers’ houses, and the few times that I did barely registered as a thing to talk about at school—but after last night, I felt like anything was possible for him. What was he going to do, tell me that the only tip I was going to get was of his dick? That I had to really earn my tip? That I had to grovel for it?

  “No, nothing’s wrong,” I said through my teeth.

  “Holy shit, that’s the Collins!” Russell said when he came over. “Damn, girl! You lucky ho. Them rich folks tip you like you wouldn’t believe!”

  I had a one-in-three shot of it being Adam, which meant the odds were in my favor. And the money never hurt. Plus, you vowed that you weren’t going to let Adam affect you this year. Are you going to let him affect your income?

  “I know,” I said as casually as I could. “Good way to end the shift.”

  Before Russell had a chance to say anything else—and really, before I had the chance to change my mind—I walked out of the store, headed for my car, and pulled out of the lot. At least this way, the desire to not get fired for stealing food was stronger than the desire to not get humiliated by Adam Collins. I just blared Green Day loud enough to drown out my thoughts until I pulled up to the neighborhood containing his mansion.

  Many people who had delivered here for the first time were so stunned by what they saw that they couldn’t stop talking about it. Even some of the kids at Providence Prep, all but the scholarship kids coming from upper class families, expressed awe at the house that Adam and his family lived in.

  I couldn’t care less. If anything, it felt a little over the top, like someone had spent far too much money and time trying to impress people who couldn’t care less.

  I couldn’t care more, however, about trying to make sure that this delivery went off without a hitch.

  I went up to the door and hit the doorbell before I could doubt myself or fear anything that was to come. If it was Adam? I’d figure it out from there. I’d be professional, demand his signature, and leave. If I got no tip out of it, then I’d live with that. If I got a smartass tip like I’d described before, I’d hand it to Michelle and let her process it however she wanted. Either way, at least now there wasn’t a crowd to humiliate me before.

  The door opened…

  And Adam’s mom answered, drawing a huge smile from me.

  She actually wasn’t that old relative to us; I think she was only in her mid-thirties, very young compared to most of the moms at Providence Prep. She was a beautiful, sweet brunette lady that I had not seen in nearly three years.

  “Emily Zane?” she said, a smile forming on her face. “Is that really you?”

&
nbsp; She has no idea how much her son hates me, does she? She has no idea how badly things have fallen apart.

  Oh well. Just smile and give her what she needs.

  “It is,” I said. “How are you, Mrs. Collins?”

  “Oh, stop, you can call me Amy,” she said. “I don’t need the reminder that I’m old enough to have a son going to college soon.”

  I chuckled politely.

  “Well, you still look quite good, Amy,” I said, even though it felt unnatural to call an older woman by her first name.

  “Thank you, you’re very sweet,” she said. “I can see why Adam talks about you as much as he does.”

  “What?”

  I couldn’t help myself. Adam talked about me… as much as he did? What?

  That didn’t make any sense. Unless his mother was trolling me and mocking me as much as he was… but if she was, it was impossible to tell the difference. I definitely was not picking up on any mocking or even condescending tone. There was nothing that Amy Collins was saying that could have been perceived as putting me down.

  “Oh, yes, dear, he mentions you a lot when we’re together, which, unfortunately these days, isn’t much. He seems to want to hang out with his friends more than us, but who can blame him, right? He’s a teenage boy with one more year in school.”

  “I know,” I said. He’s eighteen. That’s a little bit beyond teenage boy. “That’s sweet.”

  “It is. I was surprised when he said he ended it with you, but I’m glad to see you’re still talking.”

  That… OK.

  “It’s not what it once was, but it’s OK,” I said.

  This was starting to lurch pretty hard into awkward territory, but I wasn’t paying attention to that—I was just shocked that Adam still talked about me to his parents. Why would he? Maybe this is part of understanding him. Maybe…

  Or maybe he just doesn’t have anyone else to talk about.

  “Oh, sorry, I haven’t even given you your pizzas or the receipt yet,” I said, fumbling for that.

  “It’s alright,” his mother said kindly.