The Rebel of Raleigh High (Raleigh Rebels #1) - Callie Hart Page 0,17
so bad that almost got you sent to prison. Are any of the rumors people are saying about you true?”
He stops listening to the rain. The pressure returns, pressing in on all sides, though he doesn’t turn his head toward me. He faces the windscreen, eyes burning holes into the glass. “I did what had needed to be done. And I don’t know if any of the rumors are true. No one’s said any of them to my face.”
“Yeah. Well…” I shift uncomfortably, leaning my elbow against the car door, chewing on my thumbnail. “Consider yourself lucky.”
“That’s right. A fellow black sheep.” I hear the sharp-edged smile in his voice. “Are any of the rumors about you true, Silver?”
Heat flares in my cheeks. I’m used to all the major high school players of Raleigh High spreading the lies and hurtful gossip about me, laughing at my story of woe, disbelieving me, calling me every name under the sun, but not one of them has actually come and asked me what really happened.
The truth will set you free. I’m not a churchy person; I don’t believe in God. I've read sections of the Bible in religious studies, however, and I’ve experienced enough of life in Grays Harbor County’s tiny little backwater towns to know that this piece of scripture should come with a caveat: the truth will not always set you free. Sometimes, the truth will ruin your damn life. Sometimes, the truth will make your life a living hell, and you’ll wish you kept your goddamn mouth shut.
New Boy’s asking me for the truth now though, just as I asked him a second ago, and I’m torn between giving it to him and making something up. Something fantastical and unbelievable. Something outrageous. At this point, what the fuck does it matter anyway? When it did matter, no one listened. No one cared.
I blow a frustrated breath down my nose, digging my fingernails into the top of my thigh, feel the bite of pain there and reveling in it. Needing it to calm my nerves. “I’m sure half of whatever you’ve heard is true. I’m sure the other half is bullshit.”
“Which half is which?”
“Take your pick. It doesn’t even matter anymore.”
His eyes are on me. I feel his scrutiny like I might feel a hand on my shoulder—a very physical, very real thing. “Do you sell coke out of your locker?” he asks.
I bite back laughter. “Look at me. Do I look like some kind of drug kingpin to you?”
He shrugs one shoulder, looking me over. His gaze diverts from my face, down to my band tee and my plain blue jeans. He pauses on my scruffy, worn high tops and smirks. “Tough call. Some drug dealers are tattoo-covered, motorcycle-riding degenerates. Some are librarian grandmothers with RSI and a weed card.”
God, he’s infuriating.
“No, I do not sell coke out of my locker. If that’s the real reason you came over here to harass me, then I’m afraid you’re shit out of luck.”
“I don’t want to buy drugs from you, Silver. Remember, I’m a tattoo-covered, motorcycle-riding degenerate. I can find my own coke.”
“Awesome. Why am I not surprised that you’re a drug user?”
“D’you turn tricks for cash?” Alessandro doesn’t even blink. From his expression, it looks as though he just asked me what fucking day of the week it is.
An uneasiness begins to creep into my bones. Surely, he didn’t come here for that. “No. I don’t. I’m not a whore.”
He nods. “And what about the rape thing? Did you wrongly accuse a bunch of students of raping you last year?”
Ashen, my heart beating faster than it has in a long time, I force myself into making eye contact with him as I slowly shake my head. “No. I didn’t,” I whisper. Alessandro doesn’t move a muscle. A water droplet, beaded on the end of his dark hair, falls and lands on the leather upholstery of his seat. Outside somewhere, on the other side of the parking lot, a girl shrieks, laughing, presumably running from the school building to her car in the rain. I steady myself, laying myself bare as I rebelliously stare down the abrasive boy with the slightest, softest lilt of an Italian accent to his rough, resounding voice.
Lightning flashes overhead, and three long, unbearable seconds draw out before an explosion of thunder crashes overhead. Alessandro takes a deep breath. “Not wrongly accused, then,” he says. There’s no accusation in his tone. No recrimination, or disbelief. He’s just stating