first, all the early attention for a hot new guy had abruptly stopped. Exactly what I wanted. Then people started throwing me openly hostile scowls wherever I went. Not unexpected, and definitely something I could handle. Then losers wanting to impress Donna started bumping into me, attempting to shove me into lockers, trying to intimidate me, while the chicks—also wanting to impress Donna, although mostly for different reasons—started saying bitchy things about me as I passed. Having the entire school against me was more than I expected, but I could still handle it. There were only seven months until the school year ended, and I’d never be seeing any of these people again. What did I care what they thought of me?
I never fought back, never reacted more than to tense up and stop my ass from hitting the ground. I just sealed that impassive look on my face, turned my nose up as if none of these bastards mattered more than dirt on my shoes, and kept walking.
Inside, I was writhing.
Old habits die hard, and every time someone showed me aggression, I itched to drive my fist into their face, spear tackle them to the ground, knee them in the gut, do something violent. I knew it would make me feel better . . . momentarily. It just wasn’t worth it anymore. Not after what went down at my last school.
As I neared my classroom, a football came sailing at my head. I’d seen the quarterback throw it. I caught it, not even flinching at how close it got to my nose or how my hand stung from the impact. The guy had a good arm, had to give him that. I was pretty sure his name was Drew—I’d seen him hanging out with Donna and her group.
I fixed him with a deadpan stare. Nice try, asshole. A smile pulled at his lips as he stared at me in shock. He was as grudgingly impressed with my catch as I was with his throw. Suck on it—that’s exactly what you missed out on by scratching my name off the sign-up.
I let the ball bounce to the ground and walked into my classroom to take my seat, like a good little boy. As I opened my textbook, I allowed myself a little smirk of satisfaction.
The bell sounded, everyone settled, and Mrs. Shepard—a middle-aged woman with a killer rack that I’m sure was in the spank bank for half the boys at the school—started the lesson.
And my fucking pen ran out of ink. I scratched it aggressively against the paper, hoping to get the blue stuff flowing by force, but it refused to budge. My grip on the pen tightened to the point that I could feel the plastic about to snap. Dropping it onto the desk, I took a deep breath and, without even thinking about it, turned to the chick in the seat next to me.
“Hey, you got a pen I can borrow?” I whispered.
The look she gave me was so full of derision and outrage you’d think I’d asked her to get on her knees and blow me in the middle of class. It was just a fucking pen.
She looked away without even a response.
I’d wanted to be left alone, but this was ridiculous. How hard was it to be polite every once in a while?
Someone tapped my shoulder with a pen, and I turned in my seat. The chick one row back and to my right was holding out a black pen with a friendly smile.
I frowned and eyed the pen, wondering if it was laced with arsenic. She was one of Donna’s girls—and I’d picked up enough from overheard conversations to know that Mena was Donna and Harlow’s cousin and very close with them both.
So what the fuck was she doing acknowledging my existence?
“It’s just a pen.” She rolled her eyes, but with a hint of humor.
I took it and nodded. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Her smile seemed sincere as she sat back and returned her attention to the front of the class.
“Mr. Hawthorn.” Mrs. Shepard’s voice had me doing the same. “Am I boring you?”
“No, ma’am.” I held the pen up. “Just borrowing a pen.”
She gave me a skeptical look and got back to the lesson.
I did my best to pay attention, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the anomaly that was Mena. From what I’d seen, the girl was genuinely friendly and sweet. She had a purple birthmark on the right side of her nose