fog in my brain.
“What?” I snap my head up to find the entire class watching me.
“You going to take your seat, or just stand in the middle of the classroom for the rest of the hour?” His remark earns him a few snickers, but his face grows serious. As I pass, he stops me. “What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?” I pull my arm away from him.
“You look like a lamb before slaughter, Palmer.” He leans forward, nearly putting his lips to my ear. “This day . . . I understand, is all.”
With strong, determined posture, I roll my shoulders back and take my seat nestled between Breaker and Marek. Class continues like nothing has happened. Marek and Breaker’s papers are full of notes, while mine lays empty. My stare stays glued to Byron. He comes across as educated and eager to teach this class, but there’s something hidden inside of him, deep in his eyes, no one would dare to notice. When we aren’t willing to look deeper than the shallow brown pools, the truth stays hidden.
Byron turns from the chalkboard, locking his gaze on me. I fidget, knowing he’s addressing the class without dropping his attention from me. I break my eyes from Byron for a second and see the flat line of Marek’s lips. His spine is straight and almost as tight as the lines on his forehead. He worries his bottom lip, watching Byron taking me in, sinking further into his seat when he’s caught.
“Neglect kills injuries, revenge increases them,” Byron says to the class. “Does anyone know who said this?”
Everyone is silent, looking around for someone to chime in.
“Benjamin Franklin,” I call out.
“And do you know what he meant by those words, Miss Weston?” Byron stalks towards our row of desks.
“I assume he meant that if you don’t address those who have wronged you, then nothing will be proven to your enemies. If you’re willing to seek revenge, then it’s only a matter of time until blood will be shed.”
“You’re a smart girl.” Byron turns away but sneaks a look over his shoulder. His eyes cut to each of us. “Now, the question I have for all of you is, do we believe his words?”
Breaker’s gaze is cutting through me, straight to Marek, while Dixon’s is homed in on his brother. Marek’s, well, his is where it always seems to be these days. On me.
The bell rings, prompting everyone to gather their things and head to their next class. Byron takes his rightful place at the desk at the front. Dixon jumps over the row of desks to whisper something in his ear. Byron’s back tightens.
“What’s the plan for tonight?” Breaker asks, tossing a strap of his bag over his shoulder.
“Why are you looking at me? I don’t have any plans. It’s Monday, which typically means Delaney and I will be in front of one of our televisions watching shitty reality shows.”
“You have plans now,” Marek announces, dropping a not-so-subtle kiss on my cheek. “We’ll be there to pick you up at eight. We could all use the distraction.”
“Curfew on the weekdays is nine. What could we possibly do for an hour?” I question.
“One, we don’t have a curfew.” Breaker laughs, convincingly. “Two, bring Delaney along. Something tells me she misses me.” He winks and walks away backwards, keeping a cute smile on his face until he disappears from the room.
“See you later, Palmer,” Marek says over his shoulder as he follows Breaker.
There’s no way to know how I’m meant to feel. One thing I’m certain of is how domineering Marek is. He asks, and I hand over. There had been no uprising while he’d decided how I’d be spending my evening. Instead, I stood silent, agreeing with everything he said. He knew it, too. He’s also not the only one.
Frustrated with myself and my inability to hold my own ground, I jam my notebook in my bag and head down the steps for the door.
Byron blocks my exit. “He’s into you, Palmer, but you and I both know you aren’t the girl for him. You’re not built like Reed.”
“You don’t know what I’m built out of, Mr. Decatur.” I shove my shoulder into him, clearing a space for my body and dignity.
Though I stupidly choose to spend time with Marek, that choice doesn’t automatically give the rest of them permission to thrust themselves into my life. I’m not like Reed in that regard.
“Palmer,” Byron calls out. The heavy fall of his expensive loafers hit the