The other woman leaves, and the door remains open while Mrs. Hart stares at me in question. “What can I help you with, Stella?”
“I wanted to see if it was possible to withdraw from my AP Research class and transfer to something comparable.”
“Hmm.” She adjusts her glasses. “Let me check.”
I wait quietly while she clicks around my file and studies the class schedules.
“I’m afraid all the other AP classes are full. And I would highly advise that you stick with it if you can, since it looks like your career path is noted as a communications major. Is that still your plan for college?”
“Yes,” I admit. “I’m trying to get into Cornell.”
Or at least, that’s what I’m supposed to do.
“Well, you’ll need all the help you can get. Every detail makes a difference on an application. Can I ask why you want to withdraw from Research? It looks like you’ve already completed the first year of Seminar for the Capstone program. It might not work in your favor to quit halfway, as colleges are likely to notice.”
I bite my lip and squeeze my hands together in my lap, fighting my reluctance to betray Mr. Carter, even though he’s an ass.
“It’s nothing,” I assure her. “I think I’m just overreacting. It’s all a little overwhelming for me.”
“Okay.” She tilts her head to the side, studying me. “I know Mr. Carter can be tough on his students, but I assure you he’s an excellent teacher. He does have office hours too, if you need extra help. You’ll be well educated in his class if you can hang in there.”
“I’m sure I will.” I swallow and stand. “Thank you, Mrs. Hart.”
She smiles, and I move for the door, only to have my heart sink into my stomach when I see Mr. Carter standing in the office. And judging by the scowl on his face, he heard everything.
CHAPTER TEN
SEBASTIAN
ASFRIDAY DRAWS TO AN END,my irritation increases by the second. My father has called me an additional six times this week, which is unusual, even for him. I still haven’t responded, but I am questioning his sudden urgency to speak with me. Three of his latest letters rest in the bottom of the garbage can, and I have no desire to open those either.
In addition to that annoyance, Stella LeClaire is challenging my last nerve. I have to give her credit, she’s more resilient than I anticipated. Every day, she shows up on time for class, and every day, I find new ways to humiliate her. On Wednesday, I threw her sorry excuse for notes in the trash and told her to try again. On Thursday, I taped her assignment to the whiteboard as an example of what not to do. I gave her extra homework. I asked her impossible questions and challenged her at every turn. And still, she has not cracked. She remains as stoic as the day she walked out of the office after the little traitor tried to escape me.
In detention, she doesn’t bother to doodle in her journal anymore. She does her homework in silence and leaves. She only speaks when spoken to and never asks to use the restroom. Her devotion to perfectionism is getting on my last nerve, and it’s written all over my face as I glare at her from across the room.
This week, I took the time to dig a little deeper and do some research on her parents. As I suspected, Stella doesn’t hail from the typical wealth and privilege. Her father married above his station and crawled his way to the top in an effort to appease his model trophy wife. Now he works himself to death in the city while she spends her days socializing back in Greenwich. Interestingly enough, Stella has always maintained excellent grades, and her transcripts are proof of that. But regardless, Brady LeClaire had to call in a lot of favors to get Stella in the door of Loyola Academy, which explains her drive to do well here. The enormous cloud of pressure hanging over her head would be motivation enough for any young, attention-starved woman.
My investigation served its purpose, but it had not cured my growing appetite for all things Stella LeClaire. So I did something this week that I’ve never done before. I snuck into her dorm like a hormonal teenage boy and swiped her journal, proceeding to read through every page, front to back. All of her innermost thoughts. Her drawings. Her photos. And now I understand the thing that makes Stella tick. She has a knack for taking pictures of people. The little creep even snapped photos of me on the soccer field. When I found them on her camera, my dick became unreasonably hard as I considered her spying on me. The little deviant had zoomed in on my face, snapping away as I remained unaware. She captured something in me that I didn’t expect to see. A rare moment of passion. Passion for something in this uninspiring world.
Without thinking of the consequences, I deleted the photos in anger, and then to make matters worse, I ripped out a page of her journal. The page where she said she hated my guts. It’s still sitting on my kitchen table. Maybe I’ll frame it, or maybe I’ll throw it away. I haven’t decided yet.
Looking at her now, I want to forget the entire project. It’s becoming too complicated, and she’s getting under my skin. In the beginning, I told myself I was doing this to prove something to her, but now, I find that I just want to punish her. That urge only gets worse when I dismiss her, and she refuses to acknowledge me. But she does acknowledge Joshua, who’s waiting for her in the hall. He’s another lacrosse player and obviously someone who hasn’t learned from Ethan’s mistakes. I flay him alive with my eyes, but he doesn’t seem to notice because his are fixated on Stella’s chest.
“Hey, Cherrybomb.” He flashes a dimple at her. “What’s happening?”
“Hey, Josh.” She secures her backpack around her shoulders and shrugs. “Not much. Just another day in the life, you know. I practically live here now.”
“Right.” He laughs. “I was gonna say, you’re always in detention.”
They both glance back at me as I fiddle with my keys, taking my sweet ass time to lock the door. He doesn’t want an audience for whatever he’s about to say next, and I have no plans on going anywhere until I see how this plays out.
“So, uh, I was wondering…” Joshua shifts and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “You have anything planned this weekend? I was thinking you could come to the game tomorrow.”
Stella hesitates, and I think she might actually be considering it. My blood boils as I imagine Joshua sloppily kissing her and groping her under the bleachers this weekend, and before I can grasp onto logical thought, the words are coming out of my mouth.
“Stella, I need to speak with you for a moment.”
She turns around and meets my gaze with a blank expression. We haven’t spoken throughout detention for the entirety of the week, and I know she’s wondering what the hell I could possibly want now. I’m wondering myself when I re-open the door and gesture her inside.