“I made you something in art class.” She smirks as she sets down a paper craft letter S that looks like it’s been painted with blood. “Since you’re so fond of red, I figured you deserved your own scarlet letter. S for slut.”
“What the hell is your problem, Louisa?” Sybil hisses.
“Did you take my homework at lunch?” I accuse.
“Is there a problem here?” Mr. Carter interrupts the hubbub, his shadow falling over all three of us. When I glance up at him, he only looks at me briefly before turning his gaze to the red S on my desk.
“The problem is Louisa is being a bitch,” Sybil belts out. “And I’m sick of it.”
“Sybil.” Mr. Carter’s voice is a warning, but his gaze is on me now. He’s waiting for me to say something, but I feel like it’s a trick. Either way, I can’t win. If I throw Louisa under the bus, would it make any difference? She’d just come back harder next week. But I can’t keep letting her get away with this either.
“Stella, is there something you’d like to say?” he asks, challenging me with his eyes.
I feel his pressure bearing down on me. He wants me to make the right choice, but what is the right choice? I can’t figure it out at a moment’s notice, especially not when I’m lost in the forbidden green sea of his eyes.
“Use your words, Stella.”
Words. Right. I need some of those right about now because everyone is staring at me. I shift in my seat and fold my hands together beneath my desk. And then I remember Sybil’s speech about owning it. Who cares what anyone here thinks? It’s not like their opinions matter. Louisa certainly doesn’t matter, and I refuse to let her believe she’s getting to me. So instead, I take the scarlet S on my desk and secure it to my binder, displaying it for everyone to see.
“There’s not a problem, Mr. Carter. I’m sorry we interrupted your class. Louisa was just giving me a present for my birthday on Friday. I’ll be eighteen. Totally legal. I mean, an adult.”
Oh God, why am I still talking?Now Mr. Carter is practically scowling at me, and somehow, I’ve only managed to irritate him even more. How is it possible this man can make me shiver with a single look from across the room?
“Louisa, take your seat.” He returns to the front of the classroom. “Are there any other disruptions that can’t possibly wait until school hours finish?”
Nobody volunteers for that suicide mission, so Mr. Carter walks to the door to shut it. Once he’s satisfied with the tomblike state of the room, he continues. “Open your books to page sixty and retrieve your essays.”
Everyone shuffles around in their bags and pulls out their things while I quietly look through my binder one more time. But there’s nothing. Nada. I’m so fucked. I open my book to page sixty and hope by some miracle he won’t notice, but I should know miracles in his class don’t exist.
“Stella LeClaire, you’re first. Stand and read your essay to the class.”
A bead of sweat tickles the back of my neck as I remain in my seat, unmoving. It’s bad enough that I have to say it out loud. I don’t want to stand while I do it.
“Is there a problem?” He slides a pencil between his masculine fingers. Fingers that could so easily crush that frail instrument, and me.
“I don’t have my assignment, sir. I’m sorry. It appears that it went missing from my bag at lunch time.”
“It appears you seem to be full of excuses,” he bites back. “In fact, from what I’ve gathered over the last week, Miss LeClaire, you don’t seem ready to put in the effort required for this class. So why are you even here?”
His words sting, and I swallow down the shame I feel as I try to find an answer to that question. But the truth is, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing in this class, or any of the others. Or where I’m supposed to go to college. Or what I’m supposed to be doing with my life. And it’s all too overwhelming to think about. So instead, I remain silent. A silent participant in my life. And every day, I die a little more inside. Does Sebastian see it? Does he care?
“Take the day to consider it,” he says. “And only come back again when you are prepared.”
With that cold dismissal, I have my answer.
BY THE TIME detention rolls around, I’m strung tighter than a fiddle. Mr. Carter waits for me inside, silent and apathetic to my obvious emotional plight as I sit down in the desk directly facing him. I take two deep breaths and work up the courage to plead the case that I’ve been preparing over the last two periods.
“Mr. Carter?”
He barely acknowledges me, instead, keeping his attention on the stack of papers in front of him. “Yes, Miss LeClaire?”
“Stella,” I correct. “Okay, I’m just Stella. You know this. I know this.”
He drops his pen and looks up at me. “You might want to think twice about whatever you’re about to say.”
“You had your thumb on my lips,” I tell him. “I felt your body against me. I kneeled before you. So, I think we can skip the formalities from now on, can’t we?”
The corner of his lip turns up in predatory amusement. “Are you trying to blackmail me, Stella?”