Rebels Like Us. Liz Reinhardt

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      “No, I’m not from around here,” I agree, zero hesitation. “And I understand that there are rules, but where I come from I guess we’re a little more direct. So when I said what I did to Ansley—”

      “Ansley Strickland has nothing to do with this situation, Agnes,” Mr. Armstrong cuts in too quickly, his tone testy. I clap my mouth shut while he lies to my face. “Several of your teachers mentioned dress-code violations. I sense that there may also be an attitude problem.”

      “Dress code?” I echo.

      Which teachers? Why didn’t they tell me? My brain whirs, searching for answers, and then it all snaps together. This is like some John Grisham novel where they can’t get the guys on murder, so they finger them for a million counts of petty mail fraud.

      He can’t let me know Ansley tattled, so he’s going to invent other trumped-up charges.

      “First of all, there’s the problem of your piercing. The rule book clearly states two holes in each ear is the maximum allowed, and any other piercings are prohibited.” He glares at the tiny diamond stud I’ve had on the side of my nose since I was a sophomore. I got it the day Ollie got her Monroe piercing and the studs we chose wound up so small, it was a pretty underwhelming rebellion. “It’s also been reported you have a tattoo.” In front of him is a paper that maps out a never-ending bulleted list.

      “My tattoo?” I squawk the words like a repeating parrot, even though I clearly heard Captain Buzzkill the first time.

      I do have a tattoo... A red A in fancy cursive, my own scarlet letter. On the back of my neck. Considering my bob grew out and my thick, curly hair now reaches my shoulders, no one would have seen that tattoo.

      Except that I do tend to pull my hair up when I’m busy with classwork. Like Hemingway notes. But a person would have to be sitting behind me to notice.

      Huh, isn’t it funny that Ansley happens to sit right behind me?

      “That tattoo is covered by my hair—” I begin to object, totally losing my cool, but my new principal’s face is bland as he interrupts me.

      “I’m glad you mentioned your hair. I hope that color is some kind of washout, Agnes—”

      “This color cost a small fortune and was put in by one of the hair technicians who worked on What Not to Wear—”

      “Speaking of ‘what not to wear,’ as a young lady trying to make positive first impressions in a new school, you may want to reconsider your wardrobe choices.”

      I yanked on this particular T-shirt this morning because my sunburn made my back and shoulders a tight, itchy swath of irritated skin. I dripped as much aloe as I could on it after sobbing through an icy shower. My choice in clothes was completely comfort based: Ollie and I organized a breast cancer 5k freshman year and completed it in our Save the Tatas shirts, and I’ve worn mine so many times since then, it’s now tissue-weight cotton that doesn’t cling or rub. Perfect for sunburned skin. And to raise awareness for breast cancer, of course.

      Because who wouldn’t want to save tatas? A man who’s willing to play head games on a high school level would clearly be adverse to tata saving. Jerkwad.

      Make that Principal Jerkwad, sir.

      “I’ll give you to the end of the week to sort your issues out, Agnes. We’re not looking to pick on you here at Ebenezer High. We want to help you fit in and have a positive experience. Welcome to our school.”

      He says those last four words without a trace of irony. And just like that, I’m dismissed back into the cold halls of Ebenezer High, the school I thought I could take on. Now I realize those movies about clique-run, autocratic high schools that treasure conformity and beat down the slightest rebellion get made because those high schools exist, and the rebels survive to tell the tale on the big screen.

      I think I’ve just become the president of Ebenezer’s goddamn Breakfast Club.

      Which is fine, except for the fact that I might also be the sole member.

      I look at my pass and realize the secretary scribbled the time illegibly and a person could read the minute spot as a twenty or as a fifty. Which means I can hole up for half an hour and still use my pass.

      Gone are the days when an understanding school counselor I’d known most of my young life would pull me into a cozy office, hear me out, and help me smooth things over. I’m on my own here. And with a so-obvious target on my back, I’ll have to keep my eyes wide-open or I’ll wind up smiling at a cheering crowd while buckets of pig blood get dumped over me.

      And, with that macabre image in my head, I duck out a side door that leads to a sunny courtyard and feel the rough clamp of a hand on my shoulder. I open my mouth to scream, but a second hand covers my mouth.

       SIX

      “Nes, shh. It’s me. It’s jest me.” I hear Doyle’s voice and quiver like a plucked bowstring.

      I beat my fists on his chest as he yanks me under the shade of some trees. Real trees with wide, glossy leaves so dark green, they’re almost black, and white flowers that smell like rotting summer.

      “You scared the crap of me,” I hiss.

      His chuckle mixes with the lazy, hooded look in his eyes and takes the wind out of my fury. “I was worried about you. Was it bad?”

      “Armstrong just basically told me to buy a cardigan and join the cheer squad.” I spit out the words as we hunker down on the soft grass, hidden in the hot shade.

      “Are you into that? Cheer?” Close-up, I’m able to confirm that his eyes are almost a light purple, like a lavender. What a waste, for a boy to have what my abuela would call “Liz Taylor eyes.”

      Though, waste or not, they’re throat-closingly beautiful.

      “What do you think?” I walk my fingers along his hand because I can’t help it. “And why are you here? You should go before your ex gives her commandant uncle stalker notes that detail your every move.”

      “I think I’d rather have you on my baseball team than cheering for it.” His voice is all hungry and honey. “And I think Ansley might be targeting you because things didn’t end well with us, so I’m feelin’ kinda responsible for this BS.”

      “Great. Of all the boys who could have been landscaping half-naked in my backyard, it had to be the queen bee’s ex. What are the chances?” I should feel prickly, but those eyes...looking into them is like sliding into a hot tub. Their warmth bubbles all around me like the jets are on high.

      “I thought about what ya said. To Ansley. And about me and her. And you’re right. It’s time for her to get off her damn pedestal. I’m tired of how everyone jest lets her get her own way all the time.” Fury must change his eye color, because they’re a deep blue now, like the clouds around a full moon.

      “There’s a whole system stacked in her favor, Doyle. I should have listened to you. I should have kept my trap shut. Unfortunately, I suck at that.”

      He СКАЧАТЬ