“Are you okay?” Lyla asks.
“Yeah.” I nod and glance behind me, seeing J.D. smiling and shaking his head, while Trey leans forward on the table and glares at me.
She did that in front of him. Good girl.
I turn back to my partner. “What did she write?”
Lyla rises from her seat and takes a look. I hear a snort. “Um, are you sure you want to know?”
Great.
I nod.
“Um…” she starts, reading in slow syllables. “Needle Dick Douchebag Asshole.”
I break into laughter. Awesome. Stuck-up Ryen Trevarrow is learning how to play in the mud, and I feel a little excitement course through my veins.
“Do you want me to go get you some wet paper towels?” Lyla puts a hand on her hip, hovering.
But I just wave her off. “Fuck it. Just leave it.”
What do I care?
“Masen Laurent?” someone calls.
I sit there for a moment before I blink and look up, remembering that’s my name. The librarian is holding the receiver of the phone at the circulation desk and looking around.
“Yeah?”
She follows my voice and meets my eyes, hanging up the phone. “The principal would like to see you. Take your things just in case.”
But I don’t move. The principal? Heat floods my veins, and I feel weighted to my seat.
Why the hell does she want to see me? Does she know?
My breathing quickens, and I stand up, grabbing nothing because I brought nothing, and make my way toward the doors. I ignore the curious glances and snorts, probably because, as I pass them, they can see the shit Ryen wrote on my neck.
I should just leave. Walk out the front doors right now. But as I come up on her office, I find myself opening the doors, my resolve hardening. I haven’t gotten everything I came here for yet. I’m not running away, so let’s see what she has to say.
If she knows, she knows. Or if she found out my records are fake, supplied by one of my cousin’s shady connections, Masen Laurent is a name I made up, and I live in a dilapidated basement and sneak into the school to shower at night, then I’ll deal with it.
Either way, I’m not leaving. Not yet.
Stepping inside the front office, I nod at one of the receptionists. “Masen Laurent,” I tell her.
“You can go in.” She gestures to my left, but I already know where to go.
Walking up to the door, I knock twice, feeling my hands shake just slightly as I push it open.
“Hi, Masen,” the principal greets, looking up from her desk and smiling.
She stacks a large pile of folders, clearing a space on her desk, and stands up, holding out her hand for me to shake.
I lock my jaw tight and straighten my back. Her eyes are warm, and I suddenly don’t want to be here.
I force myself forward, slowly raising my hand and taking hers but letting go nearly immediately.
I shift my eyes to the side.
She’s silent for a moment, and I can tell she’s watching me. “Please sit down,” she says finally.
I take the seat in front of her desk and keep my gaze averted, making eye contact only briefly.
“Don’t worry,” she tells me, humor lacing her voice. “You’re not in trouble. I just like to try to meet everyone when they register, but you slipped in under my radar.”
Okay. That’s good news, I guess.
“So how are you liking Falcon’s Well so far?”
I unclench my jaw, replying flatly, “Fine.”
“And your classes?” she presses. “Are you finding the transition easy?”
Her eyes won’t leave me, and I shift in my seat, nodding as I stare at the picture frames she has on her desk. I remember seeing them the other night. Pictures of her family.
“Well,” she keeps going, starting to sound uncomfortable. “There’s so little time left in the school year, but judging from your records and your grades, you should have no trouble passing your finals.” She flips through transcripts and forms, from my fake file, no doubt. “Are you looking at colleges?”
I shake my head.
“Well, we have a great college-career center here. The counselor can help you make some decisions about where you’re going after high school and see about getting applications in.”
I nod, and we both just sit there, the silence growing more awkward. She clearly wants to be attentive but is probably figuring out whether or not I’m worth the effort when I’ll be out of her school in six weeks. Sooner, actually, but she’s doesn’t know that.
She inhales a deep breath and softens her voice. “Trey Burrowes is my stepson,” she points out. “He can be a handful, but…he’s my handful. Let me know if you have any more problems, okay?”