Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
I successfully manage to maneuver around them this time, but it doesn’t stop Louisa from calling out after me anyway. “You better watch your back, Cherrybitch. That’s the only warning you’ll get.”
I throw a hand up and wave as I pick up the pace, heading down the hill toward the student center. Sybil was kind enough to let me know where detention was since Mr. Carter failed to inform me. He did arch an eyebrow at me before I left, and I almost asked, but it felt like he was challenging me. I think he has me pegged for another run of the mill rich kid with entitlement issues, but I’m here to prove him wrong. While I was undeniably flustered in his presence at first, his abrasive personality was enough to douse me in cold water. The man might be hot as sin, but he’s also completely detached from human emotion. Briefly, I wonder how he came to be that way, but I try to forget it as I stride through the student center and find room 206.
Stupidly, I had anticipated I wouldn’t be the only one in detention today, but one glance at the empty classroom has dashed that hope. Worse yet, when I see the dark figure lurking at the desk inside, my heart jumps into my throat. Mr. Prince of Darkness, aka Satan, isn’t just my research teacher. He’s also my warden.
“Are you going to stand there all day, Miss LeClaire, or do I need to give you permission to take a seat?”
Crap.
I’m staring at him again. Why do I keep doing that, and how do I make it stop? Moving my leaden feet, I traipse across the room and sit down at one of the tables in the second row. At least now there’s some distance between us, and I can pretend I’m working on something while I doodle in my journal. Even though I have homework, there’s no way I can concentrate in his presence.
He doesn’t say another word, but our eyes clash as I retrieve a few things from my bag and lay them out on the desk. Binder, notepad, pens, a few books to look legit, and my journal. When Mr. Carter settles into his seat and begins going over his own paperwork, I settle in too.
Flipping through the pages of my journal, I smooth my fingers over the edges of some of the photos I took this summer. They are mostly sunsets and candids of people on the beach, but also the occasional bird and plenty of shots of me and Sybil goofing around. While nature is great for practice, people are my favorite subject to photograph, and I have some shots of Sybil I’m especially proud of. She even asked me to print them out so she can use them in her dance portfolio.
More than a few times, I considered showing them to my father. Once upon a time, he had a passion for photography. He loved his job, and he was good at it, but he never made it big, so he gave up his dream when he traded his soul as a corporate slave. The dissatisfaction is written all over his face, and now I can’t help but wonder if that will be me in ten years. He’s told me on more than a few occasions that photography can only ever be a hobby for me. Neither of my parents see it as a viable career choice even though my mother hasn’t had her own career in decades. She hates the very idea of me wasting my time behind the camera so much that she even broke one of my lenses last year in a drunken fit.
Darkness infiltrates my vision as I flip through my journal until I find a blank page. A new chapter. This is the part of my life where I focus on the things I’m supposed to be doing. Acing all my tests, getting good grades, and going to the college my mother wants. But what about my happiness?
I find myself scribbling that last sentence onto the page with a pink gel pen before a tear inadvertently slips from my eye and splashes onto the ink, splattering it like a sign of things to come. And when I quickly wipe my eyes and sneak a glance at Mr. Carter, I’m mortified to find that he witnessed the entire event. Our eyes lock, but he doesn’t say a word, and neither do I. For a moment, I find myself studying the lines of his face again, considering how easy he would be to photograph. There isn’t a bad angle on him. But the permanent scowl on his face hints at something darker under the surface. Something broken and jagged and full of pain or rage. Those of us who know can recognize these qualities in each other.