After Tonight Page 10

  And I’m halfway home when I realize that, on top of everything else, I’ve completely failed my objective. Not only is Smith not transferring classes, but now I’m the one running away from him.

  I need to come up with a better plan. Starting tomorrow morning, I’m not backing down or running away. Smith Asher is going to learn a whole new definition of “stand your ground” and, this time, I’ll be prepared.

  Chapter Eight

  Truth and Consequence

  Success! I’ve managed to avoid all Elizabethan sexual innuendos in class today!

  Of course, this is mostly because we stick to act two of Hamlet, where the theme is more about revenge than anything romantic—lots of Hamlet plotting his uncle’s demise and what-have-you.

  But, it probably doesn’t really matter, considering the fact that Smith isn’t even here this morning. Hence, my current mantra—

  I am not disappointed by this.

  I am not disappointed by this.

  I am not disappointed by this.

  It’s not really working and I’m completely disgusted with myself for still caring whether Smith Asher lives or dies. After yesterday’s encounter, you’d think I’d have sobered up enough to get over my irrational crush. But I have to force myself to focus on Hamlet’s plotting and Claudius’s retaliation.

  “So, what is Claudius’s reasoning for having Rosencrantz and Guildenstern come to visit Hamlet?” I ask the class, setting my book down on my desk.

  “I’m still stuck on that whole uncle-father thing,” Tyson says, leaning back in his chair and stretching his long legs out in front of him. “That’s nasty as hell.”

  “I know, right?” Jasmine Fields pipes up from the back. She swishes her dark hair over one shoulder. “Like, ew—who wants to do their brother? They must’ve been desperate back in the day.”

  I smile at her. “It’s weird for sure, but it’s not technically incest. Not like you’re thinking, anyway. It’s sort of like—well, do any of your fathers have a brother?”

  Several students nod.

  “Well, it’s like your mother marrying your uncle—your dad’s brother.”

  That doesn’t help matters—most of the room looks a little more horrified than they were before. “If my mom got with my uncle Bo, my pops would blow a freaking gasket,” Tyson snorts, shaking his head.

  “Well,” I say, “if you think that’s gross, just wait—there’s a scene in act three where Hamlet simulates having sex with his mother.”

  “Simulates?”

  “Pretends. Acts out.”

  Tyson’s eyes are wide. “You mean . . . they’re like, dry humping and shit?”

  And there goes my non-sexual-innuendo lesson plan.

  “For real?” Kristin Vertis, a petite girl with cocoa skin and deep-set eyes, looks like I’ve told her she has to eat a plate of worms. “What is wrong with Shakespeare?”

  “First—Tyson, watch your language. Secondly, probably a lot was wrong with Shakespeare. But he certainly had a big imagination, so we forgive him and appreciate his work.”

  But I think I lost them at dry humping.

  By the time the bell rings at the end of class, half of them are reading ahead to search out said “dry humping” and the other half are talking about who would kick whose ass if their mom hooked up with their uncle. I close the door tightly behind them when they leave and revel in the silence.

  For the first twenty minutes or so of my planning period, I grade essay outlines and plan out next week’s lessons, but my thoughts keep drifting to Smith—to where he might have been this morning and why he’d miss class.

  This isn’t your problem, I try to tell myself. It isn’t any of your business what he does and doesn’t do.

  And when lecturing myself doesn’t work, I decide to distract myself with junk food from the faculty vending machine. The way I see it, it’s never too early for snack cakes. Or potato chips. Or candy.

  I grab a couple of dollars from my purse and head down the hallway toward the teachers’ lounge. I think a Twix or Butterfinger might make it a little easier to concentrate. That, or give me a quality sugar rush, which might be preferable overall.

  But when I yank open the door to the lounge, I immediately stop in my tracks. There are three students inside, standing next to the vending machines. The only one I know is J. D., but the two others are seniors, too—one of them is on the basketball team, I think, and the other has one of those stylish ankle bracelets I’ve heard so much about.

  “What are you guys doing in here?” I cross my arms over my chest. “This is the teachers’ lounge.”

  J. D. glances over at me and there’s something about his expression that feels sort of dirty, like he’s picturing me naked while his eyes run over my body.

  “We’re just finishing up, Miss Hendricks,” he says, his voice deep and smoky.

  I’m about to assign them all detention, when I see one of the other guys hand J. D. a wad of cash. He pockets it, then pulls out a small plastic bag from his backpack. The blood begins to drain from my face and I can practically feel it as it courses through my veins, toward my pounding heart.

  A drug deal. There’s a drug deal going down, right now, in front of me.

  For a moment, I’m a little too shocked to move, and I watch J. D. bumps fists with his buddies.

  “Yo, I’ll hit you up later,” he says. As he walks toward me, I realize I’ve got my back to the door. Basically, I’m the only thing between J. D. and the exit.

  And I refuse to budge. Instead, I tilt my chin up and glare at him.

  “You’re going to need to come with me.”

  I look past him at the other boys.

  “So are the two of you.”

  At first, they just stare at me. Then all three of them look at each other and burst out laughing.

  “I’m out, y’all.” J. D. calls over his shoulder as he pushes past me and opens the door. “Peace.”

  I don’t even think about the right course of action. I just grab the strap of his backpack with one hand and tug hard.

  “Excuse me—where do you think you’re going?” I demand.

  For a long moment, J. D. stands perfectly still. His back is to me, but I can see his shoulders flexing beneath his shirt. Slowly, he turns back around and appraises me. I’ve never noticed before how large he is—mostly because I’ve never been this close to him. He’s not muscular—he’s just big. Heavy. Like a linebacker, but less athletic. He’s got a broad nose that looks like it’s been broken one too many times, and his eyes are bloodshot.

  Which is when I realize he isn’t just dealing drugs right now—he’s probably doing them, too.

  Now he cracks the knuckles on his right hand and takes a step closer toward me. The lounge door swings shut behind him with a resounding thud.

  “What do you think you’re going to do?” he says in a low voice. “You’re not even a real teacher—you can’t do shit to me.” He comes even closer and I hold up a hand between us.

  “J. D., you need to take a step back,” I say firmly.

  “I don’t need trouble from you,” he says, ignoring me and my hand. His mouth curls up into a sneer and I can see he’s got an under-lip tattoo on his bottom lip. Classy. I try really hard not to shudder.

  “You just do your teaching thing and stay the fuck out of my way,” he demands.

  I shake my head, refusing to back down. “No. You need to come to the principal’s office. I saw you dealing drugs. Not only is that illegal on a school campus, it’s illegal, period. You don’t get to walk away from this without some consequences for your actions.”

  He narrows his eyes.

  “Bitch, don’t make me explain this to you any more clearly. Stay the fuck out of my way.”

  He enunciates the last few words, then makes a biting motion with his teeth.

  Behind me, I feel the wall. He’s backed me into a corner, and the only door is now blocked by the other two students—two fairly large, fairly imp
osing male students, both standing with their arms crossed and smirks on their faces.

  “You need to back off, J. D.,” I say loudly, praying that someone will hear me through the walls. “This behavior is completely unacceptable and will not be tolerated.”

  He leans into me then, and I can smell the stale cigarette smoke emanating from his jacket. When his breath wafts over my face, the scent of liquor is unmistakable, too.

  “Being a nosy bitch won’t be tolerated, either.”

  He reaches out and grips my chin. I have to force myself not to quake with fear that’s coasting through me like a freight train. Instead, I open my mouth to scream, but before I can make a sound, J. D. clamps his hand over it.

  “I don’t think so,” he hisses.

  “Yo, Fenton.” One of the guys by the door looks nervous. “Let her go, man.”

  J. D. sort of snorts, then shakes his head.

  “These fucking grad school chicks come up in here and think they’re going to save the hoodlums of America. It’s about time I teach one of them a lesson instead of the other way around.”

  The other boy shakes his head. “Then you’re on your own, man. I can’t afford another suspension.”

  The two guys slip out without even a backward glance, effectively leaving me alone and at J. D.’s mercy.

  “Still want to tell me what to do now, bitch?” he hisses in my face.

  I try to speak, but his hand is still over my mouth. Desperate, I try to bite his palm. When he realizes what I’m trying to do, he chuckles.

  “A biter, huh? I wouldn’t have thought that about you, Miss Hendricks. It’s always the quiet ones that like things a little rough.”

  He takes his other hand and traps both of my wrists in a frighteningly strong grip. I close my eyes and swallow hard. I’m an idiot for thinking I should intervene on a drug deal.

  And then, without warning, J. D.’s gone.

  When my eyes fly open, I see him slammed up against the wall across from me, a muscular forearm and elbow crushing his windpipe.

  Smith.

  When he pulls back, J. D. drops to the ground, gasping for air.

  “Dammit, Asher—what the fuck’s your deal?”

  Smith sort of snarls at that.

  “You oughta learn to keep your fucking hands to yourself, Fenton,” he growls.

  “Shit, man, I was just trying to scare the bitch. Having a little fun, you know.”

  Smith cocks his fist back and sucker-punches J. D. right in the nose. He yelps and I watch as blood spurts out onto the linoleum floor. Guess that’ll be another time his nose has been broken.

  “You just stay the hell away from her,” he demands.

  Smith steps back, scrubbing a hand over his face. His chest is heaving and he’s staring at me now—his eyes look almost bottomless. They’re darker than I’ve ever seen them and deeper than I would have thought possible. I want to go to him, want to tuck myself into his arms and cling to him. Instead, I lean back against the cold, hard wall.

  When J. D. manages to get up, there is blood soaking through his shirt and he’s holding a hand over his nose. He starts to stumble toward the door, but, before he can reach it, it swings open and Officer Rains comes charging through.

  “What’s going on in here? I heard yelling.” He looks from J. D. to Smith, then over to me. “Miss Hendricks, are you all right?”

  I swallow hard, then glance at J. D.

  “I caught Mr. Fenton selling drugs to two other students. I asked him to go to the principal’s office. He wouldn’t listen. He used inappropriate language. He—he grabbed my face. He had me pinned up against the wall.”

  Officer Rains sort of sneers at J. D.

  “Didn’t your parents teach you to keep your hands to yourself, Fenton?” He looks him over, then quirks an eyebrow at Smith.

  “So, do I need to ask who worked him over?”

  Smith doesn’t say anything and Rains rolls his eyes.

  “Fantastic. A twofer. Follow me, Asher. We’re going to Weathersby’s office. Now.”

  “Fuck you. I didn’t do shit,” Smith spits at him. Rains narrows his eyes.

  “According to Fenton’s face, you’ve done plenty. You can follow me to the office or I can take you into custody. The choice is yours.”

  Rains half leads / half drags J. D. out the door. For a moment, Smith stands stock-still, his chest heaving with his breath and making his body look even broader. Stronger. When he finally heads for the door, he stops to look at me first.

  “Are you okay?”

  His voice is soft, but not gentle. I watch his fists clench and unclench at his sides. Then I nod.

  “Yes. I’m okay.”

  He gives me a long look, absent of any humor or warmth, then turns away from me and stalks out the door.

  ***

  The call I know is coming actually takes longer than I expected—it’s about ten minutes before the bell for third period when my classroom phone finally rings. The secretary’s pinched voice sounds annoyed, as though I’ve interrupted her while completing a hugely important task.

  “Miss Hendricks, could you please come see Mr. Weathersby immediately?”

  She hangs up before I can even say yes.

  When I get to the main office, she sniffs at me, then nods toward the bank of chairs next to the wall. From behind Mr. Weathersby’s door, I can hear muffled voices. When one of them rises to a yell, I wince.

  Seconds later, the door flies open and J. D. comes out, hands behind his back, with Officer Rains and another officer I don’t recognize following close behind him. J. D. glares at me coldly, then makes a big production of leaving the office, yelling “Fuck this place!” at the top of his lungs. The second officer grabs his arm and starts directing him out of the building. I feel almost paralyzed as I watch them leave.

  “Miss Hendricks?”

  Mr. Weathersby is standing by his door, both eyebrows raised. Hastily, I stand and hurry toward him. Inside, Smith is sitting in one of the chairs across from the large wooden desk. He’s looking out the window and I can’t see his face.

  “Officer Rains has informed me of the altercation that just occurred,” Mr. Weathersby says, crossing the room and sitting behind his desk. “I was hoping you could clarify what exactly happened in the teachers’ lounge this morning.”

  I swallow hard.

  “There was an incident between myself and J. D. When I walked into the lounge, I saw him pass a plastic bag to another student in exchange for cash. I confronted him about the bag, and he then grabbed me—my face and my wrists—and held me against the wall.”

  Mr. Weathersby coughs. “I’m incredibly sorry that happened. I assure you that J. D. will receive the highest level of discipline for his actions.”

  His eyes shift to Smith, then back to me.

  “What about Mr. Asher here? Did he get in your personal space as well?”

  Not lately.

  Smith glares at Mr. Weathersby. “I already told you I didn’t start this. I was being the good guy.”

  I nod. “No. He was very helpful—in fact, he put himself in harm’s way in order to assist me. It was . . . chivalrous of him.”

  I feel Smith’s eyes on me and I swallow hard, looking directly at Mr. Weathersby and nowhere else. The principal sighs, rubbing his temples.

  “Well, then,” he sighs, “ordinarily all students involved in violent altercations are required to receive disciplinary action. However, I’m told Smith’s already serving detention with you this week—is that true?”

  My eyes flick over to Smith, then back to Mr. Weathersby. “Yes—he’s been staying after school with me.”

  Mr. Weathersby nods again.

  “Alright, then.” He looks at Smith. “I’ll let you serve out your detentions with Miss Hendricks as your consequence. But, let me be clear, Mr. Asher—you do not touch people in this building. Ever.”

  I look down at my hands, still fisted in my lap. Touching people in this building is certai
nly something I’ve been avoiding when it comes to Smith. I guess it’s good that now it’s been fully mandated by my boss.

  “Mr. Asher, you’re excused. Miss Hendricks, please stay for another moment.”

  The chair next to me scrapes back as Smith stands. He brushes against my arm as he walks past and I wonder if that’s just a big fuck you to the whole “not touching” thing. Wouldn’t surprise me.

  When the door closes behind him, Mr. Weathersby leans back in his chair.

  “Miss Hendricks—Hyacinth. May I call you Hyacinth?”

  I blink at him. “Of course.”

  “I want to give you the opportunity to tell me anything you feel compelled to share with me.”

  I frown. “I don’t understand, sir.”

  “Listen.” He sighs, leaning forward and putting both elbows on the desk. “I know that Franklin is a tough school. I know that this is the second violent episode you’ve been a part of in a less than a week, and I want you to know that I’ll understand if you’d like to leave the position.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but Mr. Weathersby holds up a hand.

  “I took the liberty of calling the principal over at Percy Middle School on your behalf. They still have a student teaching position that’s vacant. You’d be in the social studies department, not English, but it might make for an easier semester for you.”

  I stare at him, unblinking.

  He thinks I want to quit.

  “We’ve lost a lot of interns over the years,” Mr. Weathersby is saying, shaking his head. “The fact is that this a tough place to break yourself in.”

  I nod slowly.

  “You’re right. It is tough here. Probably tougher than I imagined it would be.” I lean forward, placing a hand on the desk in front of me. “But, Mr. Weathersby, let me assure you—I don’t want to quit. I want to stay. I want to make this work.”

  And as I say it, I realize how true it is. I don’t want to go anywhere else—not when I just proved I can stand up for myself, even in the face of someone much larger and scarier than me.

  “Are you sure?” My principal looks skeptical and I smile at him.

  “I am—although, I have to tell you that I’m not particularly comfortable with J. D. being in my class now.”