Page 14 of Forbidden Lessons

It’s the redhead from Professor Rooke’s class. She has her phone in her hand, and she’d been reaching for the same chair as me.

We stare at each other a second before she says, “Share?”

I give her a quick nod, and we both pull out a chair and take a seat opposite each other.

Light glitters off the metallic thread on her designer top, the black fabric covered in gold doodles that look like abstract art. She’s not the first student I’ve seen wearing clothing I’d expect to see in a Wall Street investment firm.

I guess the kids around here dress for the CEO position they want, not the non-existent jobs they have.

She brushes invisible lint off her fitted beige slacks, glances at the soda in my hand, and then gives me a millisecond-quick smile. “Soda’s really bad for you,” she says, holding up her can of diet cola.

My bark of a laugh turns some heads, and heats my face. The redhead just shakes her head and takes a sip from her can.

“I’m Haven.” I twist my cap on, then off. On. Off.

“Melissa.” She holds out her can, and I tap my bottle against hers. Brown eyes immaculately slicked with gold eyeliner narrow at me. They’re almost exactly the same shade as her rust red dye job, and it looks intentional. “I don’t remember you from prep. You live out of town?”

I huff quietly to myself. Of course she doesn’t recognize me. People living in Hillside would rather pretend Riversiders don’t fucking exist. All we do is drain the economy and make them uncomfortable when they dare to venture down to the Agony River.

“I went to Ashwood High.”

Her eyes widen. “Huh.”

“Social Change Grant,” I say, because Melissa seems okay and I wouldn’t want her staying up all night wondering how the hell a lowlife like me ended up in a nice place like this.

“Ah.”

No wonder she’s only drinking cola for lunch. Limiting your communication to brusque sentences or single vowels must really cut down on energy consumption.

I put my books down on the table, trying to look comfortable, even if I’m not. Melissa’s eyes dart to my things. She uses a single finger to drag my pink STFU pad out from under Rooke’s spiral notebook. Then she turns it to face her.

“Hm.”

“What?”

She taps the notepad. “Cute.”

“Pink’s not really my color, but I had limited options.”

Melissa sighs. “This town fucking sucks. I order all my shit online. But like weeks ahead of time.” She rolls her eyes. “You know our postal system. Swear Mailman Bob’s a crack head.”

“His name’s Ted, and he’sdefinitelynot a crack head.” I don’t mean to sound so harsh, the words just rush out of me like steam.

When she frowns, I hastily add, “But yeah, he’s hella sketchy.” She’s still frowning, forcing me to look away.

My eyes land on the notebook. The words ‘Activity Log’ are printed on the cover in white. “So what’s up with this? I zoned out when Professor Rooke was explaining it.”

“Yeah, Rooke…” Melissa sighs, her delicately arched eyebrows lifting as she swaps out my STFU pad for the black notebook our teacher gave me. “Fuck.” The last is almost a groan.

I suppress a laugh.

And here I was thinking what a fucking degenerate I am because I think my professor is hot.

Maybe every girl, and even some guys edging toward the more bi or pan-sexual side of the spectrum, has the same reaction. Why wouldn’t they? He’s so damn easy on the eyes, and then there’s that boatload of confidence bordering on arrogance.

He makes every guy I’ve ever known look like an awkward, hopeless teen or a sad, washed out man.

Except Kai.

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