Page 27 of Tis the Season to be Bullied

There.

That’s where I want him to touch me.

Right between my?—

Zachary holds up my pencil. “I don’t give second chances,” he says before tucking it back into my pocket. It must have fallen out when that guy bumped me. “I’m writing you up for this, and I suggest you do whatever it takes to be on time for my next class.”

His words mean nothing to me. I’m hypnotized by the way his mouth moves.

“Do I make myself clear, Miss Malone?”

He’s still a foot away, but I want him closer. I want to know if his touch will be gentle or firm. I imagine his large hands will demand from my body what he demands from my mind.

“Miss Malone.” It’s not a shout, but the snap in his voice goes right through me like he yelled.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” I babble. “I promise I won’t be late again.”

The door whooshes open. Sister Miriam steps inside, ruddy face framed by her habit. “There you are!” Her mouth turns into a cruel curve. “Wait in the hall for me.” She stabs out her finger, and my body moves without a single thought from my brain.

It’s blessedly cool in the hall, blessedly quiet.

I can hear them speaking, but I can’t understand a word through the closed door. I press my back against the wall and close my eyes, gathering myself with effort.

If the tingling between my legs is anything to go by, I’m going to have a hell of a time getting Brother Zachary out of my head today.

What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I suddenly acting like a teenager with raging hormones?

Yes, technically I am still a teenager, but I’ve never been?—

A slut?

When Sister Miriam comes out, she looks a touch calmer than she did going in. Zachary seems to have that effect on everyone except me.

“Follow me,” she says in a snippy voice.

“Uh…I have English?—”

“Not today. I’ve already spoken with your teacher.”

Miriam leads me to the main building, then through the dining hall and into the big kitchen. A few people move around the large space—I guess if you’re feeding so many students, meals take hours to prepare.

There’s a guy kneading bread nearby. His arms are dusted in flour up to his elbows, and his long blond hair swept under a hairnet. He looks up when we enter the kitchen, and his eyes stay on me the entire time as Miriam leads me across the floor.

There’s something familiar about him, and I only catch on right before Miriam opens another door and leads me through.

He was the one with the video camera.

I turn, glancing back over my shoulder.

He’s standing up straight, a smudge of flour on the tip of his nose. He’d be handsome if his features weren’t so gaunt.

I hesitate, and then wave.

He gives me a smirk.

The laundry room’s air smacks into me like a warm, damp towel. There are a handful of women and two younger boys in here, all drenched with sweat. Massive washers rumble along one wall. Clean linens drape a row of tables in the center of the long, narrow room.

Further down, racks of pressed uniforms stand waiting to be delivered to the boys’s rooms.

---