Page 26 of Broken Skulls

“Pick up the pencil, Lizzie.”

I’m not sure why Mr. Baxter asked me to stay after school. Does he think I cheated on my test today? I would never. I nervously run my hands down my jeans before following his request.

He walks past me to the door. I hear him pull the shade closed and then the lock as it clicks into place. Then, he sits down at the desk behind me. I glance at him over my shoulder before quickly turning forward.

Mr. Baxter intimidates me. Not because he’s menacing or overbearing. It’s because he’s hot as fuck. He chuckles quietly behind me.

“Do you know why I asked you to stay?” he asks.

I shake my head, unable to speak.

“Danielle’s father came to see me yesterday. He seems to think that you and his daughter have an unhealthy fixation on me.”

My pencil taps nervously over the desk.

“Is he correct in his assumption?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

I sit perfectly still, not sure what else to say. Danielle’s stepdad must have found the dirty story we wrote about Mr. Baxter. Fuck. We were just being silly. Isn’t that what teenagers are supposed to do? I would never …

“Drop the pencil on the floor.”

My hand instantly stills. “What?”

“Drop it.”

Slowly, I lower my hand beside me, letting it fall to the floor.

“Stand up.”

When I’m standing, facing him, he pulls his pencil from behind his ear and drops it beside mine.

Something is wrong. Very wrong.

I watch as he leans forward, lining up the pencils horizontally, in front of me. When he straightens, his usually warm, kind eyes are dark … vacant.

“Kneel.”

My heart begins to race, and I look at the door, knowing I should leave.

“Now, Lizzie.”

Slowly, I drop to my knees at the harshness of his voice.

“Knees on the pencils,” he orders.

I grimace as I lower myself onto them.

His gaze roams over me as the minutes tick painfully by. It doesn’t take long before an ache begins to burn in my knees as the pencils deliver a torture I didn’t know existed.

After thirty minutes, tears begin to pool in my eyes. I can’t take it. The pain. The way he’s staring at me, void of any emotion.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

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