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I just hope I don’t turn out like my father and hurt her the way he broke my mother, because I can guarantee this girl will always be mine.

And I don’t even know her name….

Heaven – Seventeen Years Old

“Alright, class, that is it for today,” Mr. Sanders, my math teacher, says as he looks around the room. Everyone starts to put their stuff away. “I want you to complete chapters nine to twelve before next Friday. There will be a quiz on them,” he continues, and everyone groans.

I swallow hard and shove my notebook in my bag along with my new math book, which I’ve already completed last year, not that the man knows, but I guess that is what happens when you’ve attended eight different schools in New York and its surrounding areas in five years.

“Ms. Daniels, can I have a word before you leave, please?” Mr. Sanders asks as I stand from my desk. I sigh internally but nod as I head toward the front of the room.

He doesn’t look up as I approach his desk, and I don’t say anything.

The man looks to be in his early thirties, and I’ve noticed him smirking at three of the girls in my class more than once while they batted their eyes at him.

He likes girls young, and it’s obvious he’s screwing them, maybe not all together, but he definitely has something with them, and I should know; I recognize the signs, and considering my mother has had more boyfriends than I’ve had underwear, it’s something I’ve had to live with.

Every boyfriend Mom has had cheated on her, including my father, who ran out when I was six.

Her taste in men went downhill the moment he left, unable to hack it alone, yet she didn’t care as long as they took care of her, something she could not do herself. I mean, I’m shocked Ihaven’t ended up in foster care over the years with the type of men she allowed into our homes, and yes, I meanhomes.Plural.

Mom has moved me all over New York; the Hamptons, Brooklyn, and the surrounding areas. Each time one of her “boyfriends” cheated or left her, she moved us without a thought for me or a consideration for my education, and because of that, I’ve repeated several subjects over the years.

“I understand we’re at the end of the school year,” Mr. Sanders starts, still not looking up as he shuffles through some papers. “And I understand you’re most likely behind with all the moving about, unfortunately, if that is the case, then you’ll have to redo the year.”

I raise a brow at him. He clearly hasn’t read my transcripts.

“We’re AP math, and it can be hard to catch up, so we need to make a plan; we need to see where you are in the materials, and whether or not you need to go to a lower class and retake the school year,” he continues before he finally looks up.

His dark blue eyes take me in not so subtly. They start at my feet, past my baggy jeans and hoodie, until we make eye contact, and instantly, he reminds me of my mom’s boyfriend from when I was eight.

Alejandro.

They were together for nine months, and in those nine months, he was screwing the babysitter, her mother, and the fifty-year-old that lived below us, and I only know that because Mom goes on and on about each boyfriend she had and how horrible men are.

In her words, they’re disgusting, cheating scumbags that can’t find a woman’s G-spot, yet she can’t go a week without a man in her life.

Mr. Sander's eyes go back to my hoodie, right where my breasts are fully covered, and I narrow my eyes.

Yeah, he’s exactly like Alejandro, though that man had tried to touch me inappropriately, managing to put his hands down my pants, making me scream at him and jump back. He lied to my mother, saying I freaked out when I saw a spider.

When I told her what he did, she slapped me and called me a liar, and it was a week later that she caught him screwing my babysitter. I remember waking to Mom screaming and shouting before she stormed into my bare room demanding I pack becauseherhome was tainted.

“Now, if you don’t want to restart the year and stay in my class, I may be able to do something about that,” he continues as he stares at my breasts before making eye contact with me, and I raise my brow.

“Are you trying to proposition a student, Mr. Sanders?” I ask, making his eyes widen, and I continue, “I mean, I’m seventeen years old, new to the school, and a virgin.”

He winces at my words, and I smirk. I guess bedding a virgin isn’t his thing.

Jackass.

“The work you have assigned, I’ve already completed. If you check my transcripts, you’ll see I’m currently working a year ahead for my level where AP math is concerned. Next year, Ishouldn’t have to take math, and I should be doing study hall instead.”

His eyes widen as his throat bobs, and I give him a sweet smile as I hike my backpack on my shoulder and state, “I’m not into sleeping with teachers to get good grades. I already have them, and it’s kind of gross that you can’t get a woman your own age, so you have to blackmailkids.” I tilt my head and remark, “If you could contact my guidance counselor, I would really appreciate it. She can confirm my grades, and by the next class, I would be grateful to have the correct work.”

Shocked, Mr. Sanders slumps back in his seat, but I shrug and turn, leaving him stunned.

Shaking my head, I walk into the corridor, instantly lower my head, and start my trek to the cafeteria, my stomach grumbling.

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