Page 24 of The Forbidden Note

Kids like this were once my terrors and now, I’m their teacher. Strangely, it doesn’t feel like I’ve managed to climb above the ranks. It still feels like I’m serving the rich at Redwood. I just traded a mop for a textbook.

Whispers blaze like a fire as I pass by.

I’m painfully aware of the attention, but I can’t escape it.

Accusing eyes peer at me from all directions.

Seeking.

Prodding.

Curious.

What’s going on between you and Snare King?

Jinx’s text echoes in my mind.

For a brief moment, there’s panic.

A sharp, unhinging nausea.

I breathe deeply and slide my hand over my pencil skirt.

It’s been almost a year of teaching and it still happens. That discomfort. Like the first downward spiral of a rollercoaster. The way your stomach flops and jumps to your throat. The way you grip the bar for dear life. The way you scream as your heart is torn out of your chest.

But I can’t scream.

I can only smile. Polite. Put-together.

I can only step through the giant doors every day and enter this world of shadows and money with as much class as I can.

No one knows what I did with Zane Cross in that hotel room.

And no one knows why I’m really here.

As long as I keep pretending that I have it all together, maybe it will start to feel that way.

Smile fixed, I spot one of my students.

“Vanya,” I stop her as she’s rummaging in her locker, “remember to turn in your essay before four p.m. today. I’m not offering another extension.”

“Yes, Miss Jamieson.”

As gently as I can, I remind her, “I understand that you’re busy with the cheer team, but you can’t neglect your studies.”

She nods, studying her sneakers.

The boy beside her—I’m assuming he’s her boyfriend—stares at me with a sleazy gleam in his eyes. His cataloguing sweep ends with a slow lick of his lips.

“Mr. Hall,” I say curtly. My tone demands that his eyes return to my face. Immediately.

“Miss J.” Lifting a hand, he runs his fingers through his brown hair and the fancy watch on his wrist glitters. His Tesla key fob is hanging carelessly from a fisted hand. “I heard you denied my transfer again.”

My smile disappears. Woodenly, I say, “I’m pleased by your…enthusiasmto join my class, but I have a select number of seats. Maybe try again next semester.”

“You said that last semester.”

“And it still applies. If you’ll excuse me—”

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