Page 5 of Bad Boy
Crap.
I’m never late. Always on time. Mom and Dad have drilled punctuality into me since I could first tell time—at three, maybe? I don’t know. Seems about right.If you’re not fifteen minutes early, you’re late,Dad always says. Well, I’m definitely late. Like it’s actually past the time I’m supposed to be at the academy, and I haven’t even left the house. It takes me about fifteen minutes on my moped to get there, too. And I refuse to rush these mountain roads—safety is just as important as punctuality.
It’s Sunday, but I agreed to be the advisor for a new student starting in the middle of the semester. For extra credit, of course. I don’t know anything about him other than his name, Remington Michaels, and that he’s Mr. Keller’s grandson. I only vaguely knew he had a daughter who moved away when she was young, but I had no idea her son was my age.
I rush into my en-suite to put the finishing touches on my dark auburn hair. It’s cropped short on the sides, with some length on top that I smooth back and to the side with a little hair wax.
My complete heterochromia—one eye a bright green, the other a dark brown—is startling, even to me, because I look paler than normal. The freckles dusting my cheekbones stand out more, and the shadows under my eyes become more noticeable each day.
I lean down and splash some cool water on my face. My hands on either side of the sink and face dripping, I peer up to confront the boy in the mirror.
You’re late. Not so perfect now, are you?
I grab the hand towel on top of the pristine white marble countertop and dry my face harshly. The pressure is starting to build, and I’m just trying to fulfill every expectation my parents have placed on me. I have the Anderson legacy to live up to and. . .blah, blah, blah.
I quickly finish in the bathroom and pull an oversized, cream cable knit sweater over my fitted white tee. I would normally wear a button-up, but I didn’t have time to iron one last night. And I certainly don’t this morning, so a T-shirt and sweater will have to do.
I adjust my silver wire-framed glasses and check the time on my phone. It’s already eight-forty-five.Crap. I dig through my dresser and find my favorite pair of light-wash skinny jeans with the knees worn out. I hop around to get them on and rummage around the bottom of my closet for my boat shoes, slip them on with no socks, and jog down the stairs in a frantic hurry.
The kitchen is empty and spotless, like always. Not a crumb or intelligent lifeform in sight. I quickly eat a banana and grab my moped keys, rushing for the garage door. If I go a little faster than normal, I should get there by nine, but I still won’t speed. I can’t, actually. I’m topped out at about forty-five miles per hour.
The retro-style moped is a hybrid, so it gets amazing mileage and leaves virtually no pollution behind. I slip my open-face helmet on, careful not to mess my hair up too much, and walk my moped out of the garage. I sling my leg over and start her up.
Betsy Anne was a gift from Mr. Keller when I turned eighteen at the beginning of the month. He has a thing for buying people he cares about vehicles, even though I really didn’t want him to. But he twisted my leg, and I ultimately gave in and let him purchase Betsy as my one and only birthday present. He really is the kindest person I know, so I’m curious to meet his grandson. I haven’t heard anything about him, although it’s the weekend and I have no real friends, so I wouldn’t exactly expect to. We’ll see what people say Monday morning.
I cruise down the small hill that my house sits on. The freshly paved path is surrounded by a forest of beautifully colored oak trees. I make it to the main road in a couple minutes and turn right for my usual route to town and Blue Ridge Prep. People call it a ‘hidden gem,’ but really, it’s a hidden horror tucked deep in the same valley Hunter Springs is nestled in.
I’ve never meshed well with the other kids here. Although, Mom and Dad have never really allowed me to. They’ve ostracized me, controlling almost everything about my life. I’m expected to study hard, participate in student council and other approved extracurriculars, and practice the piano in my spare time. That’s it. That’s all theyallowme to do. All in a bid to continue the family legacy—go to Columbia, graduate with a degree in business, and run Anderson Holdings, Inc. Everything Idon’twant for my life and future.
But maybe that can change now that I’m eighteen. I’m ready to start living for myself and not for the appearances my parents want to uphold, but that is much easier said than done. Because here I am, once again doing something to makethemhappy. Not me.
The B I got on my last Chemistry exam will drop my overall grade to an A minus if I don’t get this extra credit. And my parents would not be okay with that. Our guidance counselor Mrs. Lewis specifically asked me to give a campus tour and be an advisor for the new kid. She knows I’ll do what I’m supposed to and not blow it off like most of these other jerks would. So, just like the model student that Ialwaysam, I agreed. I didn’t really have a choice. Like I said, Ineedthat extra credit.
And that’s why I’m currently on my way to school early on a Sunday morning. I hope this new kid will cut me some slack for being late. Maybe I could explain that his grandfather and I are friends. Anyone who meets Mr. Keller automatically loves him, so it’s not a far stretch to think that fact might hold sway. And also, there are only a dozen acres of forest separating our backyards. In terms of Hunter Springs, we’re practically neighbors.
* * *
I flip my blinker on and give the coordinating hand signal before making sure no one’s coming around the bend to turn onto the road marked with the massive Blue Ridge Preparatory Academy sign. The hideously painted spirit rock announces that it’s Ashley’s seventeenth birthday, and Lindsay and Sylvie love her.
I turn into the parking lot, and as I get closer to the main building, I spot a kid with dark tousled hair, black clothes, and tattoos snaking up his exposed forearms. He’s lounging on the brick half-wall separating the student lot from the rest of campus. With one leg bent and his knee poking out of the hole in his tight black jeans, he looks relaxed and completely unconcerned that it’s early Sunday morning, and he’s had to wait for me for at least half an hour.
I park in a guest spot and swing my leg over Betsy Anne. My palms are sweating as I attempt to tug my helmet off. I can feel his eyes on me—watching, analyzing,judging. Just like everyone else in this town. I ignore the prickling sensation that skitters down my spine and smooth my auburn locks back, walking over to him.
“Y-you must be Remington Michaels? I apologize for bein’ so late. I’m never late, honestly. Although I’m sure that’s what everyone who’s thirty minutes late would say, isn’t it? Um. . . please don’t tell Mrs. Lewis?” I swallow roughly after that awkward bout of word vomit.
Oh, God. Now that I have a better picture of him, he looks like he could kill me and enjoy it, too. Not because he’s bigger than me, but he has this aura that practically radiates trouble. His silver eyebrow stud glints in the morning sun, and he chomps on his gum, continuing to eye me up and down with a grin that pulls at one side of his mouth.
What the heck is his problem?
I clear my throat and hold one hand out to move this interaction along while I block the sun with my other so I can peer up at him, still perched atop the half-wall. “It’s nice to meet you.”
He abruptly hops down and lands with a thump and a clank in combat boots that have a ridiculous amount of straps and buckles. I look down at my skinny boat shoes, bare feet and freckles visible from the top. I hesitantly glance back up, and intense dark brown eyes lock onto mine. I’m frozen in place, hand outstretched and waiting.
Without taking his eyes from mine, he reaches out and clasps his warm, rough hand around my cold, clammy one. He doesn’t seem to mind though. Instead, he just squeezes tight and shakes it. And he doesn’t even mention my peculiar eyes.
“The name’s Remi,” he says in a deep and slightly raspy voice, causing my stomach to flutter unusually. I push my glasses up with my free hand, still shaking his with my right, which has now gone on for an awkwardly long amount of time. I’m not even sure how to break contact at this point. When I shake hands with Dad’s acquaintances, it typically only lasts two point five seconds.
My internal freak out is halted when Remi lets go and strolls over to Betsy, ghosting his hand over her shiny teal exterior. “Nice scooter.”
