Page 25 of Lessons in Touch

“I must go too. I have tennis practice,” I tell him, and walk away. I try to make my hips sway on purpose, so that the short skirt rises a little off my ass and hips.

“What about my complaint?” he laughs.

“About the skirt? You’ll just have to deal with it, Professor.”

“Careful, Miss Devereaux. You’re playing with fire.”

“Am I? Then you should punish me…”

“Enjoy your lesson,” he adds, laughing. His eyes linger on my legs before he turns away, and he leaves me giggling. I can feel my skin tingling with the promise of him, and I love the sensation.

At the tennis courts, Coach Harlan pairs us for drills. He’s a wiry man with sharp eyes, and he’s wearing a tennis outfit with the Louis Vuitton logo printed boldly on the front.

Cassandra Vane is standing on the other side of the net. I catch the unmistakable Versace pattern on her sleeves—bold, loud, just like Cassandra herself. She’s judging me openly, not even pretending to hide the contempt.

Other students that I know by name—Liam, Marcus, and Evelyn—are hanging out nearby. Their eyes switch between me and Cassandra as we start to play a game of tennis. My racket connects with the ball, but Cassandra’s stare unnerves me. She keeps her racket idle until she can step closer.

“Wow, look at that, everybody! The adopted charity case thinks she knows how to play tennis!” she laughs.

“I don’t know how to play tennis. And neither do you, Cassandra. That’s why we’re here, taking a lesson,” I reply.

My answer gets a few chuckles from the other students, which makes Cassandra even madder at me. I can see her pale, white face turning purple, even though she’s trying to hide it.

“Maybe you need a lesson, stray, not me. Not us. We were born playing tennis. It’s part of our culture!” she says stupidly, and tries to reassess her position as my imagined superior.

I can see some of the other students stepping away from her. They are clearly not happy with the way she’s behaving. But her words still upset me.

“I earned my place here, Cassandra. Both because I am a Devereaux and because I applied just like everyone else. And I got in with top scores.”

“You’re only half a Devereaux, in case you didn’t know. Your mother was a bitch who died in an insane asylum after your father, the actual Devereaux, left her there.You’re a stray they picked up. This world isn’t for people like you.”

Of course, I know exactly what she’s talking about. But how is that a reason to speak to me like this?

“And you think that’s funny, Cassandra? A woman dying in an asylum, all alone, without her children… Do you believe that this is something to make fun of in the school yard? Like we’re five-year-olds, and not women in our twenties?” I ask her.

She looks shocked at my remarks. Especially since it looks like some of the other students are giving her odd looks as well now.

“Cassandra, we shouldn’t behave like this,” a boy called Liam tells her. “As the superior class, we have a responsibility to be kind and protective toward other people.”

While his words might sound kind, the way he says “superior class” rubs me the wrong way.

“You are not the superior class, Liam,” I reply. “You just have more money than everyone else. Cassandra is the best example that you are not superior in any way, shape, or form.”

Lillian, nearby, looks furious.

“Cassandra is right, stray! Wolfswood is for legacies, not orphans.”

I glance at Liam, hoping that he might defend me again, but he looks away. His silence feels like a betrayal. So, feeling angry now, I swing at the ball, but I miss.

“I’m a Devereaux. That’s enough.”

“Is it? You don’t belong here, Rose. You’re playing dress-up in our world. Go back to where you belong,” Cassandra shouts at me.

Lillian chimes in again. She’s twirling her racket in her hands, and that is a clear sign that she’s nervous.

“It’s cute how she tries, though. Like a puppy chasing its tail.”

My throat tightens, and I swing again. However, the ball just clips the net.