Page 9 of Under the Influence

I barrel into Chemistry, handing my schedule to the teacher. A short, pudgy man with a bit of a chip on his shoulder. He introduces himself as Mr. Bradshaw, giving me a syllabus.

"Everyone, we have a new student," he introduces, making me want to crawl into a hole. "This is Corinne. Make her feel welcome."

Everyone's eyes are searing into me as I take the only seat in the room, all the way in the back, next to Madden.

"So we meet again," he laughs, pushing his black hair away from his forehead.

"Yeah, seems so."

He glances down, scribbling something into his notebook. I can't help but notice how he looks a bit unnatural. His hair is as black as charcoal, and his skin is pale, the perfect shade of white. His eyes have a golden shine to them, kind of reminding me of a vampire. He's hot, in an—I don't care—type of way. Just believe me when I say it works for him.

"How did you get into senior Chemistry?" He asks, not bothering to look up from his notebook.

"How did you?" I snap, matching his curiosity.

I don't want these people to know where I came from, who I am. That was kind of the whole point of moving here.

His voice catches me off guard, "So Chicago, when do you try out for cheerleading?"

I almost choke on my laughter, "You are so off base. I don't waste my time waving pompoms around."

He eyes me, calling my bluff, "Those are 'cheerleader' legs, and you look like America's sweetheart. Just because you hide it behind a band t-shirt and a pair of Converse doesn't mean I can't see it." He moves his pencil from the notebook, pointing it at my legs.

"You don't know anything," I snap.

He smiles, "You're right. I don't. I don't know what mansion you stumbled out of, but I have a feeling you aren't going to offer up the information, so I'll guess."

I huff, staring back down at the Chemistry book at a bunch of useless crap I already know.

"Tortured popular girl gets dropped in a new school?" He judges.

I turn to him, kicking his backpack with the toe of my shoe, "Okay, Shark."

He stills, staring at the bag, "Touché."

"What position do you play?" I question, his head turning in my direction, his brows knitting together.

"What do you care?" He asks, closing his notebook.

"You're right," I snap. "I don't."

He smiles, placing his notes on my desk, "These are from last week if you want to copy them."

I don't need them, I could do this work in my sleep, but I take them anyway, pulling out my phone to take a picture of them.

"Thanks," I smile, handing the papers back to him.

Make that two friends.

CHAPTER

FOUR

NASH

I slam the front door of my house, walking straight up the stairs to my room. Coach will definitely tell my dad I skipped practice, but I don’t care. I don’t care about baseball, and I don’t care about my dad.

It’s hard to care about anything anymore.