Dead Silence
Page 8
“I hate her,” Chelsea declared solemnly, and somehow Violet managed to stop herself before she could agree.
Mostly because she didn’t hate Gemma, even though she wanted to in that moment. But that didn’t mean she didn’t have every intention of finding out what she and Rafe were up to. Why they were suddenly enrolled at her high school.
“Come on, V. We should probably get going too.” It was Rafe now, looking at her with smug confidence as he tapped his watch.
Violet’s jaw clenched. “I’ll be right there,” she ground out, emphasizing each word, enunciating every syllable.
He shrugged once more and she watched as he sauntered through the classroom door, throwing the strap of his backpack carelessly over his shoulder.
Jay waited until he was gone and then he looked down at her. “You didn’t know, did you?”
“I swear I didn’t,” Violet assured him, shaking her head. “Of course I didn’t.”
Inside the classroom, everyone had already taken a seat. Above the music box that no one else could hear, whispers filled the room as Violet stepped through the doorway, crowding the air and replacing the first-day exuberance.
There was a new kid in school.
Without meaning to, she found herself seeking him out the moment she stepped inside. He wasn’t hard to spot though. He sat by himself in the back of the classroom, and all eyes were either already on him or were intermittently darting in his direction. Beside him, there was an empty desk with a backpack perched upon its chair.
He was saving her a seat.
Self-consciously, Violet searched for another opening before realizing that the one next to Rafe was the only one left. She’d lingered for too long in the hallway.
Rafe didn’t seem to care that he’d managed to trap her, and that she had no other choice but to sit beside him. He only grinned when she rolled her eyes as she reluctantly made her way down the aisle toward him, listening to the barrage of whispered comments as she passed.
“. . . did you see his hot sister . . .”
“. . . different last names . . . must be adopted . . .”
“. . . heard he was in juvie . . .”
“. . . does Violet Ambrose know him . . . ?”
Violet ignored them all, keeping her gaze averted. She even managed to avoid looking at Rafe when she shoved his backpack onto the floor. It made a satisfying thunk, causing everyone in the class to turn and look at her as she took her seat. But instead of giving them the satisfaction of a response, she trained her eyes on the whiteboard at the front of the room, wishing their teacher, Mr. LeCompte, would stop dawdling in the staff lounge and get here already.
Mr. LeCompte was notorious for being late, she remembered that much from taking American Lit with him the previous year. But today, of all days, Violet wanted nothing more than for class to get started already.
She felt something tap against her elbow and saw Rafe from the corner of her eye, stretched all the way across the aisle, as he held something out to her. She jerked her arm away from him, and concentrated even harder on not looking at him.
“Psst.” She heard it, almost unnoticeably at first. And then louder, so that everyone in the rows ahead of them could hear it too. “Psst!”
She turned then, concentrating on glaring daggers at him now. “What!” she whispered back.
He held out a piece of folded paper in her direction.
Her stern expression cracked as she bit back a smile. Was he actually passing her a note in class?
Swallowing her amusement so it wouldn’t show, she snatched the paper from his hand and slipped it beneath her desk just as Mr. LeCompte wandered into the classroom.
“Happy first day of school, class, and welcome to AP Literature.” The way he said “literature” made it sound distinctly like he had a British accent, despite the fact that everyone knew he’d only spent one year abroad during a teacher-exchange program. He dropped his crumbling leather satchel on his desk as he walked to the whiteboard to write his name with red dry erase marker. Below that he started itemizing their first-quarter reading list.
Violet glanced as surreptitiously as she could at Rafe when she realized that she’d seen those same books on the shelves in his bedroom. She remembered them all, Catcher in the Rye, Heart of Darkness, The Handmaid’s Tale. His confident grin confirmed that he thought this class would be a piece of cake.
She, on the other hand, had only read one of the books on the list, Lord of the Flies, and that had been back in the eighth grade, so she probably wouldn’t get away with skipping it this quarter.
Ignoring her impending workload, she unfolded the note hidden in her hand.
Don’t be mad, was all it said in his blocky, boy handwriting.
Violet glanced over at Rafe, her head cocked challengingly. Why shouldn’t she be mad at him? He should’ve at least called to warn her that he and Gemma were going to be there today. She deserved that much, didn’t she?
She crumpled the note into a tight ball and shoved it into her backpack, which was on the floor by her feet.
Rafe shifted toward her, hanging from the side of his desk as he leaned all the way across the aisle. “Don’t be like that,” he insisted quietly. “It’s not my fault, V.”
She grimaced. “Stop calling me that.”
“What? V?” Now he was the one who was confused. “Fine. Whatever.” He shrugged. “Then stop acting like I did something wrong.”
“Ms. Ambrose? Mr. . . . ?” Mr. LeCompte interrupted them, and she could hear the warning in his fake-British drawl.
Mostly because she didn’t hate Gemma, even though she wanted to in that moment. But that didn’t mean she didn’t have every intention of finding out what she and Rafe were up to. Why they were suddenly enrolled at her high school.
“Come on, V. We should probably get going too.” It was Rafe now, looking at her with smug confidence as he tapped his watch.
Violet’s jaw clenched. “I’ll be right there,” she ground out, emphasizing each word, enunciating every syllable.
He shrugged once more and she watched as he sauntered through the classroom door, throwing the strap of his backpack carelessly over his shoulder.
Jay waited until he was gone and then he looked down at her. “You didn’t know, did you?”
“I swear I didn’t,” Violet assured him, shaking her head. “Of course I didn’t.”
Inside the classroom, everyone had already taken a seat. Above the music box that no one else could hear, whispers filled the room as Violet stepped through the doorway, crowding the air and replacing the first-day exuberance.
There was a new kid in school.
Without meaning to, she found herself seeking him out the moment she stepped inside. He wasn’t hard to spot though. He sat by himself in the back of the classroom, and all eyes were either already on him or were intermittently darting in his direction. Beside him, there was an empty desk with a backpack perched upon its chair.
He was saving her a seat.
Self-consciously, Violet searched for another opening before realizing that the one next to Rafe was the only one left. She’d lingered for too long in the hallway.
Rafe didn’t seem to care that he’d managed to trap her, and that she had no other choice but to sit beside him. He only grinned when she rolled her eyes as she reluctantly made her way down the aisle toward him, listening to the barrage of whispered comments as she passed.
“. . . did you see his hot sister . . .”
“. . . different last names . . . must be adopted . . .”
“. . . heard he was in juvie . . .”
“. . . does Violet Ambrose know him . . . ?”
Violet ignored them all, keeping her gaze averted. She even managed to avoid looking at Rafe when she shoved his backpack onto the floor. It made a satisfying thunk, causing everyone in the class to turn and look at her as she took her seat. But instead of giving them the satisfaction of a response, she trained her eyes on the whiteboard at the front of the room, wishing their teacher, Mr. LeCompte, would stop dawdling in the staff lounge and get here already.
Mr. LeCompte was notorious for being late, she remembered that much from taking American Lit with him the previous year. But today, of all days, Violet wanted nothing more than for class to get started already.
She felt something tap against her elbow and saw Rafe from the corner of her eye, stretched all the way across the aisle, as he held something out to her. She jerked her arm away from him, and concentrated even harder on not looking at him.
“Psst.” She heard it, almost unnoticeably at first. And then louder, so that everyone in the rows ahead of them could hear it too. “Psst!”
She turned then, concentrating on glaring daggers at him now. “What!” she whispered back.
He held out a piece of folded paper in her direction.
Her stern expression cracked as she bit back a smile. Was he actually passing her a note in class?
Swallowing her amusement so it wouldn’t show, she snatched the paper from his hand and slipped it beneath her desk just as Mr. LeCompte wandered into the classroom.
“Happy first day of school, class, and welcome to AP Literature.” The way he said “literature” made it sound distinctly like he had a British accent, despite the fact that everyone knew he’d only spent one year abroad during a teacher-exchange program. He dropped his crumbling leather satchel on his desk as he walked to the whiteboard to write his name with red dry erase marker. Below that he started itemizing their first-quarter reading list.
Violet glanced as surreptitiously as she could at Rafe when she realized that she’d seen those same books on the shelves in his bedroom. She remembered them all, Catcher in the Rye, Heart of Darkness, The Handmaid’s Tale. His confident grin confirmed that he thought this class would be a piece of cake.
She, on the other hand, had only read one of the books on the list, Lord of the Flies, and that had been back in the eighth grade, so she probably wouldn’t get away with skipping it this quarter.
Ignoring her impending workload, she unfolded the note hidden in her hand.
Don’t be mad, was all it said in his blocky, boy handwriting.
Violet glanced over at Rafe, her head cocked challengingly. Why shouldn’t she be mad at him? He should’ve at least called to warn her that he and Gemma were going to be there today. She deserved that much, didn’t she?
She crumpled the note into a tight ball and shoved it into her backpack, which was on the floor by her feet.
Rafe shifted toward her, hanging from the side of his desk as he leaned all the way across the aisle. “Don’t be like that,” he insisted quietly. “It’s not my fault, V.”
She grimaced. “Stop calling me that.”
“What? V?” Now he was the one who was confused. “Fine. Whatever.” He shrugged. “Then stop acting like I did something wrong.”
“Ms. Ambrose? Mr. . . . ?” Mr. LeCompte interrupted them, and she could hear the warning in his fake-British drawl.
