Chaste (3 page)

“About that.” I clear my throat, thinking of how embarrassing that first kiss was. “Could we not talk about—”

“It was adorable,” she says, throwing my locker open. “You, Quinn Walker, are adorable. And when we’re a little old couple and our kids have left home, you’ll laugh about that kiss and I’ll laugh with you.”

“Little old couple?” I repeat. She did not just refer to us as a
little old couple
. Every ounce of blood drains from my face. “I think—”

“It’ll be a temple marriage,” she goes on, “and we’ll have six children, a house in the suburbs, and a golden retriever named Buddy. I’ll hang our kid’s photos over the fireplace. What do you think we should name them? I like Ava. Do you think it’s too trendy?”

I clear my throat. “We’ve been on two dates.”

“Two wonderful dates.” She pulls me forward by the belt loops of my jeans. “I can totally see our future, can’t you?” And now she’s wrapping her arms around my waist and smiling up at me with her big blue eyes.

I nod, even though I want to tell her to stop, to slow down and not get ahead of herself. I nod because saying what I really think would smother the light in her beautiful eyes. It’d be like crushing a butterfly, and no one is that cruel. Then someone catcalls us and slaps my rear end.

I whirl around and jump back because Katarina Jackson has her hands on her hips and is staring me down.

“Just wanted you to know how it feels,” she says, turning to walk down the hall.

Molly slams my locker shut and storms off. “Wonderful,” I mutter, resting my forehead against the cold metal of my locker. Can this day get any worse?

4

Katarina

I figured I’d get to see the new school counselor at some point this week, but not on the first day and certainly not in the middle of my lunch period. Mr. Sanchez, who I’d seen once a week at the end of last year, said the new counselor would be someone who’d do a better job of getting me to talk, someone with a solid background in psychotherapy. Personally, I think the whole thing is nuts. I don’t need a therapist. I need space.

So I sit here as Mrs. Burns of the broad shoulders and oily brown hair drones on about how much she’d cried while mourning for her cat.

“Don’t you see that you have to go through the grieving process?” she asks.

The way she looks into my eyes, you’d think comparing my brother to a cat is perfectly sane. She has no idea what my life is like, how it feels to live with parents who stopped caring the moment he died. She probably grew up in a house with a dad who came home at a decent hour and a mom who cooked a warm meal every night.

She stands, walks over to her filing cabinet and pulls out a folder with my name on it.

“I told your dad I’d do everything in my power to help you grieve this year,” she says. Her eyes travel over the paper in her hand. “You wouldn’t talk to Mr. Sanchez, but I hope you’ll talk to me. You can trust me to take your feelings to heart. Crying is okay.”

I don’t understand why everyone’s so intent on me crying. It isn’t as though it’ll bring my brother back. Wimps and sissies cry, not strong girls who have it together. I’d rather do cartwheels naked across the football field than throw a pity party in front of this stupid woman.

“You can start by telling me about this boy who’s verbally harassing you,” she says.

I hit the palm of my hand against my forehead.
Mike, you idiot!
I know it was him. Who else would report Quinn Walker to the principal for touching my ass and picking a fight? The only thing worse than crying like a baby is tattling like one to Mr. Bates, then expecting administration to act in your defense. I refuse to behave like a defenseless victim.

“Everything’s been handled,” I tell her.

Mrs. Burns narrows her eyes at me. “We have strict anti-bullying policies at this school. Say the word and we’ll call this boy in. Make sure he never bothers you again.”

Now she has gone from stupid to irritating. Someone kill me now. I stare at my red nail polish as the clock ticks, wishing I could have avoided the torture of this session for at least a few more days. Stupid Mike! I want to throttle him. Stupid Quinn! It’s his fault I’m in here. Him and his phony goody-goody friends.

No one would ever force
them
to see a counselor with their big fake smiles and functional fathers, their too-good mothers who bake them cookies from scratch. They probably don’t even know the meaning of the word
loss
.

That little prissy redhead, Molly McCormick, acts like she has a spring in her arm. Every time a teacher asks a question, her hand shoots up like a Jack in the Box. It’s as if she thinks she’s a tub of polish and every teacher in the world is an apple. I hate how they think she’s so great because she kisses up and smiles. No one had even bothered to hear my side of the story when she copied the answers off my biology final two year ago. Instead all the teachers assumed she was the victim and I was the cheater. If my dad hadn’t stepped in, I would have failed for sure.

Mrs. Burns lets out a big sigh. “I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me,” she says in a pseudo-calm voice.

I glue my eyes to the gold flowers on my red painted nails because I know she’s trying to catch my eye. And if she can’t stand ten or fifteen minutes of silence, I have no idea how she’ll last the whole year.

“Fine then, you can go.” She waves me away with her hand. Her frustration is palpable, but I don’t care. She chose to take this job, and I’m here against my will. I stand and throw my backpack over my shoulder, walk out the door and into the flow of students.

I have exactly three minutes to get to physics with Mrs. Williams. The woman has a reputation for craziness. The classroom is all the way downstairs and on the other side of the building. Wonderful. Just what I need, to deal with another wacko adult.

5

Quinn

I log off the computer in the library, throw my empty water bottle in the trash and worry about what I just emailed to my mother. She wrote me a long message about the fast drivers in Florence, the loudness of the people and how Italian hot chocolate is practically pudding.

I’d wanted to tell her about my long night with Elijah and ask her to come home. Was it too much to ask that one of the adults in my family share some of Amy’s responsibility? Then, when I read her email, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Her words seemed so … joyful. Crushing that kind of happiness is wrong.

I pick up my bag and run a hand through my hair, reminding myself to focus on what matters. Curtis Institute of Music is my first-choice college for next year. They have some wicked audition requirements: scales, etudes, a major concerto. All things I need to have ready by January. Never mind that all this work is kind of pointless if they won’t let me come back to school after my mission. I walk into physics and stop in front of Molly.

“Find someplace else to sit,” she says, waving me away.

The room has eight lab tables in it, each one seats two. She’s obviously mad, and I’m not sure what to say. So I just stand there looking like an idiot.

“What did I do?” I ask.

“You know very well what you did,” she says in a fierce whisper. “Katarina Jackson is bad news. She goes to every drinking party in town, has piercings on her nipples and has slept with half the basketball team.” She points into her open mouth with her index finger to show her disgust. “The girl is a skank.”

Molly might be right, but I still doubt where she gets her information. The rumor mill in our school can get pretty vicious, and as a former victim of the wretched thing, I tend to think most of it’s crap. Even so, I’d rather avoid Kat since she’s managed to humiliate me not once, but twice this morning.

“I don’t care a flying leap about Katarina Jackson,” I say. “Could you, um … I don’t know. Trust me a little?”

Molly’s cheeks turn pink. “Sorry, Quinn.”

The bell rings.

“Everyone take a seat,” Mrs. Williams says.

I plop down on the stool next to Molly and pull out my spiral notebook. The room smells like bleach. A blackboard covers most of the wall behind the teacher, and on her desk are quirky trinkets: metal balls hung in a row, a piece of volcanic rock, a fake skull.

Just as Mrs. Williams is about to close the classroom, Kat sticks her foot in the door. “I have a late pass,” she says, shoving a piece of paper into the teacher’s hands.

From the back table, John Lindner whistles. Kat sways her hips as she goes to sit next to him, every eye on her. That’s how much charisma the girl has.

I tear my eyes away and look up at Mrs. Williams. She has short gray hair that would look like a baseball helmet if it didn’t have so much curl in it. The woman must be nearing retirement. When she stares at us over the top of her glasses, I think of a stern nun. Not that I have any experience with nuns. From everything I’ve heard she’s not right in the head. Last year she taught her classes some corny physics song. Then she screamed at the students when they laughed about it.

“I won’t tolerate goofing off in this class.” She picks up a clipboard lying on her desk before pacing up and down the aisle. “The seniors last year were very disrespectful. I’ll have you know I don’t believe in letting students slide just because they’re about to graduate.”

Kat and John whisper in the back of the room.

“No talking!” the teacher yells, slapping the clipboard on their table. “I know how you kids think. You all sit with your best buddies on the first day. But I don’t want any whispering in my class. Thus, I’ve made my own seating assignments.”

I groan. As does the rest of the class. Mrs. Williams smiles as if she’s pleased by our reaction. There’s only one explanation: the woman is nuts.

She stands at the front of the class. “Molly McCormick, you’re sitting with Brandon White.”

Brandon, who plays double bass in the orchestra, smiles at me as if to say he’s sorry. I stand up. He moves to sit next to Molly. At least I know Brandon won’t hit on her.

Mrs. Williams keeps calling out names, looking twice as gleeful whenever anyone groans.

“Quinn Walker,” she says, pointing to the table behind Molly. I pick up my bag and carry it to my new spot. “You’re with Katarina Jackson.”

My jaw drops. No way! The girl touched my butt. It was degrading. She has no respect for anyone but herself. And to make matters worse, Molly will kill me!

I glance at Molly.

She’s already glaring daggers in my direction. Guess I can’t count on any support from her. The room sways a little. What I’d give for a couple hours of sleep. I rub my eyes. Man, I should’ve called in sick today.

“I go by Kat,” my new lab partner says to Mrs. Williams.

“I’ll call you what I choose, Katarina. And don’t wear a belly ring to my class again. This school may not have uniforms, but you still need to dress in something appropriate. Do none of you have any self-respect?”

Kat narrows her eyes at our psycho teacher, pushes her skin tight jeans down another half inch on her hips and then slams her bag down on the top of the table.

“Can you say trashy?” Molly says to Brandon so loud that Kat and I can hear.

“Shut up,” Kat snaps. “You prissy little b—.”

“There will be no cussing in my class!” Mrs. Williams interrupts. “You will act like decent human beings while you’re here. I can’t do anything about your sorry upbringings, but at the very least you will respect my rules.”

Mrs. Williams continues reassigning seats while I keep my eyes glued to the corner of the desk. After what happened this morning, Kat is the last person in the world I want to sit with. I don’t care if she has confidence and Preston thinks she’s got it going on. No amount of hotness can make up for treating people like crap.

“I hate that woman,” Kat mutters under her breath. She has a deep voice, kind of like Diane Sawyer’s. One that would likely sound amazing on the radio. Then I remember who her father is and think,
well, duh
.

Nothing grates on my patience more than dealing with ignorant people like Kat. Her words in the hallway replay in my mind:
fake religion, fake people.
That girl wouldn’t know real if it bit her in the butt.

All my life I’ve been told to be nicer. All my life I’ve been told people will watch me, take note of my mistakes and use them to judge my religion. I try and try to live up to their expectations, but in the end, I always manage to mess something up. Because when push comes to shove, I’m all too human.

Why are people like Kat allowed to make mistakes when people like me tarnish our beliefs with every misstep we make? Her words about me sting because nothing I do is ever enough to appease the critics. People like Kat will stereotype, people like her father will condemn and people like me will always feel like we’re living under a magnifying glass.

Does Mrs. Williams really think it’s a good idea to pair a Mormon boy who’s sick and tired of being judged with the daughter of the most judgmental pastor in the area?

Our teacher finishes the seat assignments. “The moment I laid eyes on this group, I knew you’d be trouble,” she says. “When I was your age, no one talked back to their teachers. We believed in discipline. Spare the rod, spoil the child—”

“And you ended up with a bunch of messed up adults who drink, or work, or hoard junk to deal with their issues,” Kat blurts, right after she slaps her hand on the table.

I look at her for the first time since she sat down. Her eyes are smoldering with anger.

“Ms. Jackson, you will hold your tongue!” Mrs. Williams tells her.

The girl needs to chill. If she wants to make our wacko teacher single us out in a bad way, she’s off to a great start. Last I heard, Mrs. Williams isn’t the most unbiased grader. I’m sure she won’t hesitate to grade us harder if she thinks it’ll teach Kat a lesson.

I nudge my partner in the elbow to make her stop, but she just glares at me.

“Class,” Ms. Williams says. “Turn to your lab partners.”

Wonderful, just wonderful, the wacko teacher is trying to torture me.