Page 15 of The Tenth Circle

I catch Preston as he gathers the last of his five hundred school supplies. “Hey, Preston.”

He stays focused on the task. “Yeah?”

“Who the hell was that guy?”

For some reason he seems baffled by my question.

“What guy?”

“The one sitting next to me…tall, pretty, smells like oranges?”

Preston’s looking at me now, but his face is contorted. “You talkin’ about Lavell?”

“If I knew, would I be asking?”

He laughs at me, and dammit I hate how much the guys here do that. Adjusting his glasses once again, Preston says, “Totally forgot you’re new here.”

“Andthat it’s my first day!” I say harsher and louder than I should’ve, but I’m ticked. It was less than twenty minutes ago I was reassuring the little shit he’s a decent person.

“Shhhh!” Preston looks nervously toward the front of the room, as if the cranky old man behind the desk isn’t already nodding off.

Wait. Did he just…?

I can feel the hatred I’ve developed for shushes burning a hole through my skin. “Do. Not. Shush me, Preston.”

Preston loses the bravado instantly, shrinking back to the dorky prepubescent boy I actually like.

“Saint’s the Royals’ QB. The best one Riverside’s ever had.” His entire tune has changed into fangirl status as he adds, “Even last year as a sophomore he managed to secure us nine wins in the season.”

I stare blankly at him, focusing on one thing only because it’s echoing through my mind like the ding of a hundred bells.

Saint.

As in the cliffhanger used by Crazyman…

This time, vertigo doesn’t even bother easing me in, I’m pulled like a damn twister.

Round and round I go.

Preston must assume my disconnect involves lacking knowledge of football terms because he explains, “QB stands for quarterback.”

The clear tone of judgment drags me back down to earth, where I take in his condescension like sulfur in the eyes.

Is this kid serious? Does he not want to see post pubescence?

“I know what a quarterback is!”

That earns me another condescending shush when the old man shifts in his sleep.

Fury is rumbling, ears are heating, knuckles are twitching with the need to punch. I point a black polished fingernail at Preston. “I said no fucking shushing.”

Preston’s apology is sincere this time…so I refrain from knocking the Y out of his chromosomes.

“That guy’s name is Saint? As in the ones we see at church with halos on their heads?”

He blows out a breath and nods.

Oh, the judgment is strong with this one.