Rebels Like Us

“How does a guy who doesn’t know where Brooklyn is know all these details about European history?” Khabria crosses her arms and shakes her head.

“Well, if some queen gets her head cut off by a bunch of pissed-off poor folk in Brooklyn, I guess I’ll take notes,” Lonzo shoots back.

“Really? That’s what you think about me, Doyle?” Ansley’s face has deepened from pink to maroon. “I know you’re pissed about what happened between us, but you really think I deserve to have my head chopped off?”

“I meant it as a metaphor.” Doyle leans forward and lowers his voice. “And I’m not pissed about...that anymore.”

But Ansley is twisted in her seat, shredding her notebook paper into confetti. “So now you talk in metaphors? I remember the days when you just said what you meant. Funny you think I’m the one acting like e’rybody else is beneath me.”

Before the stew of crazy comments can go any further, the late bell buzzes and we all swing around to face forward. Ma’am Lovett seems to sense something more than idle before-the-bell chatter was brewing, but she only gives us her no-nonsense face, and we respond to that look like a class of guava-bearing angels and stay on our best behavior. By the time the bell rings, my hand is cramped from all my Hemingway notes, and my brain feels buzzy.

As I rise from my desk, Doyle ambles over, wedges a hip close to mine, and leads me out the door. Up close, the way he smells makes me feel, I think, the way guavas make Ma’am Lovett feel. I bend my head so that my nose is close to his shoulder, and his scent is warm and rich, like hay in the sun, but with something crisp on the edge. I’d have guessed aftershave, but a blond prickle of five o’clock shadow covers his jaw.

“You’re new here, so you couldn’t know, butcha prolly don’t want to mess with Ansley,” Doyle says as we walk. He has one arm circled around my waist, held a few inches back. If either one of us moved closer, his hand would close over my hip and he’d lock me tight to his side.

But he doesn’t, and I sure as hell won’t.

“Thank you very, very much, but I think I’m well equipped to handle my own nemesis.” I level him with a hard look and dare him to challenge my badassery. He cannot seriously think Ansley could take me in any form of a fair fight. She doesn’t even know the basics of the French Revolution.

“She can be real spiteful is all. And she was—” He interrupts himself and rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “The thing is—”

When he doesn’t finish his thought, I sigh and angle through the crowds, almost losing him over and over. He closes one hand around my elbow before I can go into my next class. I lean against the cinder block wall and roll my eyes when he pulls close. “Listen, I appreciate the concern and all, but I have no interest in listening to some big speech about Ansley or her little idiot friend—”

“Braelynn.”

“Okay. Ansley and Braelynn don’t intimidate me. I seriously don’t care who anyone’s daddy is or how much pull anyone thinks they have. Honestly, I think it’s pathetic.” I tug my arm out of his grasp.

“I know you don’t. And I admire that about you. But Ansley really does have major pull ’round here, and if she has you in her sights—”

“Agnes?” Mr. Webster sticks his head into the hall.

“Yes?”

“Sir.” Doyle whispers it as a soft reminder for me.

I bristle, but he puts his hand back on my arm, and his touch steadies me. Which is infuriating. “Yes, sir?”

Mr. Webster sighs and pinches the bridge of his handsome nose. “They’d like to see you in Principal Armstrong’s office.”

Doyle’s mouth pulls tight. “Damn,” he mutters when the teacher ducks back into the classroom.

“I’m new here. It’s probably a schedule thing,” I say with way more confidence than I actually feel. “C’mon, you really think Ansley already ran to tattle on me to the principal?”

“Yeah, I do.” Pissed is a strangely hot look on Doyle. I thought he was working it with the sexy smiles, but scowls? He’s got this whole angry, tortured-youth vibe twisted around a sweet core that does it for me.

O’frescome, what is this guy doing to me?

“So, you’re telling me that her family is so almighty, they’ve even got the high school principal in their pocket?” I tease.

But my joke obviously sucks, because Doyle grabs my hand and marches me to the main office.

“I just registered the other day. I’m perfectly capable of finding the front office on my own.”

“There’s something you don’t get, Nes.”

“More Ansley intrigue? You guys need to get a new obsession. I don’t think—”

“The principal is her uncle,” he finally grits out.

“Oh.” My steps drop heavier. Slower.

“And she and I—”

“You and Ansley?”

“Yeah. We, uh...”

“You two...?”

“Um...yep.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

It all snaps into hyperfocus and my stomach churns.

I break the link our hands made and swing the office door open.

“Nes! Wait a sec,” Doyle pleads.

“You’re going to be massively late for class. And then your ex-girlfriend will run and tell her uncle, and we’ll both be in detention together.” I shrug at him, every muscle in my back and neck tight. “Just when I think this place might not be so bad, it gets sucky on a whole new level. Shoo, Doyle. I’ve got unjust punishment to deal with.”

He thumps back a few steps, then jogs away, heavy on his boots.

I straighten and face the glass doors that lead to my possible doom. It’s not like I’m unused to principals’ offices. I love learning, but the rigidness of school grates on me. It was a problem even in my free-spirited Quaker school.

My easygoing Dominican father gave me his killer dance moves and quick smile, but I inherited my socially blunt mother’s explosive Irish temper. I plod to the line of plastic chairs—the hallmark of the naughty corner outside every principal’s office from Brooklyn to Backassward, Georgia—and announce my presence to a secretary, who shakes her head like she already knows my verdict.

Clearly guilty. Guillotine for me.

“Agnes Pujols?” a voice of manly authority bellows.

“Agnes Murphy-Pujols,” I correct before looking up at the voice’s owner.

“Excuse me?” A balding man at least seven feet tall with the crooked nose of a hawk glares down at me.

“My last name. It’s hyphenated. Murphy-Pujols.” We exchange a long, bristling stare, and I remember Doyle’s whisper outside Mr. Webster’s classroom. “Sir.”

“Come into my office, Ms. Murphy-Pujols.” My principal holds out his arm like he’s some overlord, el Matatan, inviting me in for war talks.

I force one foot in front of the other and realize, with a sinking heart, that I’m treading toward my scholastic doom. I’m not afraid to admit I’m scared. I went to a Quaker school for my entire life. Quakers are people known for friendship and brotherly love. I’m now walking into a disciplinary office in a state that was founded as a penal colony.

Coño, this doesn’t bode well.

FIVE

He busies himself with a thousand minute tasks while I sit and stare, the most basic technique in the campaign of intimidation meant to subdue me. I’m used to authority figures looking over their glasses, sighing, and telling me how disappointed they are. Armstrong is introducing a whole new set of tactics, but I’m nothing if not adaptable.

I just need to remember my sirs.

“Agnes, this is your...second day at Ebenezer High.” His mouth sours.

“Yes...sir,” I say, even if it makes the hair on my arms stand on end to say it.

“And I assume you got the student handbook when you registered.” He folds his hands, desperate prayer-style. On his left ring finger he wears a plain gold wedding band. On his right he wears what looks like a huge class ring, with a sparkling ruby and a screaming eagle etched into the gold.

“Sure did, sir.” I keep my voice chipper enough to set his teeth on edge. I got the fat packet in the mail, pulled out the few necessary papers, and forgot the rest.

“Then you know we have rules here at Ebenezer. I know you don’t come from around here, so you may not realize that we take pride in being the best high school in the area.” His smile is smug.

I put a tight lid on the snort that nearly bursts out of my nose. Best high school in this area isn’t saying much. The abysmal testing rates were one of the things I threw in Mom’s face. She begged me to consider private schools, but I figured if I was going to have my life fall apart for a few months, I’d do it without the additional torture of a tartan skirt and knee-highs, thank you very much.

“No, I’m not from around here,” I agree, zero hesitation. “And I understand that there are rules, but where I come from I guess we’re a little more direct. So when I said what I did to Ansley—”

“Ansley Strickland has nothing to do with this situation, Agnes,” Mr. Armstrong cuts in too quickly, his tone testy. I clap my mouth shut while he lies to my face. “Several of your teachers mentioned dress-code violations. I sense that there may also be an attitude problem.”

“Dress code?” I echo.

Which teachers? Why didn’t they tell me? My brain whirs, searching for answers, and then it all snaps together. This is like some John Grisham novel where they can’t get the guys on murder, so they finger them for a million counts of petty mail fraud.

He can’t let me know Ansley tattled, so he’s going to invent other trumped-up charges.

“First of all, there’s the problem of your piercing. The rule book clearly states two holes in each ear is the maximum allowed, and any other piercings are prohibited.” He glares at the tiny diamond stud I’ve had on the side of my nose since I was a sophomore. I got it the day Ollie got her Monroe piercing and the studs we chose wound up so small, it was a pretty underwhelming rebellion. “It’s also been reported you have a tattoo.” In front of him is a paper that maps out a never-ending bulleted list.

“My tattoo?” I squawk the words like a repeating parrot, even though I clearly heard Captain Buzzkill the first time.

I do have a tattoo... A red A in fancy cursive, my own scarlet letter. On the back of my neck. Considering my bob grew out and my thick, curly hair now reaches my shoulders, no one would have seen that tattoo.

Except that I do tend to pull my hair up when I’m busy with classwork. Like Hemingway notes. But a person would have to be sitting behind me to notice.

Huh, isn’t it funny that Ansley happens to sit right behind me?

“That tattoo is covered by my hair—” I begin to object, totally losing my cool, but my new principal’s face is bland as he interrupts me.

“I’m glad you mentioned your hair. I hope that color is some kind of washout, Agnes—”

“This color cost a small fortune and was put in by one of the hair technicians who worked on What Not to Wear—”

“Speaking of ‘what not to wear,’ as a young lady trying to make positive first impressions in a new school, you may want to reconsider your wardrobe choices.”

I yanked on this particular T-shirt this morning because my sunburn made my back and shoulders a tight, itchy swath of irritated skin. I dripped as much aloe as I could on it after sobbing through an icy shower. My choice in clothes was completely comfort based: Ollie and I organized a breast cancer 5k freshman year and completed it in our Save the Tatas shirts, and I’ve worn mine so many times since then, it’s now tissue-weight cotton that doesn’t cling or rub. Perfect for sunburned skin. And to raise awareness for breast cancer, of course.

Because who wouldn’t want to save tatas? A man who’s willing to play head games on a high school level would clearly be adverse to tata saving. Jerkwad.

Make that Principal Jerkwad, sir.

“I’ll give you to the end of the week to sort your issues out, Agnes. We’re not looking to pick on you here at Ebenezer High. We want to help you fit in and have a positive experience. Welcome to our school.”

He says those last four words without a trace of irony. And just like that, I’m dismissed back into the cold halls of Ebenezer High, the school I thought I could take on. Now I realize those movies about clique-run, autocratic high schools that treasure conformity and beat down the slightest rebellion get made because those high schools exist, and the rebels survive to tell the tale on the big screen.

I think I’ve just become the president of Ebenezer’s goddamn Breakfast Club.

Which is fine, except for the fact that I might also be the sole member.

I look at my pass and realize the secretary scribbled the time illegibly and a person could read the minute spot as a twenty or as a fifty. Which means I can hole up for half an hour and still use my pass.

Gone are the days when an understanding school counselor I’d known most of my young life would pull me into a cozy office, hear me out, and help me smooth things over. I’m on my own here. And with a so-obvious target on my back, I’ll have to keep my eyes wide-open or I’ll wind up smiling at a cheering crowd while buckets of pig blood get dumped over me.

And, with that macabre image in my head, I duck out a side door that leads to a sunny courtyard and feel the rough clamp of a hand on my shoulder. I open my mouth to scream, but a second hand covers my mouth.

SIX

“Nes, shh. It’s me. It’s jest me.” I hear Doyle’s voice and quiver like a plucked bowstring.

I beat my fists on his chest as he yanks me under the shade of some trees. Real trees with wide, glossy leaves so dark green, they’re almost black, and white flowers that smell like rotting summer.

“You scared the crap of me,” I hiss.

His chuckle mixes with the lazy, hooded look in his eyes and takes the wind out of my fury. “I was worried about you. Was it bad?”

“Armstrong just basically told me to buy a cardigan and join the cheer squad.” I spit out the words as we hunker down on the soft grass, hidden in the hot shade.

“Are you into that? Cheer?” Close-up, I’m able to confirm that his eyes are almost a light purple, like a lavender. What a waste, for a boy to have what my abuela would call “Liz Taylor eyes.”

Though, waste or not, they’re throat-closingly beautiful.

“What do you think?” I walk my fingers along his hand because I can’t help it. “And why are you here? You should go before your ex gives her commandant uncle stalker notes that detail your every move.”

“I think I’d rather have you on my baseball team than cheering for it.” His voice is all hungry and honey. “And I think Ansley might be targeting you because things didn’t end well with us, so I’m feelin’ kinda responsible for this BS.”

“Great. Of all the boys who could have been landscaping half-naked in my backyard, it had to be the queen bee’s ex. What are the chances?” I should feel prickly, but those eyes...looking into them is like sliding into a hot tub. Their warmth bubbles all around me like the jets are on high.

“I thought about what ya said. To Ansley. And about me and her. And you’re right. It’s time for her to get off her damn pedestal. I’m tired of how everyone jest lets her get her own way all the time.” Fury must change his eye color, because they’re a deep blue now, like the clouds around a full moon.

“There’s a whole system stacked in her favor, Doyle. I should have listened to you. I should have kept my trap shut. Unfortunately, I suck at that.”

He leans close, predator-like, and I feel very ready to be devoured. And equally ready to bolt.

“Goddamn, I love the way you can’t keep your mouth shut, Nes. You’re the first person around here in a long time who’s had the balls to jest say what’s on your mind to anyone, no matter who they are. It’s sexy as hell.”

My hand twitches, and he takes it in his.

He threads our fingers together like being this close is no big thing. And I guess I overplayed the whole flirty, badass NYC vibe...because my heart is a bird throwing itself against the bars to escape its cage, but he’s looking at me like we’re both cool with everything happening at warp speed in the secret shade of this tree.

I love the way our fingers lock together, but this is fast. On top of the dizzy feeling I get when I hold hands with Doyle, I’m upset about my idiotic trip to the principal’s office, I’m miserable over facing Ansley, I miss Ollie so much it feels like I have a cough drop permanently lodged sideways down my throat. And there’s Lincoln.

I want... I have no idea what I want. My vision goes grainy and Doyle’s voice coils softly through the fog of my chaotic thoughts.

“Yesterday, in your yard after school, I was actually hatching this whole plot to get your attention somehow next time I saw you. Then you jest walked outta your house in a bikini. Hand to God, I thought I was bein’ punked.” His ears burn pink.

“Your ears are blushing,” I whisper.

He leans lip-to-lip close. Every nerve in my face goes tight. I smell his warm hay scent mixed with the heady aroma of those heavy cream flowers sizzling in the morning sun.

The bell screams, and the courtyard fills with students. I jump up, my pass a congealed wad of pulp in my sweaty palm. “Crap! Doyle, I skipped. Like I’m not in deep enough trouble!”

“It’s okay. Teacher’d have to remember to check when you left the office, and Webster won’t bother. You’re fine.” His voice is laid-back as he reaches out to take my hands. I can see that he still wants to cash in on the promise of a kiss that was only barely possible when I was under his pretty-eyed spell.

“I’m not fine.” I slap his hands back. “My life is out of control. You know what? I should never have left Brooklyn, but now that I’m here, I can’t be some psycho debutante’s target. I need to lie low.”

“Meaning what?” Doyle’s mouth twists with a disappointment he doesn’t have any right to feel.

“Meaning, you and I should probably cool it, and I gotta go now so I can make it to my next class on time.” I brush grass off my butt.

“So that’s it?” His eyes flash. “Nes, girls like Ansley have been gettin’ whatever the hell they want since they were spoiled toddlers. No one ever stands up to her and her kind. It ain’t right.”

I shoulder my backpack. “Well, Doyle, maybe guys like you should stop giving girls like her whatever they want. She’s your psycho ex. I’m not about to make this year any harder than it needs to be. I told you—my objective is to get out. Gone. Done. And I’ll forget this place like it was a bad dream as soon as it’s in my rearview.”

“So you’re going to sit back and take it? Let her and Armstrong and all the rest stomp on you? After standing up to her today? Seriously?” Doyle’s mouth pulls tight.

Inside, the crowds in the halls are thinning already, students ducking into classrooms like I should be, and I have no energy left to stand here arguing. I’m not even halfway through my day, and I’m flattened with exhaustion.

“Seriously. Look, we hardly know each other, okay? Sorry if you thought I was going to be the badass rebel who’d shake up the end of your boring senior year, but I’m not here for your entertainment. Or Ansley’s. This semester is my probation, and I’m just biding my time till it’s over.” I walk backward to the door and shrug. “See you around, Doyle.”

I leave him standing in the middle of a last scurrying surge of students, and notice Ansley skip up, grab him by the arm, and stand on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. A long shock of blond hair falls down her back and shimmers in the blistering sunshine.

It’s so cliché, it hurts. And my jealousy is extra cliché. So I clamp down on it, head to US history, and grit my teeth when Ansley and Braelynn jostle against me on their way past, knocking me into a water fountain. Doyle sees me from down the hall and battles against the flow of traffic to make it to my side, but I slip into class before he can, my face hot, the tears so close to falling, I can taste the salt in the back of my throat.

I run my hand behind my neck, above my aching sunburn, and touch my scarlet A, the tattoo that was a fierce joke and a mark of pride.

“‘Pride cometh before the fall,’” I mutter as I pull out my textbook and try to bleach my brain of this whole place.

By the time the final bell rings, I realize that I’m going to spend a lot of time trying to avoid Doyle at every turn because he’s not letting our conversation drop.

“Nes!” Doyle sprints to my car as I throw my bag in the window, lean against the closed door, and cross my arms. When he’s finally standing next to me he just stares, like he’s not sure what to say.

For once in my life, I’m right there with him. But it’s unnatural for me to say nothing, so I say the first thing that pops into my head. The thing I hope is the shortest path to getting him out of my life.

“Look, it’s not personal, okay? I like you. I do. But we just met, and things are already too complicated, with Ansley and Lincoln and—”

“Who’s Lincoln?” His eyebrows knot over his gorgeous eyes.

“My ex.” My voice hiccups over those words, because they’re strange. Deep in my secret romantic heart, I imagined I’d never have to say the words my ex and Lincoln in the same conversation.

“Oh. Was it, uh, recent?” He kicks at some loose gravel with his boot.

I nod robotically. “We dated for two years. We broke up just before I moved.”

“Oh.” This oh is totally different. And laced with pure shock. His eyes are a complicated mix of hard and soft. “Two years? I didn’t realize—”

“What? That I had an ex?” My laugh is blasé. “There’s a lot you probably don’t realize about me. ’Cause we’ve known each other for all of... What? Two days? My life is pretty much exploding around me right now like crazy. And that’s without adding in my whole insane backstory. I think it’s better if we back up.”

Clouds collect in a swollen gray mass overhead and the wind whips my hair around. When I tie it back, Doyle lays three fingers on my jaw. I startle, hold my breath, and let him turn my head and look at my neck.

“Hester Prynne?” His fingers trace along my jawline, under my earlobe, and stop just over the skin on my exposed neck.

“They let you read that book here?” I marvel. My veins pump carbonated fire, but I keep my voice on ice.

He half smiles as a light rain pelts down. “The book got taken off the sophomore curriculum ’long with a couple others. That’s why I read it. Hawthorne’s dry as hell, but the story’s a good one.” He pulls his one hand back slowly, then sticks them both deep in his pockets.

“I do like you,” I admit. A fresh burst of light rain explodes around us and we squint into the damp. “I just have a lot going on, and I don’t think my nerves can handle more.”

“I get it.” He watches as I shade my eyes from more rain, then pulls his cap off and tosses it on my head. I hold my breath, because it’s easier to resist him if I can’t smell his delicious fragrance. “And I like you. I know this feels quick, Nes, but like you said, you won’t be here for long. I don’t care if we’re just friends or even just on the same neighborhood ball team. As long as we’re not avoiding each other. Because I don’t want to miss out on my only chance to get to know you.”

I think about the way Ansley crowed like she’d won something in the halls and drag a cleansing breath into my lungs.

What did we learn from World War II?

Never back down from an aggressor.

I won’t go out of my way to get in Ansley’s face, but I’m sure not going to shut down the one and only friendship I’ve made since leaving Brooklyn on account of that flaxen-haired harpy.

“You’re right. We should be friends. It’s complicated, but nothing that’s really good is ever easy, right?” I glance up at a sky rumbling with thunder that promises a full-on downpour. “I’d better go.” I pull the cap off and attempt to hand it back, but Doyle shakes his soaked head as he jogs to his truck and gets in.

“Keep it. And get yourself a pair of sunglasses. You squint too much!” He yells over the roar of the truck’s engine, attracting the attention of a dozen or so of our classmates, who pair up to whisper and giggle.