Playing With Fire (Previously Burning The Bad Boy) (UNDER RECONSTRUCTION)

{1} Bad Boys and Boy Toys

Damon Fox decides to grace Rosewood High with his presence for exactly two hours every day.

Two hours of obnoxious foot tapping, infuriating whistling, and sneaking a look at his classmates notes.

Lunch was the time he usually turned his back on the school and sped off on his bike; when he decided that he had enough of everyone for the day.

There wasn't a single soul in school that actually knew where the mysterious bad boy on the motorcycle disappeared too. Some claimed it was an underground fighting ring, some speculated he must more of a drag racing kind of guy. Then there were those with enough logic to assure everyone he just went home. 

I caught his eye coming into History, I couldn't help but feel a little amazed that he held my gaze for a few seconds before turning away. I knew it was too much to hope that he had realized who I was, that he knew I had sat in front of him in class since second grade. He would never remember that, nobody would.

All Damon Fox would recognize me as is the girl who'd consistently found a way to almost kill him since second grade.

Throwing myself down in my usual seat at the front of the classroom, I quickly ripped my notebook from my bag and started scribbling down the notes Mr. Wentworth had left on the board.

"Micky." a quiet voice spoke up behind me, followed by my shoulder blade being jabbed with the sharp tip of a pencil.

"Yes, Rachel?" I started to turn around, finding my best friend shifting anxiously in her seat. Blonde ringlets bouncing with every head shake and nervous laugh.

"I forgot to take notes yesterday. Let me borrow yours." she insisted. When I turned back to my own desk, I felt a pencil stab at the small of my back repeatedly until I finally whirled around and slapped my hand against the hard wood. Keeping the stinging pain in my palm to myself, I jerked my head toward the board.

"Mr. Wentworth usually makes copies of them and leaves them at his desk for anyone who forgot to take notes." I responded quietly, afraid the teacher would walk in at any minute in one of his moods and I'd get the brunt of it taken it out on me.

Despite being the only teacher to let the class use notes on tests and quizzes, he had the tendency to come in every morning stone faced and prepared to unleash his bitterness out on the unsuspecting students during his first period of the day.

I shifted away from my best friend once realization that she was finished with her early morning jitters and wasn't going to jab my shoulder with a pencil again set in. Just as I scrawled down the last of today's notes, a crumbled piece of paper hit the back of my head before falling on to my desk beside my notes. Irritated, I clenched the paper in my hand, not giving my best friend the satisfaction of reading it, before chucking it back at her.

With her quick reflexes, she was able to deflect the paper so it soared passed her, grazing the side of her hand.

"Rach, you're going to get-" my words died quickly in my mouth a millisecond after the crumbled paper hit Damon Fox's forehead. Rachel and I exchanged a look, cringing in anticipation of what was to come.

I had never viewed my angry, sleep deprived, middle aged teacher as a God until the very moment he stormed into the room and slammed the door shut behind him. He had saved me from Damon's wrath-even if it were only momentarily.

Mr. Wentworth held the stereotypical look of a high school football coach. Bald, stocky, and constantly talking loud enough for the elementary school down the road to hear. He didn't care to listen to Principal Lowe's warnings of firing if he didn't calm down; it was as if Mr. Wentworth had given up on caring altogether when he became a high school teacher.