Once Upon A High School |A Short Story Collection|

little red (part one)

It wasn't easy, moving in with Gran. I know it wasn't supposed to be a walk in the park with butterflies and rainbows, but I wasn't prepared for the wrench in my gut when I packed my things and left my life behind—along with so many other things. The swing set Dad used to push me on when I was little. The piano in the den where Mom used to listen to me botch the classics with an encouraging smile on her face. The entire wall of framed pictures in the front hall, featuring every important moment of our lives.

I could have stayed there—Gran offered to move in before she mentioned coming to live with her. But I didn't stay, I left. Walking through the same doors that my parents would never walk through again didn't seem possible, not until I had time to sort out the trauma in my head.

I could have taken some of the pictures. Instead, I left with Dad's red zip-up hoodie and Mom's Coldplay CD collection. I knew I'd need both of those more than a picture. When I felt cold and alone, it would be as if Dad's arms were wrapped around me again. When the air was cruel and empty, the soft croons of Coldplay would bring me back down because listening to their music was Mom's remedy for everything.

So here I am, clad in Dad's old hoodie, ready for my first day at Kingston High School, and I wish I were anywhere but here.

"Scarlet Woods."

Every head in the classroom turns to look at me when I raise my hand. With my empty hand, I tug on the brim of my red hood, yanking it down farther over my brow, hopefully casting my face in shadows.

Ms. Goose, the first of many new teachers I'll be meeting today, motioned to the last empty pair of desks. Everyone else in first period English II is already sitting across from their assigned partners, except for the boy whose name hasn't been called yet.

"And Devin Wolf," Ms. Goose calls, sealing my fate.

As I trudge to the open desk, I realize that someone upstairs hates me. Anything that can go wrong for me does—it is just inevitable at this point. I must have done something that deemed me unworthy in a past life.

Devin Wolf brushes by as I slide into my chair and I'm hit with a tidal wave of scent that hangs in the air—cedar, citrus, and some kind of spice that I can only pinpoint as manly musk.

As I stare across my desk at him and his sculpted jaw and purposely messy hair, I am ninety-seven point two percent positive I am being punished. Not only do I have a class with this meathead, but I am sentenced to being his desk partner for the entire school year.

No, I don't despise him because he's pretty. I'm not that cold. I appreciate beauty when I see it and Devin Wolf is like a cross between a younger Bradley Cooper and Zac Efron. If that doesn't tell you anything, let's just say that I heard sighs and swoons from halfway around the school when he walked in the front doors this morning.

The dangerous twinkle in his eyes reveals the heartbreak that comes with him as a package deal.

I don't need to know him to know what he's all about. He's just like the rest of the mysterious, high school boy clan stamped with bad boy labels, and although he would typically be my cup of tea, I'm not the same girl I was a year ago.

I already can't stand the cocky smile he throws in my direction as he lounges back in his chair. His arm is draped over the back of the seat and he stretches his legs out in front of him. I think he just purposely slid his feet under my desk.

What? Does he think I am going to play footsie with him?

I curl my legs under me and shoot him the deadliest of deadly glares before glancing across the pairings of desks around the room. My best friend, Ella, smiles at me from the opposite end of the class. Ms. Goose has paired her with a girl named Raven. I don't know much about her—or much of anyone at this schoo—but she seems nice enough. I would much rather have her as a partner instead of this dude, who is still watching me. I feel his eyes all over my face.

Most desk partners are chatting amongst each other, introducing themselves, or squealing over the fact that they were paired up. Devin and I are basically the only pair sitting in silence.

Ms. Goose returns to the front of the room and raises her hand into the air. Her hair is white as snow and piled up into a tight bun on the very top of her head. She must have used at least five layers of hairspray because not a single hair is out of place. "Let's quiet down," she says, looking down her nose at us. "In three, two, one."

We are all silent as we wait to hear what she has to say next. I can even hear someone wheezing from the back of the room. Someone get that guy an inhaler.

And Devin is still watching me.

"Welcome to English II," Ms. Goose continues, "the last language arts credit that you'll need in order to graduate this year."

"Yeah!" some guy yells from the back of the room. "Class of 2017!"

"Mr. Hatter," our teacher reprimands. The welcome look in her eyes suddenly shifts to something strangely scary for an elderly woman. "If you interrupt me like that the entire year, then you will be failing English II, thereby losing the credit you need, thereby leading you to join the class of 2018."

I glance over my shoulder to see a red-haired guy sliding down in his seat, his cheeks flaming in embarrassment. Some people in the class lift their hands to their mouths as they try to hold in their giggles. Some look straight up embarrassed right along with him. I hear someone whisper, "Dude, she is stone cold," and I completely agree. I can tell that she is a teacher you do not want to screw with.

I'll put that on my list of things of things to avoid during my senior year.

"As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted." Ms. Goose shot the redhead an accusing look. "To pass this class you will not only be required to analyze the assigned readings and write a quarterly five-page essay, you will also have to implement one of life's most valuable skills—teamwork."

Groans erupt from around the room. Ms. Goose smooths her hands down her gray paneled dress and then clamps them behind her back. Her stance clearly exudes a no-nonsense demeanor that I wouldn't touch with a nine foot pole.

"Believe me." Ms. Goose raises her eyebrows. "You'll all thank me for it one day. They always do." Her gaze fixes on someone in the class and I turn to see Ella raising her hand. "Yes, Miss Christensen?"

Ella's cheeks blush before she speaks. "Will we get to change partners at all or—"

"The pairings are permanent," Ms. Goose cuts her off. "Working well with your partner will be a part of the participation grade in this class. Your partner will be your proofreader, your editor, and your guide if you are lost in instruction."

Ms. Goose begins to pace back and forth across the open space in the front of the room. Her heeled boots click-clacking across the tile. "Being able to work with and alongside an individual will be an important skill when you go off to college or into the workforce. Teamwork does not mean you will be doing each other's work and it will not require more work from you than if you did everything individually. If you utilize teamwork properly, your inner-strengths will be maximized and it will bring out the best in both you and your partner. I know most of you would much rather be paired with your 'bestie' or with your cellular device because googling the answer is much easier than using your brain."

A few murmurs of agreement drifted through the room.

"The partner system will help you grow. If I'm wrong at the end of the year and you're still the dull, needy, whining teenager you were when you entered this class, then let me know."

Holy shit, she means business.

Ms. Goose claps her hands together once and places one of the fakest smiles I've ever seen on her face. "Now, let's get started. First matter of business is to get to know your partner a little bit. Take a few minutes each to ask each other questions, then use the information and put it into a poem to recite to the class. Get started."

My stomach drops onto the floor with a thick, wet splat. Why? Why me? Not only do I have to talk to Devin, but we have to talk about each other. Please God, spare me the details of his extracurricular activities.

"So, Scarlet," Devin says, leaning over his desk. His voice is smooth as butter when he says my name. "What's up with the hood?"