The Scars Keeper Page 3

  Without pressing me further, he begins to walk. I guess he got my message. He holds my paper out for me to take.

  “There are no errors, but I wish I’d read this yesterday. I would’ve told you to change some things. If you have to read this aloud, you’re going to embarrass yourself.”

  Coming to a sudden stop, students almost run into the back of us. I move over to the side of the hallway and cross my arms. Maybe he’s more clueless about my fragile mental state than I thought.

  “What’s wrong with my paper?”

  “Do you honestly think what you wrote about social classes is true? Are you wanting to be lower class or something?”

  “No, it’s what I believe about the labels we’re given.”

  “They’re not only labels, and we’re in the upper class whether you like it or not.”

  He gives me the patronizing smile I’ve grown accustomed to.

  “Seriously, Avery, sometimes I don’t get you at all. I’ll believe you’re like me, and our circle of friends, and then other times I don’t have a clue where you fit in.

  “And what did Mr. Bradford say to you at his desk? I’m sick of him checking you out. Have you been giving off a vibe that you’re interested?”

  “Don’t speak to me the rest of the day, and I won’t need a ride home.” I glare at him and march away.

  “Babe, I’m sorry!” he yells out.

  I’m fuming by the time I reach my locker. Feeling wet lips to my cheek, I see a flash of Madison’s face as she stands beside me.

  I turn to look at her, and my best friend since middle school is flaunting a grin, but she frowns once she notices my scowl.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I shrug. “The exam was hard.”

  Slinging her head back, she looks to the ceiling and plants her hands on her straight hips. Madison’s body has yet to fill out. She’s adorable and the tiniest thing, but we both gave up hope that her boobs would come in.

  “Nooo! If you say it’s hard, then I’m totally screwed.”

  She’s probably right about that. The test was a beast, and whatever grade I get, she usually gets a grade lower. Yep, we’re both screwed on this one.

  She lowers her head and studies my face.

  “You’re not usually this angry over exams. Did Butthole Blake say something shitty?”

  “Yes, but like usual, I don’t think it was premeditated.”

  She rolls her round hazel eyes at me and tosses back her shoulder-length hair that has beautiful swirls of caramel highlights throughout.

  “You’re the only one who would allow his bullshit to hold up in a court of law.”

  Time for a subject change.

  “I have to get to class. Can you give me a ride home after tennis?”

  “No problem.”

  I stroll to second period, and when I enter I find the lights off.

  Hayden.

  He’s the only one present and is sitting in the far corner of the back row. He squints from the intrusion of the overhead lights.

  “Sorry,” I mumble before I scurry to the second row and take a seat in the middle. Gah! Now I don’t know if he’s watching me since I’m sitting where I can’t see him. Laying my paper on the desk, I pretend to be reading it.

  Why did he start attending this school his senior year? Is he my neighbor? Why so mysterious and quiet? Why does he dress the way he does? Would he like how I’m dressed today? Oh, no! What if he thinks I dressed this way to impress him?

  I need professional help. I have a boyfriend. Of course, if Blake doesn’t straighten his ass up, he’s going to be single soon.

  Dragging their feet, students walk in one by one. I’m not looking forward to this class, either. We have to give a summary of our paper, which is about social classes in society.

  I guess Blake didn’t approve of my opinion, and now he has me paranoid about what my peers will think. Mrs. Samuel arrives, and her pleasant smile eases my nerves.

  She’s in her fifties, and her grey hair is cut short in a bob. I enjoy hearing her open-minded opinion on social subjects, and I like that she’s not a creeper. Ever since I developed physically, I’ve appreciated my female teachers.

  “Now that we’re all seated, you’ll each take turns giving a brief summary of your paper on social classes in our society. Mostly, I want you to give your opinion on how social class affects us as individuals.

  “Yesterday we discussed our lack of control in how it impacts us as children, but do you believe it influences our decisions into adulthood, once we have developed some autonomy?”

  Mrs. Samuel paces in front of the desks. “Will it affect your decisions in regard to politics, the career you choose, and where you decide to live?

  “Can we develop healthy relationships with those from other social classes?” She makes eye contact with me and smiles. “Avery, would you please get us started?”

  The one disadvantage to always being friendly to the kind teacher …

  Begrudgingly, I rise and tread to the front of the classroom. To feel less vulnerable, I go behind the wooden podium in the center and lay my paper on it.

  I don’t know why I brought it up here with me–nerves maybe. I’m sure of what I want to say. Clearing my throat, I glance around at the front row only.

  Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him.

  “After our discussion yesterday, I believed we had no control over how our social class affected us during our childhood, but after much thought last night, I believe there is at least one exception.

  “Our parents are not at school with us. They can hardly influence who we choose as friends during those hours.”

  In an instant, I hear snickering. I shake my head and ignore it. I don’t know why anyone would find that funny or disagree.

  “As far as reaching adulthood, I do believe our social class affects us, and I think it’s because of our parents and others who mentor us in our current social class.

  “But, if we didn’t feel their influence or pressure, I believe more of us would choose a different path.”

  “Yeah, and I doubt you’re one of those people,” Chastity sneers.

  “Chastity, that was uncalled for. Quiet please,” Mrs. Samuel says.

  I glare back at the bitchy classmate who has given me a hard time since we were in grade school. We were friends until the fourth grade. I remember her coming over one day, and after that, she said I was stuck-up.

  She lived in a trailer park and wore old clothing. Once I was older and could analyze things, I wondered if our different upbringings were her reason for not playing with me.

  “No, I’d like to hear what Chastity has to say,” I quip.

  She rolls her eyes as her cheeks redden.

  Mrs. Samuel sighs and nods.

  “I find it hard to believe you’d choose a path in life that would put you into a different social class than the high-and-mighty one you’re accustomed to.

  “You’re not going to marry someone poor or choose a job that doesn’t pay well. Hell, your parents will probably pay for your college and buy you your first home if a rich husband doesn’t have it built first.”

  Several people in class snicker, causing my anger to rise.

  “First off, I’ve been awarded scholarships to college that I worked hard to earn, and second, your comments tell me it’s not only the upper class who pass judgment.”

  “You’re a bitch, Avery.”

  Mrs. Samuel stands and moves to the front of Chastity’s desk. “That’s enough. Not another word from you, and for the profanity, you’re to stay in your seat once the bell rings. We’re having a chat.

  “Avery, please continue with your summary, and unless the rest of you can comment without insult, then stay quiet.”

  “Yes, my parents can give me the opportunity for a successful career, but it’s meaningless if I pick a profession that only pleases them.

  “They can give me money to get me started in life, but none of that means shi—I
mean crap, if I don’t get to share it with someone who loves me for me.”

  “Yeah, but you’re going to choose a career that will lead you to an upper-class lifestyle,” Laurie says. She’s another girl who doesn’t like me.

  “You’ll do it subconsciously,” Joey chimes in. He’s the only guy I’ve seen Hayden hanging out with. He’s also the go-to pot dealer at our school.

  “You’re going to pick a man who is attractive and wealthy. You’ll breed more snobby blondes, and the cycle will continue. I’m sure you’ll be a republican, too, and a self-righteous Christian.”

  My shielding armor can’t combat my tears. I steal a glance at Hayden, and he’s staring at me, his expression impassive.

  “Wow. Why am I even speaking? It seems all of you have me figured out already, but I think you should take a hard look at yourselves to see if I’m not the only one who’s been influenced by their social class.”

  I suck in a breath, grab my paper and hurry to my seat. I was ambushed and never saw it coming. How could I be so naïve?

  None of my close friends are in this class with me, and I should’ve known those who don’t like me would use it to their advantage.

  They don’t believe a word I said, but it’s because they don’t know the real me. They only see the person I’m forced to be. She’s the girl who must excel at all cost, look perfect every day, and walk the line.

  Are they right? Will I subconsciously continue to become who my parents wish for me to be?

  Chapter Four

  Hayden

  I think the queen of this school was just knocked off her throne. Avery Hollingsworth. As expected from someone who’s raised like a princess, she’s fantasizing about some romantic fairy tale where she’s gonna defy daddy.

  She thinks her life is so hard because he expects her home for family dinner at six and won’t buy her a new Porsche.

  I used to think that, anyway, but after her stunt yesterday, she’s an enigma. What could be so bad in her charmed life to make her want to off herself?

  Shit. Mrs. Samuel called my name, so I guess I have to do this. I head toward the front of the classroom, and I think I hear the princess suck in a breath when I pass by her desk.

  I might’ve imagined it, but she was looking at me all doe-eyed yesterday after I carried her home, like maybe I was her prince for rescuing her. If so, she can forget that shit.

  We might share the same status in wealth, but that’s the only way we’re the same, and we’re sure as hell not destined for the same kind of future.

  I clear my throat and stare down at my paper.

  “Uh, all I have to say is our loyalty should be to those who raised us, and if that keeps us in the same social class, so be it. If it means we can’t do something else we want, so be it.

  “They brought us into this world and provided for us. I would give my life for my family, and I plan to carry on its legacy because I was taught it’s the only option I have.”

  “What’s that option … crack dealing?” Aaron asks with a laugh. I shoot him a glare. He’s a pretty-boy basketball player who thinks he’s funny.

  If he was on my turf, I’d drag his face along the concrete while he’s tied to the back of my bike, but I can’t draw attention to myself here in Indiana. It’s really testing my patience, too.

  ***

  The rest of school was boring, so I’m thankful to be home. I park my motorcycle and walk inside.

  I don’t hear anyone as I stroll to the spacious kitchen, and I know that means my aunt Jewel is in her art studio.

  After pouring myself a tall glass of milk, I drink it down in a few seconds. I seldom eat at school, so I’m always starved when I arrive home.

  Hanging out in the cafeteria isn’t exactly my thing. My friend Joey and I usually spend our lunch sitting on the bleachers in the gym.

  Once I’ve made a turkey sandwich, I carry my plate out the back door into the yard. I take a bite of my sandwich as I stroll toward the art studio. Faint rock music is coming from it.

  After thinking about it, this is pretty much my weekday ritual. School, home, food, checking on my aunt, and then chillin’ in the woods behind our house are the highlights of my life. Oh, and sometimes working for my uncle Wayne.

  “Hi,” I say.

  Jewel spins around in her rolling chair.

  “Hayden. How was your day?”

  “Boring. I’m ready to graduate.”

  She sighs and sets her paintbrush on her palette.

  “I’m not looking forward to it. It’s been nice having you here while Cynthia is away at college. I hope you won’t feel rushed to move out. You know you’re welcome here as long as you like.”

  She gives me a loving smile, but like so often, I see the pain in her brown eyes that are bold like copper. She misses my mom, who’s her sister. I know the feeling. I miss her every day, too.

  I hold up my plate.

  “I’m going to eat my sandwich and grab my guitar. I’ll be back by six for dinner and to help Wayne in the shop.”

  Smiling again, she uses her forearm to push back strands of her light brown hair from her eyes. She then spins her chair back around and picks up her paintbrush with her hand that’s covered in colors.

  Making it back to the kitchen, I inhale my food and wash it down with a can of Coke. I take two steps at a time up to my room on the second floor and grab my guitar. It’s still resting on the other side of my king-size bed from where I sleep.

  It’s embarrassing that my guitar has become my bed companion. A naked chick in its place would be a nice change.

  It would be too risky to hook up with a girl from school. She might get attached, and that can’t happen since I never know when I’ll have to return to Arizona.

  The thought of how hurt my aunt and uncle will be when that happens filters through my mind, but I dismiss it.

  My dad’s side of the family has to come first, and I’m not being a coward forever. I’m going back to face the enemy.

  Damn, I need a joint and a lay. Maybe Joey and I can go out and hit on some chicks who wouldn’t mind a casual fuck.

  Finding my stash of pot in the closet, I run downstairs with my guitar. It’s time for an escape in the woods.

  Avery

  Madison drives me from school to my neighborhood that’s fifteen minutes outside of town and somewhat in the country. Although I live in a subdivision, it’s not like most of them.

  The luxurious homes were built on two to five acre lots, and most of the acreage stretches vertically behind the homes.

  This allows them to sit closer together yet still far enough apart to provide the privacy and large manicured lawns others will envy.

  We pass by the entrance’s black rod-iron gates that are always open, and Madison pulls into my driveway, which is the third one on the left.

  I’m reluctant to step out of her air-conditioned car. Like so often in southern Indiana, the weather drastically changed in one day.

  The outside temperature is unseasonably warm for mid-March, and I’m extra sweaty from the four miles we ran around the track.

  It’s the twice-a-week conditioning my father added to my already busy schedule to increase my stamina for tennis. Luckily, Madison feels it’s beneficial to her, too, so we do it together.

  I give her a wave and trot toward the front steps of my five-bedroom home. It’s made up of a light brick and has a three-car attached garage.

  The covered front porch takes you to a set of mahogany doors. The home and property are country yet give off a classic elegance.

  That’s what my mom said, anyway, when she showed it off to her friends at their house-warming party last weekend.

  Eager for a drink of water, I shove the key into the lock on the front door. My backpack is over my shoulder, and my gym bag hangs from my wrist that’s holding the key.

  I drop my stuff to the floor of the foyer and head straight to the kitchen. Fixing a glass of water, I notice the note from my dad on the kitc
hen island.

  Avery,

  Because of your outburst this morning and for walking away from me while I was speaking, I expect a two-page paper on the negative effects of civil disobedience.

  You can turn it in to your history teacher for extra credit. You’re to study French for an hour, too. No phone usage during that time…. I’ll check the phone records.

  I think my father has a screw loose and missed his birthright as Mussolini. My anger builds as I drag my butt up my stairs and to my room.

  I find the shiny, new nail that I swiped from Dad’s toolbox and take it to the bathroom with me. I set it on the vanity and pull off my sweaty gym shorts.

  My snug bra top clings to me, and my panic increases as I fight to get it over the generously sized boobs owning every scarce inch of it.

  Finally getting it over my head, I groan and sling it across the room. I’m sick of life being so hard, and I’m fed up with those who make it that way.

  I need a release. I want the panic to ease and the pain to lessen. I eye my nail on the sink and know I’ll have relief soon.

  Once I’ve adjusted the shower, I pull my hair from its ponytail holder and stare at myself in the mirror that rests above the entire double vanity.

  Two sinks, a stand up shower, a Jacuzzi size tub, and a linen closet fill this enormous space. I imagine this bathroom is bigger than some people’s bedrooms.

  Those are the luxuries bestowed on a teen whose father is a plastic surgeon and mother an anesthesiologist.

  They share a practice in Louisville, Kentucky, and Mom puts Dad’s patients to sleep so he can transform their physical appearance into what the person wants others to see.

  The patients are under the misconception they’ll be judged less if they appear more attractive, but I can attest that’s not the case.

  Grabbing a washcloth and towels, I put them where I need them and step inside the shower. The lukewarm water sprays over me, but it does little to ease my tension.

  I wash my hair and apply conditioner before I lather up my washcloth with body wash. I can’t clean my skin or rinse out my hair fast enough as my anxiety strengthens.