- STEVEN -

I got sent to the office after inciting that little uprising in psych class.

Not like I cared.

This made my sixth trip to the office since August, when senior year'd started.

I knew my dad wouldn't be happy. He'd probably hock some crap about how I should apologize to Carl, or maybe he'd try to guilt me into being a better person by saying I should take my status as heir to the church seriously. He'd spit out a bunch of empty words, and then he'd "request" that the principal drop this incident from my school record. The principal would complain, maybe whine about how all the clean slates she kept giving me weren't setting a good example—and then she'd do precisely what my dad asked.

I'd have to go home and listen to my father whine about how a man of God was supposed to be above reproach, maybe nod my head a few times so he felt like he was getting through to me. But honestly, we both knew the score. 

Dad was wasting his breath.

I walked into the principal's office and winked at the secretary, Ms. Fest. She rolled her eyes, but I just chuckled. For someone with such a massive pole up her butt, she's actually pretty cute.

"Nice to see you again, Mr. Hall," she sneered. "I'm afraid Principal Turner is out of the office at the moment."

"Bummer." I puffed out my lower lip. "And here I was hoping to hear another of her world-famous lectures." I fished the write-up slip out of my pocket and slid it across the table. "Put this on her desk, would you? Oh, and say hi to the kids for me." I winked again.

Just as I turned to leave, Principal Turner walked in the room through the door behind Ms. Fest's desk. At her heels was this olive-skinned kid with a nametag that read Ahmed. His eyes were wide, his face young—must've been a freshman.

"Who's the Muslim?" I blurted. "I thought this was a Christian school."

Principal Turner rolled her eyes. "And this is Steven Hall," she announced to Ahmed, gesturing toward me. "Pastor's son, basketball star, and bombastic brute extraordinaire. He's such a good student that he visits me at least twice a month." She turned to face me. "What've you done this time, Mr. Hall?"

I motioned to the write-up slip I'd given Ms. Fest. "It's on the slip. I'm pretty sure you still know how to read, and I'm way too hungry to deal with this right now." I pushed past her and Ahmed, bumping his shoulder as I walked.

"See you at lunch, Osama."

As I headed for the lunchroom, I faintly heard Principal Turner apologizing to Ahmed for my "unacceptable behavior" and promising him that all the students at this school weren't as "given to such uncouth remarks" as I was.

I chuckled. It was just a joke. Kid needs to lighten up.

Lunch was one of my favorite times of the day. No tests, no classwork, no stupid presentations—just fun with the bros. 

Passing through the line, I grabbed a hefty chicken sandwich and a smattering of fries, then picked up a small salad plate and topped it with cheese and Ranch dressing. I rounded out my balanced meal with Gatorade from the cooler at the front of the line, swiping my student card and brushing past the smiling lunch lady to head to my usual table.

My girlfriend Grace was already there, and I was about to go sneak a kiss when I saw that Indian guy Ahmed come steal the seat next to her.

What the...?

She turned to him and smiled, and he reached inside his backpack for something. I slammed my lunch tray down on a nearby table, then stomped up behind the two of them.

"Table for two?" I spat, then gripped Ahmed by the shoulders and hurled him from the seat. He hurtled to the ground, backpack flying off his stick-figure frame and spilling his English and Biology notebooks.

Biology? Definitely a freshman, I thought to myself as several students turned to stare.

"Steven, what are you doing!?" Grace screamed.

"I could ask you the same thing, Grace. What are you doing talking to that loser?" I turned toward Ahmed and gave him a fierce glare, silently commanding him to grab his stuff and leave. He obeyed without retort.

Good boy, I thought with a chuckle.

Grace rolled her eyes. "He's new here. He was asking me about finding his classes."

My arms crossed.

"Gosh, you are such a prick, Steven."

I flinched at that. "Aw, come on, Grace."

She twisted away from me.

"Look, I've had a rough day. I got sent to the office again."

She refused to meet my eyes, kept staring off into space.

"Are you really gonna get mad at me over this? I'm sorry, okay?" I shoved my hands in my pockets.

Grace sighed. "Steven, this is his first day. Did you really have to embarrass him like that?"

"How was I supposed to know it was his first day? I've never even met the kid before," I lied.

"Whatever," Grace mused.

I sidled up behind her and wrapped my arm around her shoulder. 

She turned to me at last, that pretty pouting face glaring disapproval.

"Are you ever gonna forgive me?" I gave her my best puppy-dog eyes.

"I guess," she mumbled.

Grinning mischievously, I inched closer to her and pressed my lips quickly against her cheek. "I love you, Grace." I slid a hand down her shoulder and around her back, fingering her perfect figure, then rested my palm on her inner thigh. "I love you so much."

I stroked her perfect brown hair, twirling a wave of luscious locks around my index finger. "You're so beautiful," I breathed, leaning in for a second kiss—this time, finding her soft and tender lips.

"Steven," she mused between breaths, "Steven, not here." She looked to the side and giggled. "People are watching."

"Fine," I smiled, retrieving a set of keys from my pocket. "We've still got twelve more minutes of lunch left."

She smiled back. "I do love that Chevy of yours."

****

The walk to my car wasn't a long one.

Stealing through the cafeteria's backdoor led us to a stony archway overhanging the transition between paved sidewalk and the silvery asphalt of our school's parking lot. Grace was full of giggles as we sprinted past the security cameras, crunching our footprints into the grainier parts of the gravel on the path to my jet black Chevrolet.

And when I opened the door, Grace's jaw dropped.

"Whoa," she breathed, "this is even hotter than I remember it."

I'd just gotten sleek black-leather seat cushions for my birthday, and they were perfect. They were plush, cushy, and oh so soft—in fact, they were probably the softest thing in the whole car, if you catch my drift.

I wrapped my arms around Grace and started slipping off her bright-red sweater as she pushed against my chest to nudge me inside the car, pulling the door shut with a single and feverish swing. Her hand slid around my waist, unbuckled my belt. Kisses rained down on me as my jeans descended and fell to the floor.

Her volleyball shorts were next—I stretched them back, snapped them playfully against her butt before tugging downward and tossing them to the side. Her dainty little hands toyed with the loose curls in my hair, and I smiled up at her, silently begging for more.

She leaned down and pressed her open lips over my own, the heat of her face setting every inch of my body ablaze. My breathing grew deeper, heavier, huskier. I grasped her upper thigh, allowing the warmth of her skin to flush into me.

"I love you," I breathed. "I love you." My hand slid up between her legs, ready to pull back her girlishly pink panties, the only thing left separating us.

"Oh, Steven..." she moaned deeply.

BANG! Before Grace could say another word, a heavy pound boomed from the back window.

She and I both jolted upward, our eyes drawn wide.

"Steven!" I heard a familiar voice call. "Bro, you in there?"

Grace rolled off me, arms folding quickly to shield herself from view.

"Yeah, Dylan," I exhaled heavily. "I'm here."

Dylan Chapley, my best friend since middle school, walked around to the side door and slid it open.

"Oh, dang!" He yelled, covering his eyes when he saw me and Grace. "Sorry, dude. I didn't know."

I sighed. "What're you doing here, Dylan?"

"Steven, it's fifth period. Mrs. Pall was wondering where you were. I came out here looking for you..."

I glanced at my phone. "Crap! It's twelve-thirty already?"

Grace and I retrieved our clothes from the floor and donned them quickly while Dylan turned about-face. I grabbed my and Grace's backpacks from where we'd stashed them in the trunk, and then all of us booked it to fifth period.

Mrs. Pall didn't have much to say, dismissing our arrival with a slow shaking of her head. She blabbered on for forty-five more minutes before that blessed bell released us from her dull voice and homely face.

Sixth-period Government was tolerable, but learning about legislative policy just didn't have very much allure so late in the day—especially when seventh-period athletics was so close. I headed to the gym at the end of class, ready to kill it on the court.

After dressing out in the locker room, I hurried upstairs, where a wave of body odor blasted me in the face the moment I dashed through the door to the gymnasium. 

What the—? The thud of dribbled basketballs rumbled out thunderously all across the court, a slew of guys in loaner jerseys scrabbling after one another and grasping frantically between flailing arms for their elusive chance at catching—or intercepting—the perfect pass.

Oh, right, I remembered, today's the first day of tryouts. Our school was on a weird sports schedule—even though the team began practicing the first day of the semester, our season didn't officially begin until nine weeks into the school year. And that meant we didn't start looking for new guys to add to the team until October.

I walked over to Coach Wells. "'Sup, Coach," I greeted him.

He nodded. "Steven."

"The boys look good this year?" I asked.

"Yeah," he nodded again. "Lots of freshmen, but I think there's promise there."

I did a quick three-sixty sweep, honing in on the guys as they hustled up and down the court, every last one of them somewhere between trying to make an impression and trying to look unbothered in the heat of the game.

"Look out!" someone called.

I whirled around, catching an air ball headed straight for my head. I hurled it back to the guy who threw it, then froze when I caught a glimpse of his face.

Ahmed.

"Sorry, man," he said lowly, then scurried back to the huddle of amateurs waiting for him.

I turned to Coach Wells, nodding at Ahmed. "What do you think of that one?"

"Like I said, all the guys out here look decent to me. That kid—he's no different. Who knows? Maybe he'll make this season's starting lineup."

First my girlfriend and now my game? I could feel my blood boiling. Screw this kid. No way is he getting on the team. Not if I have anything to say about it.