Chase the Beauty
Chapter One –
I flinched instinctively, my shoulders hunching up as the sound of strident police sirens blared out the crackling PA system, the dusty box of the outdated intercom speakers rattling against the fractured wall. Throngs of high school students piled out of the classrooms simultaneously, with a half of the crowd looking tickled and amused at the unknown prankster's immature antics. The rest of the jaded teenagers skirted past the gathering, giggling mob of students prompting a human traffic jam in the middle of the hallway, rolling their eyes in blatant annoyance. With my palms clamped over my ears, I tapped the toes of my porcelain-white sling backs, the amusement factor of the stale joke quickly losing its shine, the sirens blasting for a few more seconds before abruptly aborting.
That took long enough. I wondered which of the tediously incompetent women was working the intercom today. It was probably Wanda – the woman was notorious for her comatose work ethic, her smartphone and tablets permanently riveted to her garishly bedazzled hands, often seen obnoxiously snacking on an apple, family-sized bags of barbecue potato chips, smacking tongue-staining lollipops, and other equally audible treats. She never got a lick of work done, and the entire Rushmore High faculty knew the sole reason of her employment sat in the swiveling leather chair in the only air-conditioned office down the hallway, skittishly combing his fingers through his nonexistent hair at his ramshackle, crumbling excuse of a school. The brattiest and the most syrupy-voiced of Principal Monroe's nieces, she was unbelievably one of the most senior faculty members of the school, despite being completely and utterly useless. Thank God she was part-time.
I clutched the worksheets the history teacher, Mr. Donovan, had sent me to make photocopies of in the school library, clucking disapprovingly as I passed by the fresh pieces of graffiti brashly sprayed across an entire row of grimy lockers, some doors severely dented and hanging off its hinges. My lips moved along as I read the silent words aloud, my lips twitching and tightening shut, the tags starting off as light-hearted and comically juvenile, turning dark, interrupted by a row of severe, pitch-black spray paint broadcasting unimaginative racial slurs and bigoted messages. I made my way to the library, my fingers snaking around the cool metal of the door handle. My ears perked at the sound of scuffling footfall behind me, a dreading unease flowering in the pit of my stomach as the enabling students flocked around the excitement, their young, teenage faces giddy from the unfolding drama.
It hardly seemed like a fair fight. The lanky boy, who was at least a foot taller, dressed in an oversized t-shirt and camouflage cargo shorts had a stocky, red-faced boy in a chokehold, his knuckles forcefully kneading into the poor boy's skull as he squirmed in his grasp. I stepped forward, lifting my hand off the door handle, the worksheets slightly crumpling in my fingers. Standing on my tiptoes with my arms raised over my head, I flagged down the security guards and chatting teachers from the far end of the hall.
“Hey, guys, knock it off –” I growled through gritted teeth, yelping in pain as a stray elbow from the wrestling pair clipped me on the cheek.
“Jason, get the hell off of him. You're twice the kid's size.”
Freddy Sturgess, the sixteen-year-old I tutored after school, jostled through the heckling mob of students. A freckled, well-built junior living with dyslexia and attention span problems, he was still one of the smartest kids I've ever had the fortune to come across, and was one of the most talented point guards to ever emerge from Rushmore High. In one swift motion, he wrenched the taller boy's arms off his victim, two security guards, who probably moonlighted as club bouncers, swooping in to escort the troublemaker straight to the principal's office. Not that the quivery, soft-spoken principal was going to do anything about it.
Freddy helped the boy to his feet, wobbling dangerously as he rose from the ground, dusting the dirt off his jeans. The boy picked up his books, his cheeks flushing red in mortification at the dismissive looks from the dissipating crowd of students, hurriedly collecting his belongings off the floor and disappearing around the corner. I cocked an eyebrow as Freddy furtively turned to leave, the soles of his sneakers betraying him, cheeping loudly against the tiled floor. I hemmed loudly, Freddy's shoulders peaking as he halted defeatedly, turning to face me.
“Freddy, where do you think you're going?”
“Right – about that, Ms. Woodley,” he totted, scratching the back of his neck, “You know I don't like to ditch, but my brother never gets a day-off and he promised we'd get to hang out and stuff. I don't know, I never see him, maybe I stay an extra hour tomorrow –”
I frowned, noting the genuine excitement in his voice, his rounded, pale blue eyes brightening at the mention of his older brother, his only guardian. Rolling my eyes, I stifled the smile creeping across my lips, nodding curtly. I waved him off with mock contempt, his lips stretching in a broad, toothsome grin, flashing me a thumbs up.
“You're the best, Ms. Woodley! I'll see you tomorrow –”
“I still want you to try reading sections six to eight tonight!” I called after him, cupping my palms over my mouth, amplifying my voice across the hallway.
“The House on Mango Street! Got it!”
I watched as Freddy pulled his baseball cap backwards and jogged out the hall, the cord locks of his hoodie wildly swinging.
“You must have the patience of a saint, Ms. Woodley – I don't know why you even bother with these lost causes. Heck, after that false bomb threat that punk ass kid called in last week, I nearly called it quits. You know they probably gonna end up flipping burgers or driving one of 'em monster trucks –”
I wrinkled my nose, the insufferable sound of bubblegum popping next to my ear, catching a quick whiff of cheap, overly-saccharine perfume. A strand of Wanda's bleached-blonde hair looped across her forehead, peering down at her phone as she fished in her pockets absentmindedly, presumably for the keys to the locked storage room door.
“Still respectable jobs all the same,” I shrugged, “I –”
Wanda glanced up from her phone, her honey-brown eyes narrowed, locking on mine as she probed, “You're Jeanie's little sister, aren't you? Aren't you loaded? Why would you waste your time here, the pay is balls –”
“My parents are loaded,” I corrected her, edging around her, turning towards the library, not feeling the slightest need to explain myself, “I just happen to live with them. Anyway, I've gotta get these copies done for Mr. Donovan for his class tomorrow. I'll see you around.”
I ignored her catty comment about the well-mannered, albeit socially awkward history teacher, shuffling towards the dimly-lit, shoddily maintained library. I pushed open the door, slipping my fingers into the pocket of my blazer to retrieve my vibrating cellphone. Will's name lit up on the screen of my phone, taking a quick peek at the snoozing librarian. Deciding to take my chances, I accepted the call, a faint smile on my lips as I greeted my boyfriend of two years, whispering.
“Hey, babe. Thanks for picking me up today – are you here?”
My forehead wrinkled as Will snorted from the opposite end of the line, haughtily replying, “What, and get jumped by those shithead punks you call students? They'd probably never seen a Porsche off TV – you get my drift. I'm parked two blocks down the road.”
I sighed indignantly at the overwhelming ignorance of his comments, rubbing my temples as I retorted, aghast, “That's fine, Will. Whatever. I just have to make a few copies and I'll be right –”
“Hurry up, I don't have all day. Me and the boys got sky box tickets to the game and I don't wanna be late. I think that's Conrad calling right now –”
Before I could snap back in protest about the multitudes of times he's kept me waiting, the line shifted to a detestably mellow instrumental. That douchebag put me on hold. I slid my phone back into my blazer pocket in a huff, storming towards the copy machine and straightening the worksheet across the glass surface, nearly slamming the hood down in a fit of rage as my head tumbled with my venting, pent-up thoughts.
After making the copies, I dropped the stack of papers into Mr. Donovan's mail drawer in the teacher's lounge. I picked up my purse from my cubicle and swung it over my neck, my feet dragging under me as I journeyed two blocks down the high school. I spotted Will's gleaming silver Porsche instantaneously, his costly vehicle parked across a deserted alley, sticking out like a sore thumb. I strode towards the passenger's side and scooted into the vehicle, the suffocating stench of Will's overbearing cologne stinging my nostrils.
“Took you long enough.”
Will cracked his head to the side, patting the top of his sugarcane-blonde hair, neatly gelled to the side as he gazed at his reflection in the rearview. His cheek dimpled as he exhaled in frustration, drumming his fingers along his steering wheel expectantly.
“Man, I had a long day,” I started, blindly reaching over for my seatbelt.
“Less talking, more buckling, Katrina. Sorry, I'd love to hear about your day but you know I'm gonna be late –”
“Right,” I muttered, the buckle of my seatbelt clicking as it fastened close.
I gasped, my head smacking against the cushioned headrest as the car lurched forward, speeding off, his tires tearing across the asphalt.