No. Fucking. Way.

When he walked into the room, I thought I’d met the hottie before, but I didn’t realize it was McSlutbag until just this moment.

When I got to the front office, the distracted secretary trying to answer phones, deal with teachers asking millions of questions, and placating parents angry about schedules told me my supervising teacher was in room four. She didn’t say his name, so I assumed it was the one hanging above his door. Kuntz would be much preferred to this douchebag who fucked me over in middle school.

I stare him up one side and down the other. Douchebag or not, I have to admit, the decade since I last saw him has treated McSlutbag well. He turned out much finer than I remember. His short, neatly messy black hair has that just-fucked look, and the hawkish green eyes only add to the allure. He’s lost the post-college graduate pudge he had back in the day and replaced it with just enough muscle to be dangerous without looking like a walking steroid.

“So, you remember me?” I ask cautiously, reassembling the bits and pieces from that traumatic year as I lean against a desk to keep from tipping over on these heels. I’m like a damn giraffe wearing stilts as I plot his demise. What I wouldn’t give for the comfort and safety of my basketball shoes right now. “I was in your English class eight years ago.”

His cheeks flush, and tiny droplets of sweat dot his brow. “Roxie. With an ie.” He taps his chin and pretends to think about it.

Of course, he remembers me. Everyone does. In an informal poll conducted at the end of eighth grade, I was voted Most Likely to End Up in Jail and my personal favorite, Worst (Best) Mouth in the South following my suspension from school for allegedly giving a kid a blow job at the public library next door. What a disappointment that asshat had been. He couldn’t even get his dick—

I shake my head.

I’m a good girl now, I tell myself as I mentally adjust my crooked halo.

McSlutbag returns his gaze to mine, and his eyes widen with fake recognition. He shakes an index finger at me and beams a sexy, lopsided grin. “I do remember you. The worst kid I ever taught, a.k.a. the girl who fucked up my entire life. How the hell did you end up back here as my student teacher? I can only assume I pissed off some god of enlightenment, and this is my punishment. A semester with Roxie-with-an-ie Rambling running my ship. Oh, the fun we’ll have.”

My confidence deflates. Jeez, I know I was bad, but what a twunt. And how about what he did to me? It’s a miracle I ended up where I am, considering I almost dropped out of school thanks to the dickish moves he pulled.

Anger swirls within me, gaining strength like a tornado. I need to let it out. At him.

Whoa. Wait a sec, Roxie. If you go full-on shitstorm at McSlutbag, you won’t make it out of the building alive. He’ll say you’re unstable just like you were when you were a student, and they have the records to prove it. That’ll be the end of Roxie Rambling’s Adventures in Adulthood. Buh-bye diploma, buh-bye chances for a decent job, buh-bye shot at quality healthcare, a car, a house, a life.

With a heavy sigh, I sift through the Rolodex of coping strategies my college counselor taught me, inhale a deep breath through my nose, and let it out through my mouth.

You’re strong, Roxie. You’re smart. Kind of. You’ll make a great teacher. Now prove it.

I glue on my sweetest angel smile and dip forward just enough to let the tiny bit of visible cleavage do the talking. Not that I have anything but professional shit to say to this motherfucker. “I’m sorry for all the tricks I played and trouble I caused in your class, Mr. McSlu—I mean, Mr. Slater. I know I was a terrible student, but as you can see, I’m all grown up now and much more mature. I’ve changed. I’ll prove it.”

He narrows his eyes to green laser points and scans my attire. “I can see how hard you’re trying with the totally inappropriate dress.”

My jaw drops, and I look down at my outfit. These are the best, most expensive clothes I own. Son of a bitch!

“What’s wrong with this?” I say, smoothing my skirt. Yeah, a little cleavage is peeking out up top, but it’s not like it’s pouring out. I’ve seen far worse in church.

“Have you even read the student dress code?” he asks, his voice incredulous. “It hasn’t changed since you were in school here, and the teacher code for professional dress is even more stringent.” He points to my boobs and then to my legs. “You can’t be flashing your … assets around horny teenagers like a two-dollar hooker. It’s distracting.”

Skirts always ride up when you sit down, but now that I’m standing, mine falls right above the knee, longer than the spot where my fingers rest at my sides. I’m certain the outfit meets dress code.

I lash my hands to my hips and lean closer, thrusting my “assets” into his personal space. “Watch your mouth, Mr. McSlutbag. That’s sexual harassment. I’ll drag your ass to the Professional Standards Commission for demeaning my appearance.”

His catlike lips flatten into a thin, angry line, and his head tips back an inch so he can stare down at me better. The look he drops is designed to kill or, at the very least, maim. I tuck my chin to my chest to protect my weak places.

“What did you just call me?” His voice turns deadly cold.

Shit. Did I say McSlutbag?

“Slater,” I stammer. “Mr. Slater.” I don’t give him the opportunity to argue. “I don’t appreciate your rude tone. If you want me to wear something different, fine. Tell me what I can and can’t do, and I’ll follow your—” stupid—“rules.”

He laughs bitterly. “Like you did in eighth-grade language arts?”

I bite my tongue to keep the retort notched at its tip in lockdown.

He shoves his hands in his pants pockets. “In case you haven’t figured it out, I don’t need a student teacher, and if the administration is going to force me to take one, I certainly don’t want it to be you. Get lost, Roxie.”

Gnawing my bottom lip, I glance around the dusty room with its chairs turned upside down on top of desks, shelves covered with crafting paper, and bare bulletin boards. I picture a class full of kids on the first day of school, waiting excitedly to learn, with me at the front of the room.

Becoming a teacher has been my dream since I cleaned up my act during senior year in high school. One semester away from college graduation, I came here today, two weeks earlier than I had to, in hopes of helping my supervising teacher prep his room. I wanted to be a part of the start of school. Aside from the basketball court, I’ve never been a part of anything—in school or anywhere else. To a lot of people like McSlutbag, I’m just another messed-up girl from the bad side of town, destined for jail. Or worse.

But I’m better than my reputation. I’m good enough. I will be a great teacher, with or without McSlutbag, though, I really wanted to make a difference here at Bracken. This school and its teachers failed me, and I don’t want to see that happen to any other kids like me.

“If you really don’t want to work with me, I’ll talk to my supervisor and see if she can find me another placement,” I say, refusing to give him the pleasure of sounding sad.

He flings a “fantastic” my way and turns to his desk, opening and slamming drawers like he’s looking for something. “I have a classroom to set up.”

“I can help.” The offer escapes before I have a chance to stop it.

Scowling, he goes for the bookcase beside his desk. He tears off the long sheet of butcher paper covering it, balls it up, and tosses it to the floor, refusing to look at me. “I’d rather you didn’t. I think you’ve helped me enough to last a lifetime.”

My face heats with a flaming cocktail of anger, hurt, and disappointment. Without another word—I’ll say something I’ll regret if I so much as crack the seal on my tight lips again—I leave McSlutbag’s room and stomp down the hallway to the exit, wobbling on my dumb heels.

What an asshole. Some things never change.

When I get to the public bus stop on the street outside the school, tears threaten, stinging my eyes. I blink them away and type a text to Elliott: Student teaching with mcslutbag hes still a dick and he hates me gonna try to get another teacher. Then I delete the hes still a dick part. Elliott doesn’t like it when I cuss. But the McSlutbag bit stands. Sorry, Elliott.

I punch send and wait for Elliott’s reply.

The bus arrives.

I hop on.

The bus takes me to the edge of campus.

I get off.

I walk unsteadily to the dorm, sweat dripping down my legs and pooling in my too-high heels in the heat of metro Atlanta’s dog days of summer.

Still no answer from Elliott. It’s not like him to ignore me for this long.

I stop by the ground floor computer lab to slake some heat—they have lots of fans in there to keep the computers cool—and email Dr. Davis, my student teaching supervisor. I furiously type the message, chock full of cuss words and finger pointing. Delete it. Type a new one with fewer cuss words. Delete it again. Renew the surge of cuss words with a vengeance. Shake my head. I finally settle on something short and sweet:

Fingers crossed. Send.

On the slow chug up the three sweltering flights of stairs to my room, I open my tracking app, silently thanking Gramamma for the tiny bit of money she left me to keep my belly full and the phone bill paid. Though it’s nothing fancy, my cell is a reminder of what’s possible for me. Something good waits around the corner if I work hard. I gotta keep believing that, even when life throws me a curveball, like today. Especially today.

Looks like Elliott’s at Bede Hall. Must be helping his brother move in. I can only imagine what kind of trouble Aaron will get into as a freshman there. That dorm is coed with private bathrooms and no visiting restrictions.

Everyone wants to get into Bede, but it’s way too expensive for people on a budget like me. I’m stuck in the bottom-of-the-barrel swill of Herrington where the low-income rejects and last-minute applicants end up. Communal bathrooms, no air conditioning, no elevators, and internet access at the speed of dial-up are its only selling points. Everything else about the place leads me to believe it’ll either be condemned or torn down by the end of next school year.

I’ll be paying off the student loans for my education and this shithole excuse for housing until I’m fifty.

But at least I’m here. And I’ll graduate in a few months.

Gramamma would be proud of me. For graduating and for not decking that dickhead Slater when I had the chance. I can hear her now: Girl, what the hell you thinkin’ lettin’ that white boy talk to you like that? He didn’t do you no favors when you was in his class. He certainly ain’t gon’ do you none now. You the only one who controls you. You do you. Everything will be all right.

I look up at the crispy, peeling stairwell ceiling and smile. “Yeah, Gramamma. Everything will be all right.”

I’m sure Dr. Davis will change my placement. There must be another teacher at Bracken or one of the other local schools who will take me.

I unlock and open the door to room 444. A blast of heat welcomes me as I kick off the annoying heels and rub a newly formed blister on the side of my toe. Normally, I close the windows and blinds when the sun comes up to trap as much cool night air as possible in the mornings, but Atlanta in August warms up pretty quick. Now that the temperature inside is about the same as outside, I turn the creaky latch and shove the glass wide, praying for a breeze.

Herrington is one of the few dorms that stays open over the summer and holidays. I don’t have anywhere else to go, so I’ve been living here since spring semester. If the Powers That Be decide to give me a roommate for fall semester, she could arrive any day. I’m hoping for no roomie, but I don’t have any say in the matter, so I’ll take whatever I get and be grateful.

I’m not required to be at my assigned school until the university semester begins in two weeks, but I want to do everything I can to show my supervisor how committed I am to being a kick-ass teacher. With my so-so grades, I need a glowing recommendation if I’m going to land a job right after graduation. The extra semester’s worth of courses I had to take due to a couple of Ds I got as a freshman really threw a wrench into my plans.

It’s next to impossible to get a teaching job midyear.

But I’m Roxie Rambling, damn it. I’ve battled much bigger monsters than job rejections and asshole teachers. I can do anything.

My phone rings. Elliott’s name and picture light up the screen.

“Hey, babe,” I say, relaxing into the only chair in the dorm room—a hard, plastic number whose legs are maddeningly unbalanced. I throw my feet onto the desk built into the wall and frown at another blister.

“So, you’re teaching under Mr. Slater?” he asks, a smile tilting his voice.

Under Mr. Slater. Ha! I’ll bet McSlutbag wishes.

“Small world. Did he remember you?” Elliott continues.

I huff. “Who doesn’t? He still hates me.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t hate you. You have to admit, you were a bit of a wild child in middle school.”

“I do admit it. But he shouldn’t judge me for sh—” I slap a stop sign on the shit traveling south on I-85 at seventy miles per hour, “crap I did as a kid.”

“No, he shouldn’t. He was a good teacher, though,” he says.

I don’t remember things that way at ALL, but Elliott was the pet to every single teacher in the whole world back then. He sees everything through rose-colored glasses.

Not much has changed for Mr. 4.0, who graduated summa cum laude last spring and has an awesome marketing job with benefits and flexible hours. As long as he completes his projects, he can clock in whenever he damn well feels like it, and he mostly works from home. I’m only a little jealous of Elliott’s success.

On the flip side, he’s my boyfriend, so there’s something everyone else can be jealous about, except for his parents, who also hate me. I think it’s because I’m <whisper>half black</whisper>. And yeah, maybe because I had a reputation through school. But out of respect for Elliott, I’m always on my best behavior when his mom and dad are around—extra nice, careful to ask if they need help with anything. They tolerate me, also out of respect for Elliott. I sometimes wonder why he sticks with me, knowing how much his mom and dad disapprove. He’s always been the perfect student, perfect kid. I feel like his dirty little secret.

Elliott’s parents can’t dull my shine, though. I control the shine, and it’s full volume up in here 24/7, bitches.

That’s right, Gramamma would say with a smile. Louder, baby. Mmm-hmmm.

“McSlutbag kicked me out,” I say to Elliott. “I just put in a request for a different teacher. I can’t work with him after the way he treated me.”

“You shouldn’t call him that, Roxie. It’s disrespectful,” Elliott chides.

He’s worried about me calling Slater a name? What about the hell that man put me through when I was a kid?

“Whatever,” I grumble. “Doesn’t matter. Even if I get a new assignment, it’s supposed to rain tomorrow. You know how I hate riding the bus in the rain. Maybe it’s a sign I should stay here and,” I look around the empty, sweltering dorm room, “chill until the semester officially starts.”

Silence fills the line for a couple seconds. “Well, if you do find a new teacher, I could drive you to your school at seven-thirty,” Elliott offers. “I have a client appointment at noon, so I’d need to pick you up before then, but it would give you a couple hours to get the lay of the land.”

I straighten and clutch the phone hard. “Really? Elliott, you’re the best boyfriend. How can I thank you?” I infuse the question with a suggestive lilt, hoping to get a reaction. A sigh. A growl. Anything would do.

“Just keep being the sweet, lovable girlfriend you always are,” he replies cheerfully.

Damn it. I adore Elliott, but sometimes I want to strangle him. Why the hell would a guy as smart and good-looking as he is want to wait until marriage to have sex? Especially when a known (former) nymphomaniac dangles it in his face at least once a day? I mean, yeah, he’s religious and shit, but “good” boys are usually the ones who can’t keep their dicks in their pants, even if Jesus himself is buckling the chastity belt.

Such a waste of perfectly good sperm.

Patience. I will try to be patient. And hope I can convince him to break his vow of celibacy before my vagina crumbles to dust from lack of use.

“Did you get Aaron settled into the dorm?” I ask, fanning myself for more reasons than the temperature.

“Huh?” he says, confused. Then, a beat later, “Oh. Yeah. He’s good.”

I pause. “You’re distracted. What are you doing?”

“Just, uh, finishing up some work. I’ve got a thing due tonight.”

I frown. “So, no dinner?”

“I’m sorry. I forgot. This project just popped up.”

“It just popped up? Or you forgot? Which is it?” I lower my feet to the tiles. They’re the coolest things in the room, and I need something to knock the sudden flare of anger down a couple degrees.

“I—I mean—” He sounds flustered. He inhales loudly and lets out his breath in a whoosh. “I forgot that I’d agreed to dinner with you, and this deadline hit my desk an hour ago. It’s my fault. I should’ve blocked it off on my calendar. Forgive me? I’ll make it up to you on Saturday.”

He promised. I hate when work interferes with our couple time.

And he’s acting weird.

“What are we gonna do Saturday?” I ask slowly, dialing back the disappointment in my voice.

“Something big,” he says.

“Does it involve taking off your pants?” I joke.

He hesitates. “Sort of …?”

I perk up. “Is this ‘big’ thing inside your pants?”

“Uh … indirectly,” he says. I can feel him blush from here. “Trust me.” His voice gains some confidence. “You won’t be disappointed.”

I rub my thighs together to quell the lust surging between them and squeal. “Yes! YES!”

This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. Months and months of hand-holding, pecks on the cheek, and the occasional French kiss when he’s feeling really frisky have finally paid off. We’re gonna do it!

Elliott’s the only guy I’ve ever dated who’s treated me the way Gramamma said I should be treated—like a human being, rather than a piece of meat. Most guys on the dating scene are only interested in what’s between a girl’s legs or protruding from her chest. By the time Elliott and I got together, I’d had enough of that and needed a friend, not a dance partner in bed. He’s served in the friend capacity just fine, but I’m ready to kick our relationship up to the next level.

He’s proven he’s a decent person. I know he’ll treat me right. Now I need inside his pants to sample the goods before I can go any further.

I’ll have to find something sexy to wear, though I blew my entire clothing budget for September on today’s outfit, which went wholly unappreciated. I glance down at the best thirty bucks I ever spent. Might have to recycle this one for Saturday.

“It’s not what you think, but it’ll be good,” Elliott says. “I gotta run. Text me if you want a ride in the morning. I love you.”

“Okay,” I stammer, thrown off by his use of the L Word. Did he really just say that? “Bye.”

The call ends, and I stare at the phone.

Bad news: He loves me.

Good news: We’re probably maybe gonna do it this weekend.

I’m not sure what to make of either of those things, but it could be a hell of a lot worse.

Speaking of worse … My phone dings with an email notification. It’s from Dr. Davis. I inhale a huge breath and tap the message.

“Son of a bitch,” I say, shaking my head. A fresh storm of frustrated tears threatens. I wipe them away as I quickly type back:

Great.

As I see it, there are two choices for how to proceed. I can: 1) cry and rage and blame and shake my fists miserably about the unfairness of it all; or 2) hitch my big-girl panties all the way up the crack of my ass and pretend to enjoy working for the man who ruined my chances of scoring a basketball scholarship and put me in my current predicament, drowning in student loans with a strong chance of wallowing in crippling debt if I fail.

My competitive nature urges me to choose the latter.

It’s only a couple months of torture, and then I’ll be free of that asshole.

And if I can make him hurt in the process, all the better.

“You picked the wrong girl to fuck with, McSlutbag,” I say as I open the web browser on my phone and access the state education department’s website. With a quick search for sixth-grade curriculum, I settle into my squeaky bed and begin poring over the student performance standards.

When I go back to Bracken tomorrow, I will be armed and dangerous, McSlutbag be damned.

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