The Rebel of Raleigh High (Raleigh Rebels Series Book 1) Read online

  His t-shirt is grey, plain, with the sleeves cuffed, rolled up a couple of times, and the thin material is pulled taut across his chest. There really are tattoos all up his arms—dark swirls of ink that my eyes snag on as they travel up to his face.

  High, pronounced cheekbones. Strong, cut jawline. Arrow straight nose. His lower lip is slightly fuller than the top. A pair of dark, intense eyes stare up at me, and it’s all I can do not to squeak like a fucking church mouse. Making eye contact with him is like staring into a bottomless well, inexplicably being stuck with vertigo and almost falling in. He’s exactly as I imagined he’d be. He’s nothing like I imagined he would be. Fuck, I just dumped my fucking bag down on the desk, right in front of him like an insane person, when every single other desk in the room is empty.

  His dark eyebrow slowly curves itself into a question.

  My brain short circuits. “Ah, shit. Sorry. I—I didn’t—” I reach out and grab my bag, snatching it back from the desk. “I—” I don’t know what the hell to say. I don’t know what to do, either. I stagger back, bumping into the desk behind me, and all the while he just stares at me with those steady, penetrating brown eyes of his.

  Jesus wept, Silver, pull yourself together.

  “I usually sit there. Is what I meant to say,” I clarify. “And I didn’t see you…sitting there.” For fuck’s sake. That did not go well.

  The new guy’s mouth lifts up into an amused smirk. “I’m kinda hard to miss,” he says quietly.

  “Yeah, well. I wasn’t paying attention, so…”

  He angles his head to one side, studying me from the boots up. He looks confused. “Name?” he demands.

  Okay, now that’s just fucking rude. I’m suddenly not so shocked that he’s in my seat anymore. I’m more...mad. Narrowing my eyes, I half-scowl at him. “Nope.”

  Now it’s his turn to act surprised. “Nope?”

  “That’s right. No.”

  “You’re not going to tell me your name?”

  “Maybe if you asked for it properly, like a normal fucking person and not some sergeant major asshole handing out an order, I would tell you.”

  This earns me a swift bark of laughter. “All right, fine. Please, Oh Angry One, would you do me the honor of telling me your name?”

  Mercifully, Professor Cline enters through the door and not a moment too soon. The towering stack of texts books in his hands wobbles, threatening to fall any moment. He curses under his breath, then curses again when he sees that two of his students have already arrived. “Sorry, guys. Sorry. Here, Silver, grab this for me, would you? I’m gonna lose it in a sec—woah!” The top book in his pile clatters to the floor. Looks like the rest of them are going to go any second, too. I lunge forward, rushing to help him.

  Students file in while I help him unload the textbooks onto his desk, and the tension in the room ramps up; the guy sitting in the corner might as well be dressed as a circus clown with a face full of makeup for all the attention he’s getting.

  Marjorie Chen’s looking at me like I’ve grown another head. David Moss—a guy who once told me I was breathtaking and begged me to go to spring formal with him, is now wrinkling his nose at me like I’m an apple he’s bitten into and discovered to be rotten. Everyone else is casually glancing at the stranger in the corner, though, whispering furiously to each other behind the backs of their hands.

  “All right, thank you, Silver. You can take your seat.” Professor Cline extends his hand, about to touch me between my shoulder blades—a casual gesture to usher me toward a desk—but he stops himself at the last second, apparently thinking better of it. He gives me a tight-lipped, uncomfortable smile, then quickly looks away. In a louder voice, he addresses the rest of the room. “Yes, yes, I’m glad to see all of you are still mentally alert for this highly anticipated last session of the day. You are indeed correct. We have a new student amongst us this afternoon. Yes, he looks quite imposing. Yes, he rides a motorcycle. Please, get your behinds in your seats, or we’re going to be here all day. Silver Parisi, where are you going? Take the desk next to our new friend. You’re holding up traffic.”

  God damn it.

  I had just retrieved my bag, eyes firmly glued to the floor, and was attempting to weave my way over to the other side of the room, but now I’m fucked. Now I have to sit right next to New Boy, two feet away from him; I can feel his intense eyes glide over me, inspecting me distractedly as the chorus of chatter around us slowly begins to die down. Professor Cline removes his grey blazer and hangs it from a hook on the wall behind his desk. I’ve never been a great judge of age, but I’d say Cline’s in his mid-forties. I overheard Karen, Principle Darhower’s assistant, on the phone once, telling someone that Cline used to teach at UCLA. That he’d been involved in some sort of scandal and had been relegated to teaching high school physics here at Raleigh because of it.

  “All right. Let’s get it all out of the way,” he says, splaying his fingers in a supplicating gesture toward the group. Cline’s gaze lands on the guy sitting next to me, and he sends an apologetic smile his way. “Alessandro Moretti. I said that right, yes? I’m guessing you’d rather poke both your own eyes out than stand at the front of the class and tell us all a little bit about yourself?”

  My skin feels like it’s on fire; my neck is prickling like crazy as I cautiously look to my right. The guy—Alessandro Moretti—clears his throat. For one eternally long second, I can’t seem to rip my eyes away from the sight of his Adam’s apple shifting in his throat. “Alex,” he says. “And no. If it’s all the same to you.” The timbre of his voice is a lot like the rumble of his motorcycle’s engine—deep, rich and resonant.

  “Fair enough. Alex it is. We’ll do a seated quick-fire round and move on, then. Guessing you’re seventeen?”

  Alex’s dark eyes rove over the wall next to him, picking over the posters and the notices with mild disinterest. “Yes,” he answers.

  “You’re built like you bench more than my body weight. Are you a linebacker?”

  “No.”

  “Did you burn down your last school?”

  I wouldn’t call Alex’s expression surprised, but he does look away from the wall; Cline’s managed to snare his attention at least. “No.”

  “Married?”

  “No.”

  “Kids?”

  The suggestion of a smile pulls at Alex’s mouth. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Ooh, careful, ladies,” Cline says, laughing. “This one’s got game. Are you planning on causing trouble in my classroom, Mr. Moretti?”

  Alex seems to really consider his answer. After a moment’s pause, he answers, “No.”

  “Fantastic. That’s all I needed to hear. Okay, class, you have the rest of the academic year to piece together the mysterious, bad boy puzzle that is our friend Alex Moretti. Quiz him on your own time. For now, let’s focus on Sir Isaac Newton. Fun fact. According to the Julian calendar in use in England at the time of old Ike’s birth, he was officially born on Christmas Day. Unlucky, right? Probably hated only getting one gift at the holidays. And, Isaac Newton lived until he was eighty-five. People were dropping like flies in their late thirties back then, so in the grand scheme of things, Isaac was basically a million years old when he kicked the bucket…”

  I sit through the rest of class, numb. I don’t raise my hand to answer questions, but then again, I never do. Why draw attention to myself when I can just blend into the background? Cline doesn’t call on me once and doesn’t call on Alex, either. Fifty minutes crawl by, and my neck actually grows stiff thanks to the fact that I’m staring straight ahead so rigidly. When the bell rings, Cline blocks the doorway, holding out his hands. “Test at the end of the week, guys. It’s a doozy, so study everything. I mean it. Everything. You are welcome. See you all on Friday.”

  A chorus of groaning floods the room, but I don’t participate. My books are already packed up in my bag, and I’m ducking around Cline, bolting from the classroom like I’m fleeing a crime scene. The doors to all the other rooms are only just opening as I fly down the hall, making a break for the exit.

  Once I’m in my car, I lean my forehead against the steering wheel, relief soothing my frayed nerves; I made it out unscathed. Today was just one day, though. I pull out my cell phone and open up the calendar, doing the math. It takes a while to factor in all of the public and school holidays, but time is something I have right now. Since Mom and Dad still think I’m on the cheer squad, I have a full ninety minutes to kill before I can show up at home without raising any red flags. Eventually, I come up with a number—a large, soul-destroying number that makes me want to weep. One hundred and sixty-nine days. That’s how many school days there are left between now and graduation. Reaching my car without mishap just now felt like a victory, but in the grand scheme of things, it was nothing. I’m going to have to repeat this whole, shitty, frustrating process another one hundred and sixty-nine times before I can walk away from this place for good.

  I almost drop my phone, jumping at the sound of the deep rumble across the other side of the parking lot; it can only be Alessandro Moretti’s motorcycle, roaring to life. Two weeks ago, I started off this academic year, determined to make it through the other side in a dignified manner, with a straight back and a defiant ‘fuck you’ in my eyes.

  What a joke. I’ve been in detention once already, and the arrival of some jumped up bad boy wannabe has sent me down some weird helter-skelter of anxiety for absolutely no goddamn reason. I need to be stronger than this. I am fucking stronger than this. I need to remember who I am, the girl I used to be before one terrible night changed everything and my life disintegrated before my eyes. The old Silver would never have sulked in her car, hiding from the world, feeling sorry for herself. She would have grabbed today by the balls and forced it into submission. And if it hadn’t obeyed? The old Silver would have forced it to conform, or there would have been dire consequences.

  It’s strange to me now that I used to be so confident. I remember feeling that way—self-assured, poised and assertive—as I stalked the halls of Raleigh High like some kind of apex predator, comfortable in the knowledge that I was untouchable. Those days feel like another lifetime. They feel like a very vivid dream I had once upon a time, real for a time during the hours I was asleep but gone the moment I awoke and found myself here, wearing the skin of someone deeply and profoundly crippled by self-doubt.

  I close my eyes, thumping the back of my head against the headrest behind me a total of three times before I realize that it actually hurts, and I should stop. Fuck…this…shit. I could go to the library. I could hit up Giacomo’s for a slice and do my homework in a booth, but Mom sometimes picks up a pie for Dan’s kids after they finish school. If she saw me there, well, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. I know I can’t keep this up forever. There will come a time over the next one hundred and sixty-nine days when Mom or Dad finds out that I’ve been shirking the after-school activities that helped bolster my college applications, and I already know how they’re going to react. They’re going to freak the fuck out. Part of me thinks I should just tell them everything and get it over with. But then I imagine the look on mom’s face when I delve into the finer details of my outcast status, and I just can’t do it. It’ll fucking kill her. She won’t be able to take it.

  I crack my eyes, checking Mickey, and I see that it’s only ten to three. Still almost another hour to go until I can leave. Man, time really does seem to slow inside the Nova when I’m—

  “Fuck!” A loud rap on the window, right next to my head, startles the living shit out of me. I slam my knee into the console, scraping the bare skin that’s showing through the rip in my jeans. Damn, that hurts like a bitch. I can see blood, for fuck’s sake. I’m boiling mad as I quickly wind down the window and glare at the person standing beside the car, ready to rip them a new one, when…

  Alessandro Moretti slowly bends down and rests his forearms against the side of the Nova, curving a dark eyebrow at me. His bottom lip is sucked into his mouth. His leather jacket is nowhere to be seen, even though it’s fucking freezing out, and it looks like it’s starting to rain. Quick, intelligent, demanding brown eyes meet mine, and I react by stuttering out a jumble of syllables that don’t make any sense.

  “Ju—ne—wha—do—waiiiiiiit. Youuuuu…” I shake my head, throwing my hands up in defeat when I run out of potential sentence starters.

  A deep frown forms between his charcoal eyebrows. “Non sembrava Italiano. Doveva essere Italiano?”

  I just blink at him. “Excuse me?”

  His lips purse, his mouth lifting up at one side. Am I imagining it, or does he look weirdly disappointed? His eyes aren’t just brown; they’re full of cinnamon, gold, honey, and caramel—all warm tones. So how the fuck do they somehow manage to look frosty as his gaze flits around the inside of the Nova, settling on the guitar case that’s sitting on the back seat. He huffs down his nose, then pulls away from the window. “Never mind,” he says in English.

  He spins around and walks away, the back of his grey t-shirt spattered with rain, clinging to his back, and I’m left staring after him with my mouth hanging open.

  Never mind?

  What does that mean, never mind?

  Did I just fail some sort of test? He was asking me if I spoke Italian or something; I heard the word ‘Italiano’ twice in pretty quick succession. But to just bail when I don’t understand? That seems like a bit of a dick move. In my mind, I lean out of the window, and I yell after him in the rain. I call him an asshole. I ask him what the hell he wanted. But I don’t do that, because I’m a coward. I’m fucking scar—

  Oh, shit.

  He’s turned around. He’s coming back.

  I sink back into my seat, sliding down the leather, but then I force myself to sit up straight as he arrives back at the window. “Why don’t you speak Italian?” he demands.

  “I’m sorry? I didn’t realize it was mandatory now.”

  “Your last name’s Parisi, right? That’s what Cline called you.”

  “Yes?” I’m not sure what his point is, but his impossibly deep voice is rough with anger. Why the hell is he so agitated?

  “Who? Who in your family is Italian?”

  “Can I ask what this is about, please?”

  “I’m trying to wrap my head around the fact that you have an Italian family member who didn’t teach a lick of the language.”

  “Look, I’m not really interested in this…cultural shaming, or…whatever. I’m just… gonna… go…” I start to wind up the window. The Nova was manufactured in 1969, which means I have to do it by hand. I’m sure I’d look way cooler if I were just able to hit a button and block him out electronically, but I’m stuck with what I’ve got.

  It's raining much heavier now. Large, fat droplets of water explode on the windshield, blocking out the looming grey shape of the single-story school building crouched on the other side of the lot. I can see the shape of Alessandro perfectly well as he walks around the front of the car, around the passenger side, opens the door, and…

  …and gets in!

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I don’t ride in the rain,” he rumbles, as though that’s answer enough.

  “I can appreciate that. Motorcycles are dangerous at the best of times. What I meant to say was, what do you think you’re doing getting into my car?”

  He points at the school. “Better than waiting out the weather inside the cell block.”

  “Look, I know you’re new and all, but—”

  He pivots, twisting his torso to face me. His damned t-shirt is drenched, a much darker grey across his shoulders and down his chest. There are rivulets of water running down his neck, soaking into the collar of the cotton. God, what does he smell like? A light, fresh scent has flooded the car, like clean laundry and soap. It’s a masculine smell, though, teasing the back of my nose, making me want to lean in…

  “It was you, last Friday. In the hall. Watching me,” he states.

  “I wasn’t watching you. I just heard voices.”

  “And then you stood there, in the shadows, watching me. You heard what a bad boy I’ve been.”

  “That you nearly got sent to jail? Yes.” I’m not thinking about my responses before I give them. I’m just saying the first thing that presents itself to me. If I start to analyze what I’m going to say or try and be clever, my words are going to get jammed up in my throat, and I’ll end up stumbling over every vowel and consonant, or worse, I won’t be able to make a sound at all.

  Get out of the car. Get out of the car. God damn it, Alessandro Moretti, get out of my car right now.

  He looks at me, stares into me, picking over my face as if he’s deciding which parts he likes, which he doesn’t, and how he could improve me. I wrestle myself into stillness. Hardly the quiet stillness of the content and at ease. No, I am a possum, playing dead, in the hopes that the creature stalking me will lose interest and move on.

  Alessandro doesn’t go anywhere. He narrows his eyes at me. The rain drives harder against the glass, the downpour suddenly torrential, and the hammering roar of the water drums against the roof over our heads, almost deafening. Distracted by the sound, he looks away, head craned back, eyes unfocused as he listens, and the electric pressure that’s been building inside the car subsides. So fucking strange that such a weight is lifted from me as Alessandro’s attention slips for a second.

  The sensation’s a lot like finally reaching the surface of dark, deep water and urgently sucking in a lungful of much-needed oxygen. Or a brilliant light, shining straight into your eyes, blinding you to anything but its brightness, going out, leaving you blinking as you try to adjust to the world around you again.

  “This place is a fucking disaster. You can sense it sucking the life out of everyone dumb enough to venture too close to it,” he says absently.

  “Welcome to Raleigh High, Alex Moretti,” I whisper back. “Glad to hear you’re settling in.” Since we’re here together, and it doesn’t seem like he’s going anywhere any time soon, I voice the burning question that’s been niggling at me since last Friday. “What did you do to land yourself here, Alex? What was so bad that almost got you sent to prison. Are any of the rumors people are saying about you true?”

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