Well, not everyone. Madeline is staring at me, her face white, her hands clasped firmly in her lap. But everyone else? They’re all clapping.
Until Professor Thiel slams his hands on his desk and stands up.
“Enough!” His voice cuts through the clapping and everyone stops, although Quinn keeps clapping long after the others have quit. Once Quinn is silent, though, I hear Professor Thiel walk around his desk and come up to me. He stands in front of me, his back to the rest of the class.
I can’t see past him, but I have no doubt that everyone is watching this.
“Explain yourself.” He’s doing a wonderful job keeping his voice even and low, but I can easily hear the anger simmering just beneath the surface. While it had seemed like a really good idea at the time to say what I did, it’s easy to see now that it may have been a bit of a mistake.
Felt good, though.
“I apologized. That was what really happened last Friday. I did nothing wrong, sir, and so I just apologized for what I felt needed it.”
His face twists and turns a little red.
I’m screwed.
“You made a mockery of what I told you to do, that’s what you did. I don’t know what other plans you had for the rest of your day, Abigail, but cancel them. You’re going to sit up here right by my desk and work on an apology letter for Quinn until I approve it, do you understand?”
“I can’t do that. I have to get to work on my painting.” For the first time, I feel a jolt of fear burst through me. After losing all of the time over the weekend that I would have spent painting because I had to work on my accounting project, I can’t lose anymore.
Everyone in my class is going to be well ahead of me.
“Then you better figure out how to write a decent apology. Quickly. The faster you do what I tell you to do, the sooner you can get to your other classes, do you understand?”
Oh, I understand, all right. I understand that somehow Quinn has all of the teachers here eating out of his hand and that he’ll throw me under the bus without a second thought.
Nodding at Professor Thiel, I wait until he goes back to his desk before slipping into mine. While he drones on for the rest of class, I work quickly, drafting an apology letter that I know will get me out of this hell sooner rather than later.
Do I believe a word of it?
Not a chance.
Will it get me excused to go to the rest of my classes?
Hell, yeah.
When the bell tones, I immediately go up to Professor Thiel and hand him the revised letter. He flips it open and skims it, one eyebrow raised the entire time. With a sigh, he folds it and places it gently on his desk. “This is what I expected of you the first time, Abigail. If you’re going to succeed here at Trinity Prep then you need to make sure that you’re taking responsibility for your actions, do you understand?”
“I do.”
I don’t, not really, not when only some of the students have to take responsibility while others are allowed to do whatever they want, but I keep my mouth closed.
“Good. Then make sure that we don’t have to have this discussion again, am I clear? Pull it together, Abigail, and be the student that we were promised when you transferred, because, quite honestly, so far you’ve been a disappointment.”
Chapter Eleven
I can’t keep the anger I feel towards Professor Thiel from showing up in my painting. My movements are slashes, and every time I stroke the brush across the canvas, I imagine that I’m slashing and cutting his perfectly chiseled face.
His, or Quinn’s.
I’d take either one right now, honestly. All day I’ve felt a terrible pent-up energy in me that I can’t quite shake. Sighing, I mix a dark red and turn back to my canvas. Instead of getting to work on my painting this weekend, I was repeating my accounting project and working on my apology letter to Quinn. Professor Thiel will probably tell me how I did on my project tomorrow, but until then, I want to just live down here and work.
Before I can touch my brush to my canvas, though, the curtain behind me is whipped open. Quinn enters and walks around me to look at my work.
“Sucks that you weren’t able to work on it this weekend, Abigail. Because, damn, you need some help.”
Just his voice and being this close to him makes me shiver. I don’t want to give him the benefit of looking at him, so I keep my eyes firmly locked on my canvas. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. My painting needs a hell of a lot of work, and not being able to work on it all weekend like the rest of the class put me at a huge disadvantage.
“Well, maybe if the asshole of the school would leave me alone then I’d be able to get more work done. Didn’t you call yourself a god, Quinn? I would think that a real god wouldn’t have the time needed to fuck with people’s lives.”
“Oh, Abigail, then you don’t understand how gods really work.” He reaches out and swipes a bit of paint from my canvas, turning to me and rubbing his fingers together before leaning forward and wiping them on my smock. I swear, even though layers of fabric, I can feel the heat from his finger burning to my skin.
“See, real gods, like me, we like to make sure that people have interesting lives. And you, Abigail, your life is just so damn interesting to me.” He pauses and looks back at my painting before continuing. “I just don’t think that you understand what you’ve done by coming here.”
“And
