Maybe it was my power lunch with June, or perhaps the little tease of Cannon’s hand on mine—whatever the root of it, I decide to test the liberal in-and-out policy for people who aren’t ditchers and drug-addicts. Well, not full-time ditchers anyhow. I would say I’m more of an extended-leaver who wants to make out with my maybe boyfriend.
The idea doesn’t feel stupid when I bite my lip and glance over my shoulder while nudging Cannon, and I still feel pretty bold and confident all the way out the door. The humiliation doesn’t creep in until I’ve been leaning against the wall just outside the culinary arts room for five full minutes and my stomach rumbles because the bread smells so freaking good.
I’m close to giving up my nefarious plan and head back into class when the door swings open at the opposite end of the hallway and Cannon steps out. I push off of the wall and tuck my hands into my back pockets. He stops in his tracks and drops his hands into his front ones, tilting his head to the side before nodding toward the building exit on his end. I nod back and we maintain eye contact while we leave the farthest building from the main office.
Our doors open in sync, but I hold on to mine for an extra second or two while I take in the view of him as he makes his way closer to me. A sly grin pushes a dimple into his right cheek. He cocks his head to the left a few feet from the exit and soon disappears behind a brick wall.
Nervously scanning the area around me, I rush to duck around the same space, freaked out that I’ll get caught doing something I shouldn’t. My smile is almost manic over this tiny moment of social and academic recklessness. My cheeks are pushed high and my lips stretched as wide as they’ll go to accommodate my aching grin when I round the corner and run into Cannon’s chest head-on.
“Oh, door locked?” I laugh out nervously. His hands grip my shoulders to spin me around, and he cages me like a defender keeping me from getting to the goal line. It only takes a second for my mind to switch gears and realize he is ushering me away from something.
“What is it?” I force my body to face him, working against his efforts to turn me around.
“It’s nothing. Door locked, so let’s go somewhere else.”
He’s a bad liar. His tone betrays him easily, the even volume and guarded choice of words indicating that something set him off. His caginess ratchets up my frustration so I push past him, flinging his hands from my waist and arms until I break free and step into the walled-off space he was hiding from me.
Someone called me a cunt.
Wow.
“That must have been a pretty fat Sharpie,” I say, my arms going limp to my sides while I take in the scribbled words on the maintenance door.
HOLLIS IS A CUNT
“I mean, it isn’t very original,” I say, quick to pretend I’m unfazed. “He’s just playing off of tropes and sensationalism. And there’s a pretty big movement among women to take that word back and redefine it, make it our own.”
The tears come regardless of my brave face. I shudder, and choke on the emotion that rises up my throat faster than I can push it back down. The insult burns and I hate that I let it.
“Hollis.” Cannon’s arms are around me before I can protest. I rock as he holds me from behind, non-stop sniffles and guarded breaths working to wipe away any proof that this affected me whatsoever.
“It’s fine,” I say, pulling an arm free to wipe my palm across my cheeks and eyes. “I’m fine. Whatever. It’s stupid.”
Trembles have set in. I’m both hurt and livid, and both fight to rule my emotions. The one thing I’m not, though, is surprised. And in a moment when all I want to do is erase this experience from existence and rush back to the safety of my desk and the walls of study hall, I can’t because the distant sound of male laughter and a golf cart motor gets louder by the heartbeat.
Cannon and I both duck behind the wall, his body flush against mine as if shielding me from oncoming enemy fire. His fingers move to my chin then slide up my lips, holding my mouth closed lightly as he breathes out, “Shh.”
I mean, it’s not like I’m going to shout, “Hey, here I am—ditching class to check out the mural smearing my character.”
His touch on my face softens, but his hand stays where it is. I’m quickly more comforted by it than I am offended, especially as the voices of the two men in the cart become clearer. This part of campus is the most private. That’s why it’s where students go to vape, and it’s why a minute ago I thought maybe I was going to make out back here with a guy I’m quickly letting every guard I’ve ever had down for.
For our school’s athletic director, Tom Wallis, and Cannon’s uncle Joel, though, this spot is the perfect spot to organize a coup.
“You think you have enough players willing to go on the record that Taylor’s breaking code of conduct? This can’t be some me too shit show.”
My breathing becomes harsh, my chest quaking with fury as my hands grip the front of Cannon’s sweatshirt, forming fists around the
