Rachel blinks slowly, averting her gaze, and stares down the hallway. Leave it to Davenport to kick her when she’s down.
“Shall I ask what is wrong with you or would it be for naught?”
There has been some speculation as to who Mr. Davenport was before he came to Shadow Grove two years earlier—failed poet, disgraced academic, vampire, serial killer. She’s personally always leaned toward the serial killer idea, mostly because he comes across as a narcissist.
Holland Keith had discovered Mr. Davenport’s Instagram account last December, and shared the link with literally every person on her contact list—Merry Christmas, Maggots. Don’t say I never gave you anything. Rachel had made the mistake of clicking on the link and had subsequently been bombarded with selfie after selfie of the man—always dressed in his usual black-on-black ensemble, always in the same thoughtful pose, only the background ever changing. The descriptions on his pictures weren’t any better—True genius goes unappreciated by the masses.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Mr. Davenport.
“Aside from my splendid failure yesterday, I can confirm that my grades aren’t slipping in any of my other classes, just yours, and I doubt it’s because I’m doing subpar work.”
Mr. Davenport stops in his tracks. “Are you suggesting that I am not treating you fairly? That I am incompetent?”
“Incompetent?” Rachel stops and turns to look up at the man, his glasses muting the severe glare. “Oh no, you’re by far one of the most qualified teachers in this dump. I find it curious, however, how all the top students at Ridge Crest High are struggling to keep their grades up in your class. Greg Pearson, for example, has always been at the top of the class, but even his English grades have mysteriously fallen below Georgia Cramer’s. Care to explain why?”
He stares at her, the seconds feeling like hours, his eyes narrowing and thin lips pulling into a straight line. “You certainly have grown bolder since last year, Miss Cleary. Trouble at home?”
“I’ll have that particular conversation with the guidance counselor if it ever becomes necessary.”
Rachel turns on her heels and continues her trek. Mr. Davenport’s footsteps close in on her once more. They cross into the main building, making their way through the clear hallways. Mr. Davenport steps ahead of her and opens the administration office’s door, gesturing for her to enter. Rachel gives him a courteous nod and walks inside where she finds Cam sitting on one of the metal chairs with the red plastic-covered seats and armrests.
“Take a seat, Miss Cleary. I’ll gladly book your little chat with Principal Hodgins,” Mr. Davenport says.
Cam looks up as she walks toward the open seat beside him, pursing his lips together to hide a smile.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Rachel says, taking her seat.
“I’m in here so often Gail has taken it upon herself to start giving me free coffee.” Cam holds up his Styrofoam cup for her to see.
“So, you’re on a first-name basis with the school’s receptionist now?”
“Jealous?”
Rachel reaches over and takes the cup from his hand. “Should I be?” She lifts the cup to her lips and takes a sip—too sweet and milky for her liking, but it does the trick. She hands back his coffee.
“I thought you and Dougal would be miles away by now, probably Thelma and Louise-ing it for some heartbreaking reason,” he says, before resting the Styrofoam against his lips. He doesn’t drink his coffee, though, simply watches her for a while.
Rachel raises an eyebrow.
“You did get the reference, though, right?” When she doesn’t respond either way, he says, “Never mind.” Cam takes a sip of his coffee. “What are you in for?”
“Cutting class, being caught in the old schoolhouse, giving a teacher grief,” Rachel says, shrugging. “I’m a bad influence, ask anyone.”
He snickers. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not exactly a saint.”
She smiles, sits back in her seat, and says, “You remind me of someone.”
“Oh?” Cam’s eyes widen. “Someone you like?”
“Perhaps,” she says. “Perhaps not.”
“Cameron Mayer,” Principal Hodgins’ perpetually bored voice enters their conversation. “What did you do this time?”
Cam winks at her as he stands. He turns his attention to the principal, and crosses the distance to the stout man with the beady rat eyes. They speak in hushed tones in the open, the principal nodding now and then, glancing over to her, before whispering further.
Cam reaches into his pocket. Something exchanges hands. The principal tucks away whatever it was and his face turns a deep scarlet. It is not a subtle transaction.
“Yeah, well, it saves me paperwork, so do as you please.” Principal Hodgins retreats into his office and slams the door shut behind him, the matter apparently having been dealt with.
Cam returns to where Rachel sits.
“What was that?” she asks.
“Exactly what it looked like.” He picks up his backpack and helmet from another chair. “You coming or not?”
She reluctantly stands.
“Good. Let’s skip this joint.” Cam jerks his chin to the door and takes the lead, waving to the receptionist as he opens the door.
Rachel follows him, even though she’s unsure if it’s the right decision.
On one hand, Rachel’s happy she’s off the hook—she did kind of dig her own grave by calling Mr. Davenport out on his egotistical power trip. If he had his way, she would be suspended or worse. On the other hand, she’s unsure if this is any better. Some kind of deal had been struck to get them both out of trouble, but what would it cost her in the long run? People don’t do nice things out of the kindness of their heart, at least not in Shadow Grove.
“I just got you out of detention. A thank you would be nice,” Cam says as they walk down the empty hallway.
She rushes ahead and quickly moves in front of him, forcing him to stop. “What did you give the principal?”
“It’s a secret,” Cam
