Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 84072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
It’ll be better to find a seat in the back of the room and keep to myself. I walk that way, staying close to the wall to keep from brushing against anyone or getting tripped. I’m so close to escape, or at least something that feels like it.
That is until I lift my gaze enough to see who is already sitting in the back row. Sprawled out at a desk, wearing a blank expression that is somehow also threatening.
Briggs Weston. The ringleader. So much for hiding away back here when he hates me more than everybody else combined.
Those green eyes of his are like laser beams staring straight into my soul and burning me up inside. I have never seen so much open hatred in anybody in all my life. The worst part is, he would be handsome if he didn’t always look like he wants to rip my head off. He’s got a chiseled face and sensuous lips that are now tugging downward in a scowl. Any decent person would look at me, then look away. But no, he’s not decent, meaning he won’t bother with politeness. He would rather stare daggers at me, like he hates me for simply existing.
What I’m not going to do is let him freeze me in place. That doesn’t mean I want to sit anywhere near him, though. My eyes sweep the area, my heart pounding out of my chest when all I find is one taken desk after another. There’s an empty desk two spots in front of where he’s sitting, looking sullen and hateful. My salvation, even if it means sitting closer to him than I would like.
I slide into it and keep my head down as Professor Morgan enters the room. I can’t believe my relief at his presence. Finally, there’s a levelheaded adult around. I don’t feel so much like I have to look over my shoulder in case Briggs decides to mess with me.
The thing is, I don’t have to look. I feel him watching me, staring at me, hating me. It’s a surprise my long, brown hair doesn’t catch fire from the heat of his gaze. I’ve never done anything to him, or to anybody, but that doesn’t matter. Not when my mother is the town slut who happened to sleep with his dad.
The professor clears his throat and adjusts his glasses while the room quiets down. “Welcome to Early American Literature.”
For the first time, I can honestly say I hate Briggs, because I would enjoy this if it wasn’t for him. I know it’s nerdy, but I love reading books from this time period. It’s like getting a look at what life was like for the people who walked the streets of Wicked Falls centuries ago. To think, I was really looking forward to this class.
The professor goes on after handing out the syllabus. “You’ll find it on the website, as well,” he explains. “But I like to hand out a hard copy on the first day of class to make sure all of you have held it in your hands and can’t complain you never got the chance to look at it.” There’s soft, knowing laughter in the classroom when he says this.
“As you can see,” he continues, “a major percentage of your final grade depends upon your midterm project. You’ll be charged with analyzing a work of early American literature, identifying and breaking down the major themes, explaining how the presence of these themes in those early works has trickled down through the centuries. Are these modes of thinking still prevalent today? Can you see how today’s attitudes might have been shaped by these early beliefs and thought patterns? I look forward to seeing what all of you manage to discover with your partners.”
Back up. Partner? And here I was, with my blood humming and my head spinning, looking forward to diving into a book and spending weeks analyzing it. I mean, that is pretty much heaven as far as I’m concerned. I wish he had mentioned the whole partner aspect first.
“That being said, you can take the last few minutes of class to find your partners.”
Oh, fuck me. It’s not bad enough I’ve had to sit here while Briggs stared daggers, but now I have to secure a partner for this project? I know before I dare lift my head and look around what I’m going to find: a bunch of jerks who would rather take a failing grade than partner up with me. The daughter of a home-wrecker, a slut who has worked her way through half the men in town—at least. I carry that with me everywhere I go in this awful town full of awful people. As far as they’re concerned, I’m no better than she is.
One of the girls sitting a few seats in front of me turns in her chair, like she’s looking for somebody sitting near me. Our eyes meet and for one brief, breathless second, I think she might at least be kind. I should know better by now. “Get real,” she mutters, laughing before catching the eye of her friend and giving her a bright smile.