Chapter 4 Detention With the Golden Boy

Rhea didn't even fight it when the late slip landed on her desk like a death sentence.

She'd been ten minutes late to second period after Naomi practically dragged her to the library bathroom to wash her blotchy face. She'd sat there, staring at her cracked phone screen like it might sprout more hateful DMs if she looked away.

Now it was fifth period, and Ms. Green had given up pretending she wasn't annoyed.

"This is the third time this week, Rhea," she'd said, voice clipped, pen scratching a line on the pink slip that would seal her fate. "I know you've had a... distraction, but you're not exempt from the rules."

Distraction. That was one way to put it.

So here she was: sitting in an uncomfortable metal chair in the back of Room 217 after the final bell, detention slip crumpled in her fist, a fat geometry textbook open in front of her like she might actually care about triangles right now. Her stomach churned. Her mind replayed the whispers, the photo, the text messages that wouldn't stop.

She hated the noise in her head even more than the rumors outside it.

"Hey, you can't sit there."

She jumped at the voice. The Detention Monitor - Coach Drew, the football coach who doubled as after-school babysitter for screw-ups - pointed at her. "That's Rivera's seat."

Rhea froze. "Rivera's seat?"

"Yeah. He's in here too."

Of course he is, she thought bitterly. Why wouldn't the universe stick us in a closet together?

She shoved her books into her bag and moved down one row. Her new seat was right next to the window - not that she could see anything except the smudged glass and a dying row of weeds clinging to the outside ledge. She sat stiffly, fighting the prickling under her skin.

Five minutes ticked by. The clock above Coach Drew's head clicked louder than her heartbeat. Then the door swung open with a cheerful squeak that felt like an insult.

In strolled Jace Rivera, golden boy, rumor-magnet, the accidental center of her nightmare. He wore his letterman jacket slung over one shoulder, his hair still perfectly, infuriatingly tousled, like he'd just rolled out of a sunbeam. He gave Coach Drew a lazy salute.

"Sorry I'm late, Coach. Had to grab my... detention supplies."

Coach Drew glared at him but didn't bother saying anything. He just pointed at the empty seat beside Rhea.

Jace's eyes flicked over to her, and a slow grin tugged at his lips. "Well, hey there, partner in crime."

Rhea's spine turned to cement. "Don't."

He dropped into the chair next to hers, flipping it around backward so he could lean his arms across the back. It was so casual it made her want to scream.

"You don't even know why I'm here," he teased.

"Skipping class?" she shot back. "Getting caught making out with your reflection?"

"Ouch. You wound me." He clutched his chest dramatically, then smirked when she just rolled her eyes and pulled out her geometry again. "Seriously though. I was in the parking lot. Coach says that counts as skipping. I say that's strategic oxygen intake."

Rhea pretended to study. Her pencil hovered over an untouched diagram of a triangle, but her hand shook so badly she just left a faint smudge.

Jace leaned closer. "So... detention, huh? Bad girl."

"Can you not?" she snapped under her breath. "It's your fault I'm here."

"My fault?" His eyebrows shot up. He looked genuinely amused. "How'd you figure that?"

She slammed her pencil down. The sound made Coach Drew look up from his phone and grunt in warning. Rhea lowered her voice. "You think you're funny, don't you? You get to walk around with your stupid smile while I get 'slut' notes shoved under my desk."

His smirk faltered. He looked at her, really looked at her, eyes narrowing like he was trying to figure out what page she was reading from.

"I didn't ask for that photo either," he said quietly.

Rhea snorted. "Please. You love it. Everyone loves it. It makes you look good. Golden boy who can have whoever he wants."

He leaned back in his chair, expression shuttered for a second. "You think I like Liv screaming at me every five minutes? Or random guys high-fiving me like I just won the Super Bowl because my lips almost touched yours?"

Her cheeks flared red. "It didn't even happen like that-"

"I know." He shrugged. "They don't care. It's a story they want to tell. Doesn't matter if it's true."

The words hit her harder than she expected. It wasn't pity in his voice - more like tired acceptance. Like he'd been here a thousand times before.

She sank back in her seat, crossing her arms tight over her chest. "So what? We're both miserable. Big deal."

Jace tapped his pencil on the edge of his desk, a soft, rhythmic click-click-click. He looked out the window, the dying weeds outside catching the late afternoon light. For a second, he seemed smaller - not the living poster boy for high school dreams, but just a tired seventeen-year-old who'd gotten caught in a story he didn't write.

Then he looked at her, eyes sharp again. "You know what your problem is?"

"Wow. Can't wait to hear this."

"You're trying so hard to disappear that you forget people are gonna make up their own version of you anyway."

She glared at him. "Thanks, Confucius."

He barked out a quiet laugh that made Coach Drew grunt again. "Relax. I'm saying... we could flip it."

"Flip it?" She repeated, her voice climbing an octave. "How exactly do I 'flip' everyone calling me your-your-your-"

"Fake girlfriend."

She choked. "No."

"Why not?"

Rhea pressed her fists into her temples. "You are insane. You think I want more of this? You think I want Liv and her minions camping out at my house with pitchforks? No thanks."

Jace tilted his head, that infuriating half-smirk back in place. "Look - if they think we're a thing, they'll get bored faster. No more blurry photo drama. No more guessing. We'll own it. They'll move on to the next shiny scandal."

She stared at him. Her mouth opened, then snapped shut again. "So your big idea is... to fake-date me."

He lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug. "You make it sound so cheap."

"It is cheap! It's stupid. It'll make everything worse."

He leaned closer. She could smell his cologne - something warm and clean, too real for the distance she needed. "Or maybe you get to control it for once instead of letting them write the story."

She hated how that tiny spark inside her flickered at the thought. Control. Her heart beat a little faster, traitor that it was.

But her brain caught up fast. "No. Absolutely not. I don't need you doing me any favors."

He held her gaze, unblinking. "Who said it's a favor?"

She slammed her textbook shut so hard the sound made Coach Drew bark, "Quiet!"

Rhea pushed back from the desk, her chair screeching on the linoleum. She couldn't do this. Couldn't sit here while he threw insane ideas at her like they were just... normal. Like this was all a joke.

She grabbed her backpack, zipping it so hard the teeth nearly broke. "I'm done."

"You're not allowed to leave," Jace called after her, voice low but playful.

She spun around, her hair whipping over her shoulder. "Watch me."

His grin was infuriatingly soft, like he'd expected this all along. "Think about it, Campbell."

She stormed past Coach Drew, slapping the late slip onto his desk. He didn't even look up from his phone.

Rhea shoved through the classroom door and into the empty hallway. The echoes of her footsteps bounced off the lockers, every slam of her sneaker sole on tile a drumbeat of her fury.

Own it. Fake girlfriend. Control the story.

She hated that the seed was there now - sprouting roots she didn't want.

But it was. It was.

And she couldn't stop the tiniest, traitorous part of her from whispering:

What if he's right?

            
            

COPYRIGHT(©) 2022