TAMING THE WILD RIDER

The hallways were filled with screams. Everyone was running toward the screams instead of away from them. Several folks sped past me, nearly toppling my backpack off my shoulder as they brushed past. Everyone was excited to see whatever was going down.

I ignored my better judgment and followed the student wave after readjusting the strap on my rucksack.

I rounded the corner in the corridor cautiously and looked over the gathering mass of nodding heads while standing on my tiptoes. They were all staring at something I couldn't quite see yet, muttering to each other. I dodged under a few arms and worked my way to the front, slowly ignoring the strong smell of hormonal teenagers who still hadn't realized the value of deodorant.

My conscience was warning me to turn around and avoid getting entangled in the chaos unfolding a few feet in front of me. However, there was an even more powerful force propelling me ahead into the growing cluster of pupils. I continued to crouch and edge closer.

Then I caught sight of him.

slamming the face of another lad.

Hudson Zane, covered in blood and perspiration, appeared oblivious to the gathering crowd surrounding him and the spectacle he was creating. His white shirt was lying limply across his body, shredded, perhaps by the other guy's futile attempt to stop him. His ripped lip and broken nose sent dark blood streaming down his chiseled chest and over his destroyed shirt.

He was also red-cheeked and puffed up, and he kept pulling back and hitting the other boy in the face. His attacks had an almost animalistic rage and aggressiveness. It was unlike anything I had ever seen.

Teachers were yelling and buzzing about anxiously, begging the lads to stop but being too scared to physically intervene to stop Hudson's fists. However, the crowd's jeers were so loud that their entreaties to stop were hardly audible, with most of them joyfully screaming Hudson's name. This was a performance put on solely for our amusement.

For Hudson, though, this went beyond a performance. I noticed it in his gaze.

His eyes captured my attention amid all the mayhem, screaming, and overpowering body odor. The innate desires underlying his irises. His grey eyes, trained on his opponent, possessed a particular intensity, a calculated desire for agony. If you didn't pay close attention, you may believe Hudson had lost his mind. However, Hudson had complete control over each wound he caused and each contraction and release of his powerful, slender body. He was fully aware of what he was doing. He was going at the boy in front of him with all of his might and no mercy.

His eyes yearned for anguish, and he intended to extract it from the youngster by aggression and gore. I felt something deep in my chest, something other than terror, as I stared into the depths of his eyes.

I was so engrossed in the idea of this child in front of me taking another person's life that I lost count of time. I was unsure of the amount of time that had gone by when three police officers, not the small-framed high school security officers, had their large arms encircling Hudson and attempting to yank him away. They were able to extract him from the other boy, even though he was giving them serious competition.

I had a clear view of the victim of the Hudson as paramedics attended to his opponent. He was someone I knew from my fourth period. Tyler Herring is a boy who once made fun of our teacher's receding hairline and offered me notes when I was sick with the flu. I knew him, I had interacted with him; he was a human being in need of CPR.

I glared back at the creature who had done this to him, sneering at the idea of him still standing there, pretending he hadn't nearly killed Tyler. I was going to avert my gaze when he noticed it. And he grasped it.

Once more, I had conflicting emotions that told me to flee and never turn around, and to have the bravery and confidence to stare this monster of a boy down. He was dabbing a damp towel over his bloodied face as I watched, and I hated myself for thinking such thoughts. His blood-streaked, aristocratic nose, with its flawless slope, was displaying a new bump. Despite my best efforts, I couldn't help but notice the deep Cupid's Bow above his luscious lips, which were now swollen and quite bloody.

He had an uneven nose and a split lip, but he was oddly attractive.

His eyes were revealing his feelings once more, but this time I was unable to interpret what was going on there. However, even as he turned away, I could still feel his gaze on me and his ability to see right into my soul.

"Okay, be honest - which one of the dads would you let smash?" Louder than she should have, Violet asks as she nonchalantly hands Peyton the ball.

A frown appears between Peyton's brows as she catches the ball. "Violet, what the fuck did you just ask?"

"Because I've been thinking about it and, honestly, I'd let Mr. Dillard do anything he wants to do to me," Violet answers instantly, snubbing Peyton's query entirely.

I pretend to gag and throw up. "Oh no, Sam's father? You are a sick person. The one who gets the youngsters their raisins? He's about 45 years old."

Violet grins and begins to juggle the ball. Yes, but his wife left him a year ago, so I doubt he would be very receptive to the notion. In addition, he has a slight resemblance to the attractive Chris Cuomo."

Peyton and I both say, "Violet, shut up," at the same moment. Violet returns her focus to the ball, and I give her a gentle shove on the shoulder.

"Oh no, the children are arriving. They appear to be little butt-mouths." Peyton chuckles at her joke and looks away from me. When I turn around, I watch as parents and children slowly come in from the parking lot. Their cleats and shin guards sparkle in the intense sunlight, like brand new. From here, I can sense their nervousness spreading outward.

Violet turns to look at the incoming crowd as she spots us gazing. "Look at the kids' shin protectors covering their socks-aw, guys. And check out those fuckin' long shorts! I regret not signing up to coach a recreational team. The younger children are far cuter than the snarky, competitive older ones."

I dramatically toss my ponytail over my shoulder. It stinks to suck. Of the three of us, I guess I'm the only one with the intelligence to sign up for recreational soccer. I'll be relaxing with the seven-year-olds while you guys work your tails off with the older ones."

Playfully, Peyton kicks the ball hard into my shin. I give her a dirty look. "Where are you losers going to be, you guys? Violet, you should probably take a shot at Mr. Dillard right now since he's stooped over the goodies."

Violet says, "Maybe I will, Clara," but Peyton, we should plunge for the time being. In five minutes, practice will begin, and we need to give the students a positive first impression."

"Goodbye. Pey, your ass looks so flat in those shorts, too," I remark. They dash off toward their field, where a sizable gathering of males in their preteen years awaits them. Peyton yells at me as she runs. I chuckle and head in the other direction, jogging in the direction of my gathering group of children.

I greet the group as Coach Clara and lead them in an introductory activity. They say their names and pass the ball to each other in a circle. If the kids hadn't been so dreadful at passing, it would have been a nice activity concept and a fast icebreaker. I promise that one pass for every ten attempts reaches the intended recipient. I have to turn around several times to hide my laughter from them.

The icebreaker took a long time, so I'm just going to have time for a scrum. I divide them into two groups and observe them competing. After stepping back and watching for a while, I see a cute girl with curly hair grabbing the lead in the game with confidence. Her impression of a tiny child is impressive, and I can't help but giggle as I watch.

I mentally note that small child, whose name I seem to recall being Grace.

After practice, I remind parents to sign up for after-game snacks and gather all the safety waivers from them when they pick up their kids. All of the children and parents leave after a few courteous exchanges and lengthy summaries of their kids' performances. A child is still waiting on the curb as I move toward the area where Violet and Peyton are tidying up after practice.

Slumped and alone, Little Grace looks down at her chubby little hands from the bleachers.

I turn to face the seven-year-old and give myself a hard time for nearly leaving her alone this late at night. Her head turns toward me as I settle down next to her; she's still a little perspiring from practice. She gives me a smile that is missing two of her front teeth, and I have to give her a sincere smile in return. Her smile spreads from cheek to plump cheek, but I can still feel the pain in her eyes.

If and when they decide to roll in, I'm already getting ready to give her guardian a hard time.

"Hey Grace, what's up?"

"Not a thing. I'm only awaiting my older brother. She says, lisping here slightly, "He's usually never late," and I nearly cry. Simultaneously, I find myself becoming irritated with her elder brother, but I attempt to hide it from Grace.

"Is there any way we can contact your bro---" The loud exhaust of an approaching automobile cuts short my question. Turning around, Grace covers her ears with her tiny hands and searches for the source of the sound. A blacked-out sportscar nearly runs Grace and me over as it pulls into the closest parking space.

As I stand up to reprimand Clara, Grace outpaces me, leaping off the curb and exclaiming, "That's him! My older sibling!"

I want to stop her as she goes toward the most terrifying automobile I've ever seen, even after hearing her call out to him. The notorious big brother emerges through the side door.

The first thing that strikes me is that, even at eight o'clock at night, he's still incredibly handsome and wearing sunglasses. He exits the low seat, tangles his long fingers in his dark, unruly hair, and closes the door. I can't help but try to estimate his height: is he 6'2 or 6'3? All I know is that his injured muscles tense at the gesture of having to lean slightly to reach the door. How did he find clothing that fits him thus nicely, I wonder?

It's difficult for me to recall what I was going to tell him.

Then I remember how late it is as Grace squeals and leaps into his arms. He smiles broadly, plump lips erupting as he stoops to pick up the small child. She appears so small and content in his powerful, slender arm that I have to force myself not to swoon. Taking each of her cheeks with his free hand, he gives her a forceful kiss on each one despite her playful resistance. I can't hear what he's saying to Grace because she is laughing so much, but I can tell that whatever he's saying is only making her laugh more.

At last, he sets her down and walks her to the passenger side, ready to get out without saying anything to acknowledge me. I gather the bravery to approach them and give him a little pat on the shoulder. When he's done fastening her booster seat, he turns to face me.

I squint to see his eyes-or, more accurately, his sunglasses, I suppose. He furrows his symmetrical lips in an irritated scowl and crosses his arms over his chest, which just makes them appear bigger.

He gives me a perusal look. "Are you as well? Your teammates might be over there, I believe."

He reaches out to a hundred feet away, toward a bunch of middle schoolers chatting. Anger, or shame, shoots through my cheeks at that very moment, and I straighten up, grateful that the darkness has covered up my flushed face.

"I'm the coach for your younger sister. If you had arrived on time when I and the other parents met you earlier, we would have already become good friends. That was what would have happened. For emphasis, I glance at my Apple watch and note, "...thirty-five minutes ago."

He looks away from me and rolls his eyes as he moves toward the entrance on Clara's side, obviously ignoring me. "I have no time to do this. Return to scolding young miscreants, or do whatever you normally do."

From the corner of my eye, I notice Violet and Peyton cautiously approaching, observing our exchange while acting as if they were not there. You're truly something else, coming in here in your ridiculously loud automobile and disrespecting your sister's coach who stayed with her while you were away doing what? I moan and grip my fists at my sides. Something that you believed to be more significant than your sister's welfare."

Without any delay, he turns and moves in my direction, bending forward until my head is barely a foot away from his chest. With a scowl, he removes his sunglasses with his hand.

Those eyes. Grey with an unfathomable amount of rage swirling in their wake. Zane Hudson. My head feels cloudy, and I'm overcome with panic and memories from the last time I looked into those eyes.

It's then that I see the puffiness and crimson rim around his left eye. A fresh bruise already starting to appear, a clear detour in his path. The cause of his tardiness.

His sneer grows deeper, and I try not to seem scared. The only thing stopping me from telling you how I feel about a prissy, know-it-all adolescent girl instructing me how to raise my younger sister is the fact that she lives less than five feet away. You have no business making assumptions about her or me because you don't know either of us."

I don't know how to put it. "I didn't realize --"

He recoils, but his eyes are fixed on mine. You just didn't think, that's true. Please get out of my face so that I can act appropriately in front of Gracie. Coach, keep your lectures to yourself and stick to soccer."

Without bothering to fasten his seat belt, he flings open his door and slides inside before making a loud skid as he exits the parking lot.

I have hands on my body. Slim and agile digits follow the contour of my back, reaching the nape of my neck, and then reverting to the spot I like his hands to remain. He presses into me, his rough palms sending shivers down my spine.

I can feel something pushing up from between my legs as they lie on either side of his sturdy frame. I don't feel any cloth between us; every square inch of my skin is mashed up against his. And it's okay with me.

Sighing against his shoulder, I close my eyes and wait for his hand to finally locate the spot I've been asking it to go. The other hand slithers up my neck into my hair's knots, holding onto the strands as I arch my neck upward in his direction. I make a weird, quiet noise, and the hands play along.

Little kisses from the crook of my shoulder, across my arched neck, and up toward my face are planted by the softest lips. My lips are parted, and the last kisses are pressed to the corner before the end. His lips brush against my ear as he tells me to open my eyes, releasing my hair and making me straight. to witness his actual nature.

When I do, I notice no wounds in my line of sight, yet blood covers his neck and chest. Full lips extend into a menacing grin at eye level. I raise my gaze higher, above the uneven nose, and at last I see them.

The grey eyes, possessed of a malevolence I never thought imaginable. I've seen these eyes staring at an unconscious boy in a hallway before. Now fixed on me were the identical eyes and expressions.

Before I can react, he removes his hand from my hair and puts it back on my neck, replacing his gentle fingertips with a firm hold. His eyes don't leave my face as they grow darker. I am unable to breathe and my heart is stuttering out of my chest.

I let out a cry.

I sit up and instantly am lightheaded and bewildered. For a split second, I scan the area anxiously, searching for him, his hands, his dumb eyes. I swear and lay down again as my pounding heart begins to quiet down.

Perfect. I'm dreaming about my least favorite person in the world right now.

I make an effort not to think about his tender touch, his playful lips, or the horrors that followed. However, I'm still affected by him, whether it's from his tender touches or his attempt to screw me to death. My sheets are wrapped erratically around my legs, and there's a faint sheen of sweat on my skin.

I can still picture his intense gaze fixed on my warm flesh, making me feel vulnerable and naked. I'm not allowed to consider the reasons why I would be picturing him with me in that particular manner.

From the moment I met him yesterday, he has been a constant in my thoughts. His voice reverberates in my ears, so frigid it hurts. He spat nasty comments and threats at me.

In addition, though, was his sincere smile at his younger sister and the amusing kiss he gave her fat cheek. When he addressed her as Gracie, his voice became softer.

I'm not sure how to interpret him, and it's not right for me to try. I've never even met him. Not to add, when all I wanted was to make sure Grace was picked up on time, he was a complete dick toward me.

But even though I keep reminding myself of those details, I can't help but wonder: Why can't I just get him out of my head?

I make a pointless effort to put him out of my thoughts while I get ready for school. I go through the processes of getting dressed, putting myself together in the bathroom, and going downstairs on autopilot. His eyes seem to have burned into my mind.

My parents are seated across from me in our breakfast nook, and they appear to be having some confidential, in-depth conversations. Most likely about how much they adore one other or how much sex they're going to have later tonight. They are incredibly enamored.

My distant expression while I eat my cereal goes unnoticed by them because they are engrossed in their chat. You would assume that since they are so very intimate, I would have siblings. However, they cursed me to be an only child, so one of them must have gotten their tubes shut. The room beside mine is empty all the time.

I often wonder if anyone in this home even pays attention to me. If my parents are concerned with anything outside one another and the opinions of others on our "ideal" family.

"Hey Dad, could I borrow your credit card today?" I wait for an answer, but there's none. "I coach a recreational soccer team, so we need to acquire certain supplies. Once we receive the parents' dues, you'll be compensated, but we kind of need everything delivered this afternoon."

Prolonged silence. I look at his face from the side. "Okay thanks, Dad, great conversation."

My mom chuckles at something my dad whispers to her, and her dark hair bounces. Which mature woman laughs? I get up and flush the remaining cereal down the toilet.

I take up my lanyard with my keys attached and my rucksack. "Bye, guys."

They don't glance up, and an awkward silence lingers for much too long before my dad speaks up-I guess he's only now realized I'm not seated across from them. "Mhmm, yeah sweetie."

I laugh at their indifference and open the door, without even bothering to answer his mechanistic reply.

I grin to myself as I shut the door and speculate about how long it will take my dad to realize his credit card is missing from the kitchen island.

I mean, he finally said "mhmm" when I asked him. And it's not like I'm stealing, because he was there when I took it out of his wallet. ♥

Violet has a peanut butter and cracker sandwich and adds, "You know what they say: when you dream about someone, it means they're masturbating to you at that very moment." She looks at the varnish on her fingernails, chipped.

Violet has made it her mission to eat as many peanut butter crackers as she can before the first bell rings. We're huddled around Peyton's locker close to our common first period. The front of her lacy tank top is covered in crumbs.

Peyton lets out a sigh. "Vi, who has ever said that in the history of mankind?"

"Me," replies Vi emphatically, gesturing to her chest, "I said it. I think I just mentioned that. Do you ever hear me, God?

"I wish I couldn't," I murmur, seeming to be weary. And without a doubt, Hudson Zane doesn't masturbate in front of me. Probably when he looks at his muscles, he gets a bit cocky. That dude exudes self-importance."

"Well, I'd start looking at myself too if I looked like him. And if you disagree that he is completely OK, you are a flagrant liar, Peyton claims.

"Yeah, first he gets all up in your space after practice yesterday and now you're having wet dreams about him." Violet chuckles. "Do y'all have some kind of secret history we don't know about?"

"No, we have no mutual knowledge! Furthermore, he didn't only act out of control in my presence yesterday; I must admit, he practically yelled at me for showing care for his younger sister. Violet, it wasn't a damp dream. I was having sex with the most conceited man I've ever met because of a coincidental activation of neurons."

"All right, Stephen, stop being so defensive about Hawking. I'm not passing judgment. I like the air of a wicked boy. Do you recall when, the previous year, he humiliated that one guy and was expelled? Not good. Peyton says, "Ass." Violet stuffs another peanut butter cracker into her mouth and nods in agreement.

I do not attempt to correct Peyton's misinterpretation of Stephen Hawking.

I shake my head, attempting once more to push the picture of Hudson's eyes from the forefront of my thoughts. "Anyhow. It will be very sad if I never see him again."

A gentle tap on my shoulder ends my sentence. Violet rolls her eyes, and I know without even turning around who's behind me. Peyton tries to cover her grin with her hand, and I wish I could just vanish.

"Hey Trevor," I say, putting on a warm smile. It looks more like a grimace, I'm sure, and I hope he doesn't see it.

"Hi, Clara. Should I give you a call, Clara? As soon as Trevor says, "I know your friends call you Cla, and I'd like to think we're pretty good friends," his face flushes.

My grin turns into a more understanding expression, and I can already feel my heart aching for him. Pretending not to notice this exchange, Violet and Peyton turn to face one another and engage in a fictitious conversation about The Bachelor. The Bachelor is hated by Peyton.

Trevor gathers himself and continues. I apologize for my stammer. I wanted to know if you completed your homework for AP Literature. I just realized that you copied my AP Calculus worksheet, which I forgot to do. Would you mind taking a quick picture of it?"

With a nod, I quickly open my rucksack, appreciative of a chance to avert my gaze from him. I know deep down that Trevor completes all of his homework the week before it is due, so this is just a pretext to chat with me. Still, I don't want to make a fool of him.

I haven't had the heart to break his heart or find a simple way to let him down in the five years that he's been harboring a crush on me. I don't want to destroy him, but I also don't want to lure him on.

I'm facing a decision. And when I give him my assignment page, he looks so adorable in front of me-like a child on Christmas morning. As he takes the homework and takes a quick picture, his hand brushes against mine.

He has frighteningly red cheeks. "Thank you, Clara; okay. When I asked if I should call you "Cla," you didn't answer, so I decided for us. You, that is. We are not 'we'. I'm not making this up-don't think I'm imagining us together. It would be strange, you know. Ah-ha."

"Thank you so much, Trevor. I give him another warm smile. "And thanks for letting me copy your AP Calc homework that one time." Taking the signal, he turns and walks out, glancing back a few times as he passes through the throng of children occupying the hallway.

"Avoid. Before I even turn around, I can already picture Violet and Peyton's pleased expressions as I say, "Say anything."

Peyton snorts when I look at them. Well, Clara, we weren't going to say anything. Or ought we to address you as "Clara"? We may be able to refer to you as C- since you haven't truly defined our friendship."

I give her a hard left boob smack, and she pretends to be hurt badly. "To you, it's 'Clara' at this moment. Bitch.

"Owwie. That was painful. "Thanks to you, my nip hurts now," Peyton exclaims as she rubs her damaged breast in the middle of the hallway.

Violet speaks out. "That boy is very into you. I sense the sexual annoyance emanating from him. Admit it, Pey-perhaps that's the true cause of your nipple pain."

"Vi shut up."

"No, please stop talking. Trevor Lane is going to love you."

"Am not."

"Yes...you kinda are."

As we make our way to the first period, they are still arguing, but I hardly hear them. I'm making an effort to push the mental picture of Violet's eyes out of my head when she starts feeling sexually frustrated.

The day is likely to be lengthy.