Detention with the Devil
Monday – 3:45 p.m.
I slammed my locker shut a little too hard.
"Whoa," Ava blinked. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," I muttered. "Just... tired."
She gave me that look. The one that said she didn’t believe me, but knew better than to push.
Because how do you explain that a single look from a boy you barely know is messing with your entire existence?
I couldn’t stop thinking about Jake.
That stormy look. That stupid smirk. That voice.
But none of it mattered now. I had college applications to finish, scholarship essays to write, and an after-school tutoring session with my Chemistry teacher.
Except I never made it to that session.
Because the moment I turned the corner toward Mr. Davidson’s lab, I collided — hard — with someone coming the other way.
Papers flew.
Books hit the floor.
And I hit the lockers with a thud.
“Watch it—” I snapped, looking up. “You’ve got to be kid—”
Jake.
Because of course it was him.
He didn’t even flinch. Just stared down at me with those same grey eyes, calm as ever.
“You okay, Princess?” he asked, his voice maddeningly calm.
“Do not call me that.”
He smirked. “Touchy.”
I pushed past him, kneeling to collect my papers. He knelt too — slow, deliberate — and handed me one of my notebooks.
“You dropped this.”
“No,” I said coldly, yanking it from his hand. “You ran into me.”
“Details,” he said, standing. “You were in my way.”
“You were turning the corner without looking—”
Before I could finish, a sharp voice cut through the hall.
“Both of you. Office. Now.”
We turned to see Mr. Stevenson, the vice principal, standing at the end of the hall, arms crossed and fury in his eyes.
“But I didn’t—” I started.
“I saw the whole thing,” he snapped. “Papers everywhere. Disruption in the corridor. If you want to argue, do it in detention.”
Jake didn’t say a word. Just smiled — smiled — and walked toward the office like it was no big deal.
I stood there stunned.
This couldn’t be happening.
Tuesday – 4:00 p.m. – Detention
The room smelled like old chalk and broken dreams.
Three other students were already there, heads down, silently doing nothing.
And then there was Jake.
He was sitting in the back, feet propped up on a desk, black notebook open in his lap. Doodling, probably. Or planning how to ruin my life.
I sat in the opposite corner, pulled out a book, and pretended he didn’t exist.
It was going well... until he spoke.
“Why do you always look like you’re about to fight someone?”
I glanced up. “Excuse me?”
He shrugged. “You’re always so... angry.”
I shut my book. “Maybe because people like you keep ruining my day.”
He chuckled. “People like me?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“No, Emily. I really don’t.”
The way he said my name — slow, low, like a secret — made my stomach twist.
We stared at each other for a beat too long.
Then the teacher supervising us — Coach Daniels — cleared his throat. “No talking.”
Jake leaned back and grinned.
I hated that grin.
But not really.
And that terrified me more than anything.
