The Truth About Bad Boys

Memphis's POV I stare up at the stony walls of Seacoast Boys’ Academy from the passenger’s seat of my best friend Bridget’s Audi convertible, feeling a pang of fear wash over me. It’s not an uncommon feeling for me, fear. Courage is one of the most important things in the world to me, but fear is an undeniable part of who I have been for the past few years. Especially when it comes to boys. I know what you’re thinking—oh, great. A rich, private school girl who blushes and giggles around boys because she was never properly acclimated to members of the opposite s*x. Well, think again, because you couldn’t be more wrong. “Hey,” Bridget says gently to me, taking my hand and squeezing it. “It’s going to be fine. We’ll be with you every step of the way.” Not entirely true. We might enter the school together, but each “couple” gets their own, private rendezvous point for this assignment. We managed to argue our way into meeting our interviewees in a space where we could still see each other, but we’ll be out of hearing range. I guess I should catch you up on a few things. Me, Bridget, and Tally—that’s our other best friend, the volleyball star in the back seat—are all high school seniors at the Alexandria School for Girls. Our new English teacher started the year with a controversial assignment: interviews with seniors at the Seacoast Boys’ Academy. “But not just interviews,” Mrs. Indigo clarified when we all exchanged looks of boredom the day she announced the assignment. “It’s your job to really get to know the person you’re talking to. Weasel their secrets out of them. Get to the root of the person, not just what they choose to project on the surface.” I’ll grant her that this is decent advice for those of us who might want to one day become journalists, but I’ll dock her that it’s 2022 and pretty much no one wants to be a journalist thanks to, well, society being a joke and all news being considered “fake news.” Sorry—I get a little dark sometimes. I'll try to keep it lighter. I do my best to ignore the giggles and squeals of the Alexandria girls around us parking their cars and skipping over to the building’s entrance. Instead, I give Bridget a thin, forced smile, hop out of the car, and follow her to the assignment posting. Each Alexandria girl has been assigned a different room to interview her Seacoast boy in, save for us three, for the reasons I mentioned before. I expected them to throw us in the cafeteria, but am pleasantly surprised to find that they put us in the courtyard, instead. We follow the signs to the courtyard, which turns out to be rather breathtaking—a hell of a lot nicer than ours. It’s covered in ivy, with plush flowers and gorgeous Japanese maples lining the walkways. There are three boys gathered at the closest table when we walk in, and they couldn’t look more different. One is mixed-race, with creamy, light brown skin, warm, friendly eyes, and a wardrobe suggesting he’s something of a jock—soccer, not football, if the little Tally has taught me about sports paid off. The second is tall and good-looking, if a little preppy for my taste, with piercing, blue eyes, a suave grin, tan skin, white teeth, and wavy, golden hair. He looks more like he belongs on a beach in California than here in Connecticut. The third is, simply put, a bad boy. He’s as tall as the second, but a bit thinner. He has messy, dark hair that falls into eyes that might normally be pretty, if not for how red and squinty they are—a sure sign that he toked before this. His leather jacket and smattering of stubble only add to the “bad boy” effect. Anyone but him, I think as I glance down at the name that Mrs. Indigo scribbled onto my slip of paper. Anyone but him. “Grayson Gehrig?” I read out loud. “Call me Gray,” he says. And he leads me into our corner. - - - - - I stare down at my pad of paper, tapping my pen anxiously against it as I try to think of what to ask him. “You okay?” he asks me. I glance guardedly up at him, frowning. He doesn’t seem all that dangerous. His eyes, despite being clearly stoned, are sort of… kind. They crinkle at the edges as if he’s smiling, even when he isn’t. And their color… well, it matches his name. Gray. “I’m fine,” I say shortly. “Where were you born?” He looks bored by that question. “Manhattan. Like half the other tools around here.” I don’t bother writing that down; I could have guessed it. “Okay. What brought you here?” His eyes glint at that. He leans forward, lowering his voice, and says, “I got kicked out of my last school.” Also not exactly a surprise, but certainly a bit more interesting. “For?” “Fighting.” I scribble that down before glancing back up at him. God, he’s attractive. Judging from the way he’s looking at me, the feeling seems to be mutual. Am I in trouble? Anyone but the bad boy, Mem. “What spurred the fight that got you kicked out?” I ask him. He considers this for a moment, then leans back in his chair. “Pass.” Right. Mrs. Indigo did mention that they’d be given the option of “passing.” She said it was an obstacle we’d need to find our way over. I think, to most of my class, that means “flirt” our way over. But that’s not exactly my style. “Aspirations?” I ask him, trying not to yawn. How many of these questions before we can wrap this up? How long do Tally and Bridget plan on being here? “Tell me,” he says, ignoring the question. “Are you the one who insisted on doing this in front of witnesses?” I try to ignore the burn in my cheeks at that. Comes with being a redhead—major blushing issues. “Aspirations?” I repeat. “It’s just,” he continues, “it kind of hurt my feelings, Memphis, to hear that the Alexandria girls thought so little of us Seacoast boys. Last I checked, you’re all about Lancaster boys. So what makes us…” But he trails off when he sees the way I reacted to the word “Lancaster”—the same way I react every time I hear mention of the school that quite literally plagues my nightmares. “I’m not all about Lancaster boys,” I assure him shortly. “Believe me.” He waits for me to elaborate. When he sees that I have no intention of doing so, he backs off. “Okay. Sorry. Aspirations… s**t, I don’t know. Not getting kicked out of here, too? Does that count?” I try not to laugh. “Sure, it counts. Hobbies?” He considers that one for a moment, then asks, “Promise not to write down my answer? Put a pretty, Alexandria spin on it?” “I don’t really do ‘pretty,’” I tell him. “But I promise not to write it down.” “Smoking. Drinking. Being absent. Beating people up. Acquiring things I shouldn’t. Pretty much every hobby you probably could have guessed I had when you first judged me based on my appearance.” He leans forward again and, before I can object to having judged him, says, “And you’re wrong, Memphis. You do do ‘pretty.’ Very well.” Damn, he’s good. I’m back to trying very hard not to blush. “Fears?” For the first time in our interview, I actually catch a hint of vulnerability from behind those reddened, gray eyes. This isn’t an easy question for him, just as it wouldn’t be for me. “I guess I’m scared of being… nothing,” he says quietly. I find myself leaning forward at that, feeling more intrigued than I’d like to be. “Nothing?” “Not mattering. Not making a difference. Not really having existed all, and being forgotten as soon as I’m gone.” We’re both silent for several seconds at that, until, suddenly, he bursts out laughing. “Sorry,” he says, rubbing his eyes with his hands. “I must be more high than I thought. Not having existed?” I smile weakly, but we both know it isn’t just the weed talking. I saw it in his eyes—the depth and honesty of his words. He meant it. It is, without a doubt, his biggest fear. And it’s a damn good one. “Well, then,” he says, clearing his throat. “Got what you need?” I blink, a little surprised by his sudden shift in temperature. He was flirting with me for a minute there, wasn’t he? Sure, I should be grateful he stopped, but to suddenly want this to be over entirely? “Uh… yeah,” I stammer, rising to my feet. It's for the best, after all. This boy is clearly dangerous. “Sure.” “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he says, rising to his own. A smug grin makes its way to his face—one that looks just as good as every other expression I’ve seen on him so far. “Not just yet, Miss Memphis.” “What?” I ask, crossing my arms. “My friends are waiting on me.” They’re not, of course; both Tally and Bridget take school more seriously than I do, and are undoubtedly still interviewing their own boys. But I know how to take a hint. (At least, I think I do. He does want this to be over, right?) “Teach didn’t tell you?” he asks me. “Interview goes both ways.” Uh-oh. “Might as well sit back down, Red, ’cause I’ve got quite a few questions for you.”