Chapter One
1710 Words
Sitting in the too-warm classroom, I drummed my fingers on the desk like I was trying to Morse-code my way out of captivity. The air conditioning had apparently died sometime in late June 1997, and the school board had decided that rather than repair it, they would simply “build character.”
What it actually built was sweat. And rage. And a deep, primal longing for cold drinks and unemployment.
I stared out the window so hard it was a wonder the glass didn’t melt. My vision drifted, clouding, blurring the brick and concrete of campus until I could almost pretend it wasn’t there at all. Instead of a parking lot full of Teslas and Range Rovers piloted by miniature psychopaths, I saw it—the beach. The far-off horizon line of the ocean, stretching forever, laughing in my face because it knew I didn’t belong in this classroom any more than a penguin belongs in a desert.
The surf rolled in as if only for me—slow, rhythmic, hypnotic—pulling my mind further and further away from lesson plans and standardized testing and into that blissful, salty universe where nothing demanded anything of me except sunscreen.
I could practically taste the sea air.
I could practically hear the waves.
I could practically—
“Miss Frost?”
Nope. Not yet. Ignoring you.
I squinted harder, focusing instead on the boats docked along the pier far down the shoreline, sunlight glinting off of white polished hulls, each one more smug than the last. Almost all of them were elegant, dramatic, swoony things—sleek and beautiful and named with ironic pride and a touch of questionable taste. The Summer of George. Laguna Matata. Dock Holiday. My personal favorite: I’ve Got Crabs.
There’s something deeply satisfying about humans spending six figures on a floating luxury vessel and then christening it with a joke your uncle would tell at Thanksgiving after his third whiskey.
I smirked, chin in my palm, returning to one of my happiest memories—perfect blue sky, ocean breeze teasing through my ponytail, a glorious ice cream cone the size of my face, and the humiliating snort that erupted from me when Captain Underpants sailed by like a proud i***t prince of the sea.
Truly, peak joy.
“Miss Frost?”
Sigh.
The voice didn’t belong to a sea breeze. It belonged to something - someone - infinitely worse.
I blinked back into reality and into the heat, blinking too fast, like I’d been ripped from a dream. My students were staring at me. Not with admiration. Not with adoration. With the particular mixture of judgment and gleeful malice only affluent teenagers could achieve.
Fantastic.
“Okay, class, time’s up,” I said, trying to sound authoritative and breezy while peeling my eyes off the window like they were duct-taped there.
A glance at the clock told me everything I didn’t want to know.
I had lost track of time.
Again.
They’d gotten seven extra minutes of essay time. Seven minutes more than the carefully rationed standardized-test-approved amount allotted in the sacred binder of Hell’s curriculum guidelines. I was absolutely going to hear about this. Probably in a three-paragraph email, CC’d unnecessarily to seven administrators.
SAT prep is kill-or-be-killed in pretentious private schools like this. One slip, one deviation, one human moment, and the parents descend like well-dressed vultures with legal representation.
And of course, Marla noticed.
Marla, the kiss-a*s, overachieving, Prada-wearing nightmare in the front row, who absolutely believed she ran this institution. She was probably mentally drafting her furious email already, complete with bullet points and a concluding paragraph thanking the administration for their continued commitment to excellence while also low-key recommending my execution.
Somewhere in the building existed Assistant Principal Melvin Waters, a man who insisted all the kids call him Mel in an attempt to seem relatable, but instead radiated energy that screamed “disappointed sitcom stepfather.” I could only think of him as my own personal Captain Ahab.
He haunted me. Literally haunted. I heard the Jaws theme in my head anytime his loafers squeaked within twenty yards.
God, I hated this job.
I didn’t want to mold minds.
I didn’t want to shape the future.
I wanted to be a pirate princess when I was eight.
Whatever happened to that plan?
How did I end up here instead of on a ship, stealing hearts and treasure while wearing fabulous boots?
Oh, right. The parrot poop situation.
No one warns you about the logistics of piracy when you’re a child.
“Is something funny, Miss Frost?”
Shit.
I’d been laughing.
Out loud.
My internal monologue is a problem.
“Yes, Marla,” I said through a smile that was absolutely not friendly. “Something amusing just occurred to me.”
She lifted her chin, that smug little smirk curving like she’d just won a court case.
“Would you like to share with the rest of the class?”
Seriously? Was she auditioning for villain school?
“No. We need to get on with the rest of class.”
Her eyebrows lifted like she was the adult here.
Like I was the disruption.
Like I hadn’t been single-handedly holding this disaster of a day together with sarcasm and caffeine.
“Well,” she said sweetly, “we’ve wasted so much class time already while you were daydreaming. We may as well hear what it is you find more interesting than doing your job.”
The class inhaled as one.
The way an audience does before someone throws a punch.
My mouth fell open. I was aware of it. I could feel it, hanging there, useless. Why couldn’t I close it? Why were my neurons filing for divorce at this exact moment?
Say something.
Say something adult.
Say something professional and wise and—
Nope.
I snapped.
Like a rubber band.
Like a cheap b*a strap.
Like a human being who had absolutely reached her limit.
“You know, Marla?” My voice came out almost conversational. Sweet, even. “It’s ironic you’re such a haughty, self-centered little b***h when your father makes no attempt at hiding his philandering ways and your mother hasn’t crawled out of a Stoli bottle since your bony little a*s was in overpriced diapers.”
Silence.
Real silence.
If I’d dropped a grenade, it would’ve been less shocking.
And once you cross that line?
There’s no going back.
Of course, my car wouldn’t start afterward.
Of course.
If the universe was going to ruin my life, it wasn’t going to do it halfway. I had just been escorted out of school like a raccoon who’d broken into a grocery store, and now my engine was doing its best impression of a corpse.
I dropped my forehead to the steering wheel and groaned.
I should’ve known I wasn’t cut out for this. I should’ve known the second Mel interviewed me and used phrases like “school policy,” “toe the line,” and “team player” while maintaining dead shark eye contact.
But I needed money.
Or rather, I’d needed money a while ago and then pretended I didn’t until reality tackled me to the ground.
I’d had a cushion once—blessed inheritance money from my uncle, just enough to give me the delusion that I could spend a year and a half writing the Great American Novel.
What I had now was ten and a half semi-coherent chapters, two emotionally unavailable cats, and a deeply concerning reliance on sugar.
The perfect résumé.
“Can I do anything to help?”
I jumped, slamming into the car seat like someone had fired a cannon beside me.
Great. Witness to my downfall.
He was leaning near my window, this tall, infuriatingly calm man with the kind of smile that suggested he found everything amusing—including, apparently, me.
“Don’t you think you’ve done enough?” I snapped.
His eyebrows rose. “What did I do? I was there for moral support.”
“Moral support?” My voice went shrill. “You didn’t say ONE WORD while that douche was lecturing me about professionalism after a teenager publicly staged a coup in my classroom!”
“I only speak if you request it. You didn’t request it.”
“Oh.”
That took the wind right out of me.
Rage gone.
Just… exhaustion left behind.
I sagged, eyes burning.
“I know you were in the thick of it in there,” he continued gently, “so you might not remember. I’m Cass. I’m not just a union rep. I also run a taxi service for beautiful women on the side. I can give you a lift.”
I stared at him.
He smiled like he’d just told me the weather.
“You’re seriously hitting on me right now? I was just humiliated in front of my class by Carrie.”
He blinked. “…do you mean Marla?”
“Whatever. It was bloodier than the movie. There were casualties.”
He smirked. He actually smirked.
“I’m so glad you find my complete and utter destruction entertaining.”
“You weren’t destroyed,” he said lightly. “You gave as good as you got. I had to cover my mouth when you told Mel to eat a giant bag of dicks.”
I froze.
“I said that?”
“Oh yeah. Then you called him a pickled, knuckle-dragging butt-monkey and stepped on Marla’s Louis Vuitton on the way out.”
I slowly processed this.
And then...
Oh.
Oh, that… was… kind of glorious.
A stupid smile broke across my face.
He watched it happen. His grin widened like he’d won a prize.
“So,” he said, offering his hand, warm and steady. “Want to get food? I’m starving. And emotional c*****e always makes me hungry.”
I hesitated for exactly one second. Maybe less.
“Yeah,” I breathed. “Actually… yeah.” I stuck my hand through the window. "I'm Harper, but then you know that already."
He kissed the back of my hand like some ridiculous romantic comedy hero.
“I’m delighted, Miss Frost,” he said softly. “It’s really nice to meet you.”
- Writer
