Pusher

ten.

The name "Mr. Palazzolo" was scrawled across the whiteboard in large, uneven letters. I couldn't stand substitute teachers. They yelled too much, were in a permanently bad mood, and never knew what they were talking about. This one didn't look much different, but this was Current Events so a competent teacher wasn't really necessary anyway.

"Weir," Mr. Palazzolo called out. Maverick raised a hand, already having slumped back into his chair with his feet kicked up on our table.

I was balanced on the far side of my seat, trying to avoid any unnecessary proximity to him. It had only been a day since he had cornered me at my locker, but I was already exhausted from this constant anxiety. As if the bags under my eyes weren't bad enough already. I didn't need to lose my precious hours of sleep in lieu of staring at my ceiling and worrying myself sick over Maverick's unspoken threats.

I had developed the unfortunate habit of glancing up to see if he really was staring at me as much as my overactive imagination screamed that he was. I was going to have to work on breaking it. There was no point in constantly checking anymore; every time I looked, he was staring right back.

Youngblood was the last name on the roll call, so after Mr. Palazzolo received his last echo of "here," I jumped out of my seat to grab a newspaper, swiping up my things and bolting to the back of the room where Ellie sat.

Our substitute cleared his throat loudly, a cringe-worthy, wet sound that left Ellie scrunching up her button nose. I glanced up and found that the balding man was staring directly at me.

"You will all be sitting in your assigned seats today," he said pointedly. His voice sounded like his vocal cords were scraping against his throat.

My shoulders sagged, dismay flashing over my features. Without thinking I glanced over at my seating partner. Maverick craned his neck over his shoulder to link eyes with me, a hint of a grin playing on his lips.

Great.

I shuffled back to my seat while the sub droned on about all the rules we have had recited to us since kindergarten. I'm surprised he didn't include "keep your hands and feet to yourself." I let my books drop onto the table and fell into my seat, blowing a strand of brown hair out of my face with a short huff.

"Guess you're stuck with me, huh?" Maverick teased. He was still reclined far back into his chair, but he leaned towards me as if to increase the intimacy of the situation. The sound of his voice crept across my skin and left goosebumps in its wake.

I had my eyes trained straight ahead but all my focus was to the far left of my peripheral vision. Maverick was still grinning, I just knew it. He was enjoying my discomfort way too much, and all too openly.

Maverick went to make a swipe for my newspaper, but I snatched it away before he could. He might be terrifying and a potential psychopath, but I wasn't about to let him walk all over me. He could possess this school all he wanted, but he didn't own me.

"Relax, Angel, I only wanted the sports page. You never read it anyway."

I narrowed my eyes. Sure, I was about as unathletic as they come so it wasn't an unreasonable conclusion to make, but it didn't sound like an assumption coming out of his mouth. Since when was he keeping tabs on what I did and didn't read?

"It's Angelica," I said pointedly, but unfolded the sports section from the rest of the newspaper and slid it over to him.

"What? You don't like Angel?" he asked. That same, infuriatingly cocky smirk tilted his lips. "I think it's kind of fitting."