Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 129955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129955 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
The four guys get out of the Escalade, and just like last night, people flock to them like celebrities. The four guys ignore the crowd as if everyone here is below them.
The driver, who I’m guessing is this mystical Carver guy, raises his head, and as if sensing my stare, his gaze locks onto mine. I suck in a breath, not ready to go through that same bullshit from last night, so without sparing him and his friends another glance, I turn on my heel and stalk into the school. I know without a doubt, these guys are going to be major pains in my ass.
With the bell ringing the second I showed up, I’m well and truly late for my first day, but it doesn’t seem to be an issue around here as students still linger in the hallway.
Not having time to check-in at the student office, I grab the handbook out of my backpack that I'd found in my room, quickly scanning through it to find my class schedule and homeroom.
Mr. Bennett, room eighteen, Block C. I gape at it for a moment. Well, shit. Are there seriously that many classrooms that they had to be broken up into blocks?
Not having the slightest clue where Block C is, I stop by a timid girl who stands outside her locker, collecting her things. “Hey,” I say. She instantly whips her head in my direction, her eyes going wide, and within seconds, she’s shrinking back from me as though just talking to me is going to send her straight to hell. Ignoring her silent pleas to be left in peace, I show her the map of the school that’s on the very next page. “Can you show me where Block C is, room eighteen?”
“Oh, umm … yeah,” she murmurs, her voice low as she visibly seems to relax, realizing that I’m not about to steal her lunch money, though there's a possibility I stole it last night. She points out the room and shows me the quickest way to get there, and the second she’s finished explaining, she disappears right out of sight, desperate to get away from the troubled girl.
I take my time getting to homeroom and walk through the door of Mr. Bennett’s room with every eye on me, but what’s new? “And you are?” the old, stubborn teacher at the front of the class demands, looking at me as though he’d happily assign me to a different classroom.
“I’m Winter,” I tell him.
He scans through his class roll, his brows creasing the further down the list he gets. He shakes his head, clearly unable to see my name. “Winter who? Your surname isn’t listed.”
“It’s just Winter.”
Mr. Bennett’s head snaps up with rage shining in his eyes, the whole class watching on as though this is the biggest motion picture of the year. “When you walk through my classroom door, all games are to be left behind. I do not appreciate your attitude. When I ask for your full name, I will receive your full name, and I will not tolerate anything less. Is that understood?”
I raise my brow, dropping my backpack on the table of the kid sitting by the door. “Crystal clear,” I tell him, not in the mood for his bullshit. “And as I stated, my name is Winter. Just Winter. I do not know my surname, nor was I given another by the state. My home was burned to a crisp in a fire that killed both of my parents, taking my birth certificate right along with it. After the state lost track of who I was, so did I.”
I was only a baby. I had no idea what my name was until I was three years old. That's when my foster mother started calling me Winter because she didn’t think Jane Doe suited my personality. Winter, however, suited my cold demeanor just fine. “Now if you don’t mind, I would very much like to take my seat. Or would you prefer to dive further into my personal life and dig up more irrelevant information? I could tell you all about how it’s impossible for me to get a driver’s license, apply for any kind of loan, or get anywhere in life because I don’t have a proper name.”
Mr. Bennett clenches his jaw as the students seem to watch me with a closer eye. “Take your seat, Winter,” he says, almost spitting my name.
I give him a sickly-sweet smile and grab my backpack off the other kid’s desk before trudging through the room and taking a seat at the only available desk.
The room is deadly quiet, and I use the last five minutes to relax, taking slow, deep breaths to prepare myself for the next few hours. That little story about my dead parents and not having a proper name is bound to spread like wildfire, and by the time I step out of this classroom to face the rest of the student body, there are going to be stares of pity coming from every direction.