Prey

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From every ending comes a new beginning.…

Dedicated to the memory of
Dr. Chris Kiefer and Dr. Jim Parrish,
my teachers and my advocates

The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it?

JEREMIAH 17:9, NIV

A Note from the Author: Part 1

Many of you who are familiar with my work will know that
Prey
is not my typical book. In fact, as it's turned out, it isn't even the book I intended to write about the subject of a female teacher involved with a male high school student. The book I planned was different from this one, but once I got into the research and actual writing of
Prey
, the story took on a life of its own. I hope it makes you come to conclusions, as I did.

This is a novel I felt compelled to write and one that supports my philosophy: no one gets to choose what life gives to him or her; one can only choose how one responds to these happenings. This book is a study of characters who make bad choices, choices that will follow them, even haunt them, for the rest of their lives.

Exploring the issue of relationships between female teachers and male students in a work of fiction has been illuminating, and researching the issue has been both enlightening and disturbing. Here are some facts: no uniform laws govern this issue nationwide— laws differ from state to state. The age of consent varies widely, as do judicial rulings. Punishment is meted out by judges and even juries with few specific guidelines—one state might prosecute harshly, while another might give no more than a slap on the wrist. However, one thing is certain—the number of these cases, or at least the reporting of them, is growing in our schools, both public and private.

Ryan

Day one. New school year. New school. Freshman status. Same old Ryan Piccoli. Me, myself and I, lost in the masses—heading to new classes, new teachers, new everything. This is the thing about big high schools like McAllister. People can look right at you, right through you, as if you're Casper the Friendly Ghost.

“Hey, watch where you're going, turd.”

I've bumped into a senior, a jock, and he's snarling at me. I bow slightly and get out of his way. He'd stopped without warning in the middle of the hall. I say, “Sorry, my bad. I didn't see the traffic light over your head giving you the right of way.” His pretty girlfriend looks me over, giggles.

The guy puffs up. “Take off, creep.”

He turns and I take a chance and wink at his girlfriend. She's pretty, but off-limits.

She blows me a kiss when her boyfriend isn't looking and I watch them take off down the crowded hallway. Wait for it, I think, and am rewarded when she glances over her shoulder to make sure I'm still watching. Gotcha!

I can make people like me, even when they don't want to. A talent that got me through middle school— just ask my teachers. If you can't make them love you, make them like you. How, you ask? Make 'em laugh. A survival skill I learned early in life.

I'm wishing the day was ending instead of just starting. My summer was pretty laid-back, sleeping in and staying up until three in the morning on my computer. I hung at the pool at the country club, worked on my tan, lifted weights in my garage every afternoon. For a freshman nobody, I look pretty good. At least that's what some girls hanging at the pool said. Sure, they were only eleven and twelve, but girls' opinions are always worth something to me. With school starting up, though, talking to the global universe and gaming are over.

“Ry! Wait up.”

I turn and see Joel weaving through the hall traffic. When he reaches me, he asks, “You home this afternoon?” He'd been a regular drop-by at my place through middle school. My dad's in sales and he travels a lot, so except for a housekeeper now and then, I'm pretty much on my own most days of the week.

“As soon as the bus drops me,” I say.

“Forget the bus. I'll give you a lift.”

Joel's had a car since July. I won't turn sixteen until December and that's when I hope Dad will get me a car. Until then, I'm at the mercy of the school bus and a few friends who have their own wheels. “All right,” I tell him. “I got the new Grand Slam Poker game on Saturday.”

Joel's eyes light up. “I'm in.”

“It's tricky.”

“Bring it on. You're lucky your dad gets you stuff like that. I have to save every cent and buy stuff I want myself.”

Lucky? I think. It's a bribe, Joel, my man. Dad buys me stuff because he sheds guilt over leaving me alone so much like a shaggy dog sheds hair. His guilt is my ticket to the latest and greatest. A guy adapts.

The foot traffic in the hall has thinned and the first bell buzzes. “I'm gone,” I say, waving my schedule.

“Wait by the gym,” Joel calls, and takes off in the other direction.

My first class is World History from Ancient to Modern Times, and by the time I get there, all the seats in the back of the room are taken. I find an empty one in the middle of the third row and slide into it, curling my legs. Man, these things must be left over from some elementary school. The room smells of chalk dust and stale air. All schools smell the same. If someone blindfolded you and led you through a maze ending in a classroom, you'd know in an instant where you were by the smells.

The door shuts and a woman's voice says, “Welcome to WHAM—your free pass to Tomorrow Land. I'm Ms. Settles.”

I look up because I can feel an undercurrent flowing through the room. I hear the guy next to me exhale a soft “wow.”

Ms. Settles is gorgeous. Straight jet-black hair to her shoulders, skin the color of cream and big blue eyes so clear you could swim in them. Her body is as sexy as any movie star's, with curves and boobs and a sweaterdress that shows off her assets.

“H-e-l-l-o, Ms. Settles,” a guy on the other side of me whispers.

The girls in the class are speechless. Probably because none of them look like that, poor slobs.

Ms. Settles is all business, walking down each aisle, her heels clicking, talking about history—who cares? When she passes me, I catch a whiff of vanilla and see that she has nails painted pale icy pink, perfectly rounded and shiny.

In front of her desk again, she leans backward, resting her palms on the desktop and crossing her ankles. She isn't wearing athletic shoes, or old lady loafers either. Her shoes are black and high, with ankle straps that show off her smooth, tanned and perfect calves. She never stops talking about world history, her voice professional-sounding, but who can listen? I just keep seeing how pretty she is.

She asks two guys to go to the back cabinet and pass out the textbooks. They about fall over themselves to get it done. The thick blue book lands with a thud on my desk and I thumb through it. All the while Ms. Settles is outlining her program, test schedule and essay work for the school year. I hardly hear her words, just her voice. Pretty voice, too.

Then she starts asking questions. “Who in here thinks history is a waste of time?” Silence. “Who thinks the past is dead, so why bother studying it? Who thinks hard work equals good grades?” More silence. “Who thinks he or she can slide by because they're only doing time at McAllister, waiting for better things to come along?” Feet shuffle. She's speaking in teacher code, letting us know that her class isn't going to be a walk in the park. “This is my first year here, but I've taught middle and high school for over seven years.”

I do rapid math and calculate her age to be thirtyish if she graduated college at twenty-two. She's old. So what? She's still jaw-dropping delectable.

She asks, “Who can name one famous historian for me?”

Pages rustle as a few kids leaf through their books. Do they think the answer will pop out at them? I feel my mouth go dry and before I can stop myself I say aloud, “Me and Noah.”

All heads turn my way. Ms. Settles' blue eyes grab hold of mine. “Noah?” she says.

I gain confidence with everyone looking at me. I shrug and give her my best grin. “Yeah. I know a lot of reasons to love history.”

Kids laugh. Others groan at my sorry play on words. It breaks the silence in the room, though. People look back at Ms. Settles to see how she'll react. She raises a perfect eyebrow. “And your name, sir?”

“Ryan Piccoli. No disrespect, Ms. Settles.”

Our eyes stay locked and it's as if she's seeing inside my head. I feel heat.

“And,” she says, “I know a lot of reasons why you should sit up here in the first seat right in front of my desk.”

Now everybody laughs. She's turned the tables and is showing us she can be a good sport. I hop up, grab my books and grin all the way to the vacant desk immediately in front of hers. Three guys give me high fives as I walk by. A few of the girls give me sullen stares. The girls look like babies to me compared with Ms. Settles.

Just then, the bell sounds and Ms. Settles calls out the assignment. I scoop up my books and head for the door, turning once to see her bending over the open bottom drawer of her desk. The sweaterdress hugs her backside, and I want to do the same. I leave the room before the impulse gets the best of me.

Honey

I see Ryan coming toward me down the hall and my stomach does its fish-flopping-on-dry-land routine. He's gorgeous, sexy and intelligent—a smart-aleck and a flirt, but I forgive him all his faults. My friend since fourth grade. Never to be my boyfriend. It sucks, but a girl knows these things. She might not like it, but she knows.

“Hey, Honey.” He greets me with that flirty smile of his. My name is Honey Fowler, an amazingly stupid choice of a name by my parents that I've suffered with for years. There's nothing cute, cuddly or honeyish about me. My parents had been wowed by a character in some police drama on TV with the name Honey, so that's what they named me. Thanks, scriptwriters of the eighties.

“Hey yourself.” I cradle my books and stand out of the way of the hall foot traffic. “How was your first day?”

“Same old. How about you?”

I'm in honors classes, where Ryan could be if he'd take school more seriously. “It's going to be harder this year.”

“If anyone can do it, it's you.”

I love basking in his attention. “So what's up today?”

“Joel's picking me up and we're going to my place for some thumb exercises.”

“A new video game? No homework?”

“Don't nag.” He waggles his finger at me.

“You seen the new teacher?”

Now his grin widens. “Seen her! I have her. Academically speaking, of course. World history.”

I'd seen her in the lunchroom, where every male in the place leered when she walked through to buy ice tea. I guess they were out of tea in the faculty lounge. “Please don't say obvious things about taking a tour of her body.”

“I'm crushed that you would even think me so shallow and insensitive.” He widens blue eyes, feigning innocence. “It doesn't have to be an entire tour, you know.”

I slug his arm. “You're bad to the bone, Piccoli.” Then I add, “I think she looks like a hooker.” It's mean, but teachers should wear cute baggy sweaters and not flaunt their bodies.

“I think she looks hot,” he says. “Not your usual female for a high school faculty.”

I feel my face turn red. To me, his saying that means I am not hot. “But she's supposed to teach, not look hot.”

“She can't do both?”

I'm digging a hole for myself but don't know how to get out of it.

“You going to the game Friday night?” Ryan changes the subject.

“Probably.”

“Then sit with me and Joel.”

His magic smile appears again and I melt. “Jessica and Taylor will be with me.”

“That's fine.”

“Then okay.” I shrug, knowing that our time together for today is over. I long for the days of elementary when Ryan would come home with me after school and we'd spend the afternoon together climbing trees and building forts. I was a pretty good dragon slayer in those days. Now all I'm good for is basketball. I'm the center, and I make a good one because I'm so tall. Another un-honeylike trait.

“I'm out of here,” he says, and I watch him take off. By now the halls are empty and I know I've missed my bus. Mom's not going to be thrilled about coming to pick me up, either. I retrieve my cell from my locker and dial her up.

“Oh, Honey…how'd you miss the bus?” She sounds irritated.

“First day and all,” I say. “Tons of confusion. Sorry.”

She sighs. “I have to pull Cory away from his TV shows.”

“I said I was sorry.” My nine-year-old brother, Cory, is autistic. Not bad autistic, but enough to be a problem. Kids like him love ritual, and breaking his routines can mean a tantrum.

“Where should I meet you?”

“Out front. No hurry. Let Cory watch the rest of his show. There's a bench and I can sit and read.”

“I'll be there soon as I can.”

We hang up and I go outside. I hate being fifteen. Too young to drive without some adult in the car with me. Too old to ride the stupid school bus and feel good about myself. I think of Ryan again. One more thing I can't have. I should start a list.