A Scandal in Homeroom (Haddonfield High Book 2) Read online

  A Scandal in Homeroom

  S. Doyle

  Copyright © 2021 by S. Doyle

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  An After School Affair

  Also by S. Doyle

  1

  First Week of School

  Haddonfield High School

  Locke

  Question: If someone finds themselves in a ridiculous situation, is it appropriate to simply leave?

  Answer: No. Not if one is required to attend something as utterly preposterous as gym class.

  “Okay, everyone pair up.” Mr. McSully shouted, then blew on his whistle.

  I was not a dog. I did not respond to whistle commands, so I remained still.

  “Hi, Locke. Wanna be my partner?”

  Reen, the girl who had brought me to her lunch table the other day to join her and her friends, bounced into my view with her dark hair and sex-pot cheerleader uniform.

  “Your tenacity to be friends with me is almost adorable. If I found such things cute. I don’t.”

  Reen—short for Irene I’d learned—Adler stood in front of me with an impish smile.

  She was, in a word, stunning. An exotic mix of races that made it impossible to tell which dominated. Asian, Hispanic, Native American, maybe?

  Light brown skin, long dark hair that fell straight down her back, high pronounced cheekbones, with almond shaped eyes that were a tawny gold color I don’t know if I’d ever seen in my life.

  Her full lips were sex. Her body was sex. Her hair was sex.

  She was so far out of my league as to be comical, except in these early days of the school year when she seemed to be actively working to make me her friend. Or…something.

  “Please,” she said, leaning towards me. “If you don’t pick me as your partner, I’ll have to fend off the hoard.”

  She pointed over her shoulder, and I could see at least five mates lingering deliberately, even as they avoided the other girls seeking them out. All waiting to pounce on her.

  “Fine.”

  “He says, reluctantly.” She smiled, clearly unoffended by my curtness, and swiveled to face her admirers. “Sorry, guys. I’m taken.”

  I watched their crestfallen expressions and almost laughed out loud.

  Interesting. Laughter was not a common activity for me.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  She turned back to me. “Sure. Anything you want to know.”

  “We’re not seriously about to learn how to do dance, are we?”

  She shrugged. “Sorry. Welcome to Haddonfield. You see, the Cotillion, sponsored by the Haddonfield Historical Society, is one of the events of the school year. Juniors and Seniors are eligible to be invited. The highlight of the evening is, of course, a formal waltz. To ensure everyone knows what they are doing and looks good while doing it, learning the dance is required junior year gym curriculum.”

  “But I don’t want to go to this dance. I don’t like them.”

  She made a face then. “Oh, you won’t be invited to the dance. Invites usually only go to the Super Snobs.”

  “But I still need to the learn the dance?”

  “Because, you know…equality. They liked to pretend anyone could be invited. The reality is we will not be.”

  “You won’t be?”

  She huffed. “No. I’m what they refer to in this town as a Have-not.”

  But she appeared to have everything.

  “Okay, men, hands on her waist. Like this,” Mr. McSully announced.

  He was standing in the center of the gymnasium with a woman I recognized from the administration office. A middle-aged woman wearing a plain dress that fell past her knees and dance shoes that had seen a number of years.

  “That’s Mrs. Andrews,” Reen explained to me. “Mr. McSully used to just use a student to demonstrate. Then it became a thing with teachers touching students, so Mrs. Andrews fills in now.”

  “Hmm.” I placed my hand on Reen’s trim waist.

  “And, ladies, your hand on his shoulder,” Mr. McSully called out.

  Reen placed her hand on my shoulder. I was considered taller than most at six-one, but we were well matched.

  “Now it’s all about the count. One, two, three. One, two, three.”

  I watched my gym teacher take Mrs. Andrews in hand and waltz her about in a circle in the center of the gymnasium.

  “Now, everyone try,” he encouraged the class.

  Music suddenly filled the gym, and I recognized a waltz by Strauss. I clasped Reen’s hand, tightened my hold about her waist and started moving her to the beat of the music. I took a moment’s pleasure in watching the surprise on her face.

  “You know what you’re doing,” she announced, even as she tried to keep up with me.

  “Yes, well, you know. The whole English thing.”

  It was a stretch. I had no idea how many English teens knew how to waltz. But Croft, who had basically raised me in the face of my parents’ indifference, insisted on a classical renaissance education.

  I knew how to waltz, fence, horseback ride and box.

  I also played a fair violin.

  “This is nice,” she smiled. “I mean, I know it must seem silly to you, but I’m imagining I’m in a grand ball, with very rich, very classy people, as everyone watches us scandalously dance the waltz.”

  “You have a vivid imagination.”

  Her lips quirked. “Sometimes imagination is all you can have.”

  “You’re certain you won’t be invited to the ball, as it were?”

  “The Cotillion,” she corrected me. “And no.”

  “But surely someone will ask you as a date. I’m relatively new here, but your appearance is not lost on me. Neither was your popularity a few minutes ago.”

  I spun her, then, in a tighter loop as the music picked up the pace. A natural dancer, she easily kept up with me.

  I had no illusions we were at a ball, though. All I could smell was gymnasium. Mild teenage sweat and hormones mixed with a hint of rubber basketballs.

  “Maybe,” she answered. “Probably. It’s not the same thing as receiving your own invitation. It’s not like I would ever go as some guy’s date.”

  I frowned. Again, this did not compute. “Why not? You play for the other team, then?”

  She smiled. “No. I like boys just fine.”

  I wouldn’t admit it to myself, but I let out a small sigh of relief.

  “Then why?”

  She shrugged. “Oh, Locke, there are so many things I need to educate you about this town, but the first thing you need to know is that it’s transactional. If a Super Snob invites me, a lowly Have-not, to the Cotillion, then it’s because he wants something from me
. That’s not a game I’m willing to play.”

  “What if he just likes you and would like to dance with you?”

  She looked at me as if I was naïve. I was entirely the opposite of naïve. Which made me wonder why I even asked the question. Yes, I got it. She was a walking advertisement for sex that any teenage boy or grown man would respond to instinctively.

  However, she was also a person. With a genuine smile and a bright sparkle in her eyes. Who seemed likeable enough.

  The music stopped and I stopped dancing with it. I let go of her and bowed slightly as I’d been taught to do.

  As I leaned down, she leaned down with me and spoke softly into my ear.

  “No one just likes me, Locke. It is my blessing and my curse. Thanks for the dance.”

  The bell rang then, ending the class. I watched as she practically skipped out of the gym, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Immediately, I was certain of one thing.

  She was putting on an act.

  Later that Afternoon

  I walked home from school with my thoughts filled by some of the conversations I’d heard.

  Apparently there was some betting ring happening that revolved around freshman girls. I had to learn the American high school classifications and the equivalent age ranges. If my math was the correct, the betting involved the loss of virginity of fourteen-year-old girls.

  That seemed inappropriate, but I quickly decided it wasn’t my business.

  Unless, of course, making it my business could prove to be useful.

  The key to getting along in any new environment was understanding the power dynamics. Once I had a firm grasp on that, I would know how to proceed going forward.

  I made my way to the townhome Croft was renting. Unusual in that there were only eight like it in the entire town. We’d been told by the Realtor that it was new construction. It had been said in a way that suggested these townhomes had been an insult suffered by the town, but one that the town had, ultimately, forgiven.

  I opened the door and entered the foyer, which felt larger than it was because of the twelve-foot-high ceilings throughout the house Decorated by some interior designer, it looked and felt posh, which I imagined was the goal.

  It didn’t feel like home, but I didn’t need it to. I was here only as an observer.

  I smelled my brother before I saw him. The trace of his cigar lingered throughout. I followed the scent to the rear of the townhome where the kitchen was located. He was sitting at a small table covered with papers.

  “You know you’re not supposed to smoke inside. It’s against the rules,” I reminded him.

  He glanced up with a scowl. “I’ll remember that when you’ve got that infernal vaping pen in your mouth.”

  My brother was a large man. Obese, to be sure, but in a way that made him look powerful as opposed to flabby. Twenty years my senior, he was the product of our father’s first marriage, whereas I was the product of his third.

  “How was school?” he asked me.

  It might seem like a prosaic question, but I knew he didn’t mean it in the traditional sense.

  “There is an underground betting ring related to freshmen—that’s what first years are called here—losing their virginity. Seems it’s in its nascent stages, but I’ll continue to follow.”

  Croft barely lifted an eyebrow.

  “Did you meet him?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve been invited to an event on Friday night where I should have an opportunity.”

  “His mother’s going to be President someday. Mark my word. That’s a friendship you want to cultivate.”

  It was a very Holmesian thing to say. We didn’t make friends, we cultivated connections based on their future potential usefulness. In fact, there was not one person in this world I could truly call a friend. A person I liked, who liked me for absolutely no other reason than that. Everyone served a purpose, immediate or future.

  “Oh, and I danced with arguably the most beautiful girl in school today.”

  Croft did look up then, his eyes narrowed.

  “It’s a fact,” I said, sensing his disbelief.

  “Don’t let your head get cluttered with nonsense. You’re here to further your education as a citizen of the world.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Dinner?”

  “Order whatever you’d like to have delivered. I’ve got plans later this evening in the city.”

  My brother always had plans. He seldom spent a night in, and, not for the first time, I wondered exactly what he did with his time. It wasn’t like he was teaching a class into the late hours of the evening.

  I didn’t question him on his plans because we both preferred our privacy. I found that if I didn’t interfere in his world, he didn’t interfere in mine. I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and made my way upstairs to my room via the back staircase.

  My room, like the entire townhouse, had been professionally decorated in a way I didn’t care for. But at least the bed was comfortable.

  I threw myself on it and considered the ceiling as my brain regurgitated the events of the day. Who I’d met, the impressions I’d formed. Connections I still needed to make.

  However, it always came back to the feeling of Irene Adler in my arms as I danced with her around the gym.

  Later that Night

  Thornfield Home

  Reen

  “I don’t like this,” I said, as I looked around.

  Coyle Simmons and I were standing at the top of the stairs to the basement of Thornfield Home.

  I shuddered, even though I knew the building was empty.

  When I’d left Thornfield Home the last time, I’d promised myself I was never going back. Even if it meant running away. I’d never believed the state’s plan to shut down the home would last. That the foster parents who had accepted all the kids from the home wouldn’t eventually want to send us back.

  I’d been wrong. This was my second year with the Sumners, and they didn’t seem in any rush to kick me out. Janie, too, was comfortable with her foster mom. Even though both of us drew the short side of the stick, and were living with families who had taken us in primarily for the extra state income fostering provided.

  So we were still on the West End of town.

  Meanwhile, Heath had scored the Earnshaws and was living it up. Jerk.

  “What are you talking about?” Coyle said. “This is perfect. We can fit ten, maybe even twenty tables, down here if we put them side by side.”

  Coyle Simmons was a senior and someone I knew I couldn’t trust, but in this instance, I had no choice. Together, we were working for a boss who wanted us to expand upon the game I’d begun this summer.

  It had been so simple in the beginning. Beth had taken a job at The Club and Janie had taken off for a Habitat for Humanity’s thing in Haiti, so neither of them were around as much. I’d been bored and searching for some excitement.

  I’d watched this movie about an underground poker game and thought that was something I could do.

  I knew this town and its inhabitants like the back of my hand. Rich, bored boys liked to play games. So I sent an email to a few people who I knew would bite, rented a room in a dive motel just on the outskirts of town, and provided them with high-end whiskey and vodka while they played Texas Hold’em until the early hours of the morning.

  They tipped me generously and I walked away with three hundred dollars cash, net profit. While poor Beth had spent her night hauling around other people’s dirty dishes for a percentage of tips, which amounted to a quarter of what I made. It made no sense to me why she’d taken the job in the first place. It’s not like she needed the money.

  Whereas I did. I really, really did.

  The next time, I sent an email out to a few more bored boys, then a few more. The fact that it was by invitation only made it that much more appealing to them. Not just anyone could play. Only those I selected. This town loved nothing better than shutting people out. Exclusivity gave this town
a contact high.

  Easy money.

  Until, suddenly, it wasn’t. One day, Coyle approached me on the street as I was walking home after one particularly long game and told me that his boss wanted in on the action, or else.

  Coyle didn’t scare me. He was a weasel with thin blond hair and bad acne-scarred skin. But the threat or else did. It seemed Coyle’s boss was connected with the mayor, the town commissioners and the local police. Either I let him in on the game, or he would shut it down and have me arrested.

  I didn’t want to be arrested. However, if I was honest with myself, I also didn’t want to walk away from all that money. If I let Coyle’s boss take over, the game would continue.

  Coyle became my partner. We split the vig—ten percent of the night’s pot—thirty-seventy with his boss. A man I knew only by the name Moriarty. Also, I got to keep my tips.

  Our only direction from Moriarty: Make the game bigger.

  We’d been looking for a space that would work for the past week. Someplace private, unassuming. Nothing that would attract the notice of random teens coming and going.

  The Woods were too open.

  This was a selective, invite-only game, despite the list having tripled in size since I started it. We couldn’t pick a place that anyone could stumble across.

  I hated that Coyle was right. Thornfield Home was on the edge of town, abandoned, and, even better, there was a back entrance that led directly into the basement.

  The basement ran the length and width of the entire building. A massive space with unfinished concrete walls and a cement floor. Pipes ran along the ceiling, but the room was lit with bulbs spaced evenly throughout.

  On the other side of the room was a staircase that led to the main floor where there were two bathrooms just beyond the door. The three floors above were dark, but the electric still worked. There was a private entrance to the basement, and clients would have access to bathrooms and running water.