I am Amazon

Chapter One

Remind me why I picked this class again?

I was the first to enter the sixth form English classroom, clutching my books as closely to my chest as I could manage. Being on my own, I didn't know what to expect of the class, though my mother had assured me it would be majorly female. My timetable told me that an M. Dawes would be teaching - I could only hope M. was a woman.

Perusing the small room carefully, I decided it was probably in my best interest to sit as far away from the teacher's desk as possible.

Neatly, I laid my books out on the table, scanning over the covers with an apprehensive stare. It wasn't the titles of the books that had my attention, but the authors' names. Not a single one was penned by a woman: Shakespeare, Pope and Chaucer. That meant I would be spending the entire year looking through a male perspective.

I sat there, despairing at the syllabus material, when a gaggle of girls entered the classroom. Ten in total: I took in the measure of each as they found seats dotted around the room. As the school bell began to ring, I felt myself relax. It seemed that the class was all female - perhaps that would make up for the subject matter. Surely some of these girls would share my opinion of the three authors.

Then my stomach dropped: the teacher entered the classroom on the last toll of the bell. He went immediately to sit on his desk, surveying the class with a charming smile. Suddenly, I understood why there was such a high percentage of girls willing to study this subject. Our new teacher was little more than twenty five years old; tall, dark and handsome. His green eyes were hauntingly beautiful, his jawline so sharp you could cut concrete with it.

"Good morning, ladies," his posh accent only added to his charm. "I hope you've had a pleasant summer. My name is Mr Dawes, for the few of you who don't already know me."

His green gaze targeted me at the back of the class and he pursed his lips thoughtfully.

"I see you've already had the chance to sit down," he noted, scanning over the rest of the class. "However, that's not how it'll work in this classroom. I pick the seating arrangements."

I was so afraid he would say that. Folding my arms over my chest, I stared at him, daring him to move me.

"Young lady at the back," he called to me. "I don't know your name."

I tried not to let my irritation show as I answered: "Seffie."

"Stephie?" he repeated; "Is that short for something - like Stephanie?"

"No." I gritted my teeth. "My name is Seffie. It's short for Sefira." My female teachers never had any difficulty with that.

"Ah," Dawes cocked his head at me: "Any relation to Christopher Paolini?"

What the... I shook my head, stunned by the question: "Who?"

"The author of Eragon," Dawes continued, obviously overcompensating for his mistake. "I just wonder because I think the dragon's name is Sefira..."

"No, sir; the dragon's name is Saphira," one of the girls at the front corrected.

"Ah." Dawes deflected from the subject. "Are you a fan of the series?"

The dark haired girl at the front of the class nodded, smiling.

"Very good book," Dawes commended. "Anyway, Sefira, if you wouldn't mind coming closer to the front?"

"I'd prefer to stay back here," I returned, not impolitely.

Dawes shook his head, a teasing smile on his lips. "Whoever told you I'm a biter is a liar, Sefira. Please come to the front."