BOY KING (CFTM Prequel)

CHAPTER 22 *NEW*

Or upset.

Or gratified.

I'm numb.

Numb as I watch row after row of people rise out of their seats, eyes glued to their phones, hands over their mouths, shock scrawled across their faces. Mr. Taggert barely got through the math lesson this morning. Granted, whenever the Gawker posts, people generally check out--but today's different. Even the hardcore nerds stopped taking notes on square roots just so they could peep at explicit pictures. And thanks to the girls at The Daily G, the only thing anyone cares about this morning is what Trish looks like topless.

And now everyone knows.

Two hard taps echo across my desk and I look up to see Mr. Taggert staring down at me over his double chin. His tie's too tight--like always. Instead of looking semi-professional when he shows up for work, the guy's walking around with a silver and black striped noose around his neck. 

I wonder why nobody's told him to fix it. Why nobody's been honest enough to just pull him aside and teach him how to not strangle himself. But that's the problem with this place. Nobody tells the truth.

The only people who come close are the girls at the Gawker.

That's why they got the photos. I just thought they were gonna blur out certain parts, not release Trish's version of a Hustler debut. But, pictures don't lie. And, I wanted people to know the truth.

Now everyone will see who Trish really is—now Josh will see her for who she's always been.

He can ignore me in the halls as much as he wants, but he can't ignore this.

Nobody can.

"Mr. King, given that your interests clearly do not lie in mathematics, I'm surprised to see you here five minutes after the bell. Can I help you with something?"

Taggert talks like he's running a marathon. Like. All. The. Time. Every word that flies out of his mouth comes with a whoosh of stale coffee breath and nicotine that he's probably hoping no one notices. 

I tilt back in my chair to avoid the stink and try my best to look him straight in his beady blue eyes like I actually want to have this conversation.

"I'm good, Mr. T, but thanks. I was just waiting a couple minutes for the halls to clear out before I leave."

Taggert makes some kind effort to sit down on the edge of my desk, but stops himself when the metal frame screams under his weight. I remember the feeling. And, as much as I wish I didn't understand him, I can't get away from the fact that last year I was him. Chubby Chorizo. A mini-Taggert in training. I've always hated his class because the guy's a shining example of everything I thought I didn't wanna be. Single. Awkward. Easy to laugh at. But then again, maybe I'm reading the situation wrong.

No matter how he looks—Taggert loves what he does. He genuinely enjoys numbers and trying to help people understand them. The other teachers like him too. He makes them all laugh in the staff room. He's got friends. He's not alone.

I've got everything a guy like him probably wished for in high school, but I'm not even close to happy.

I wonder what things would've been like if I'd sat on the couch all summer stuffing my face and playing video games instead of working out, going out, and screwing around with Trish. Maybe me and Josh wouldn't have ended up like this. Maybe I wouldn't have even tried for Lacey. Maybe I wouldn't have turned into a dick.

"Mr. King?"

I snap out of the past and try to figure out where we left off in the conversation, but my head's spinning.