The Scarlet Letterman Read Online Free PDF Page B

he got her pregnant while he already had a pregnant girlfriend. He’s the K-Fed of my generation.
    “That we’re dating? Yeah, we are,” I say.
    “No, silly,” Derek says, and this time he leans in and pushes a bit of hair out of my face, invading my personal space and filling it with his dragon breath.
    “The other rumor.”
    Does Derek Mann hang out in the girls’ bathroom, too?
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, annoyed. Is this about the other night in the woods? I don’t have time to figure it out, though. I don’t want a tardy because of Derek Mann. And have I mentioned the halitosis? Serious ew. The second bell, signaling tardiness, rings. “Now move. I’m late.”
    “Sizzle pooh,” Derek says to me as I push past him. He’s always making up Derek slang. “Sizzle pooh” is his way of saying “nice butt.” When I look back to frown at him, I see Derek has his eyes fixed on my rear.
    I have never felt so in need of a shower.

Seven

    “Ms. Tate, you’re late,” Coach H says, accidentally rhyming and causing a couple of snickers from the stoners who sit in the back of the class. They wear their hair in their face and find everything funny.
    “Sorry, I —”
    “Sit!” Coach H bellows, waving his hand to show he doesn’t want any excuses. I like Coach H under normal circumstances. He’s sort of like a big grizzly bear. As long as you don’t take his curtness personally, you realize he really does care about you.
    I mean, last semester he and Ms. W saved me from Dracula, so I know he cares about me, even if he doesn’t like to let on he does. The fact is, he doesn’t have great people skills, and besides, Ernest Hemingway isn’t known for his patience. Plus, he’s stuck teaching theology, which I can tell isn’t his favorite subject. He was much better suited for last semester’s history class, where he could show off his World War I artifacts.
    I slide into my seat, right next to Parker Rodham, and can’t help but notice she’s gloating. She’s always happy if I get in trouble. Theology is one of several courses that’s a mix of sophomores and juniors.
    Like all classrooms at Bard Academy, this one is predictably dark and grim-looking. Instead of modern desks with plastic chairs, we have to sit in these old, wooden chairs with small desks attached to the arms. The desk-chairs are bolted to the ground, so you can’t move them at all. Hana tells me this was because one year a student hopped up on crystal meth threw a chair through a window and tried to escape. I don’t know if this is just another Campus Legend or not, but whatever. It’s as good an explanation as any for why we have to sit on ancient chairs that don’t move.
    I glance over at Parker and notice she’s wearing a button on her Bard blazer. It’s got an artist’s rendered drawing of the Hooded Sweatshirt Guy, and says “Catch the Stalker!” She sees me staring at her button and she leans over and whispers, “Ryan says ‘hi.’ ”
    I frown at her. She must know I haven’t seen him yet today. He’s probably already walked her to and from a dozen buildings by now.
    “By the way, thanks for being so understanding,” Parker continues, her voice dripping sarcasm. “I mean, other girls would get jealous about lending out their boyfriends. Especially a boyfriend like Ryan.”
    What she really means is: “I am so stealing your boyfriend and there’s nothing you can do about it.” Before I can respond, Coach H clears his throat, signaling the start of class.
    Reluctantly I settle in to listen to the lecture while I try to think of ways I can kill Parker. Maybe a Bic pen to the jugular would work.
    We’re currently in the middle of studying the Puritans, and as in most classes at Bard, we’ve found a way to link it to classic literature. We’ve just finished reading The Scarlet Letter, and now we’re going to start on the play The Crucible, both of which deal with Puritan extremism. I’m