Page 18 of Brutal King

“Good.” Ms. Manley looked at the class. “All of you with long hair; in this class, you wear your hair up and back. Got it?”

Clasping and unclasping her hands, the girl nodded.

“You are not attending a ball; you are not shopping at the mall. Not only is your hair of little importance, but in this field, it is a hindrance. Do you think I wear my hair this way because it makes me look pretty?”

“Hell no,” the guy behind me muttered under his breath.

“No,” Ms. Manley said with all the femininity of a raging bull. “It is because I know that one single, solitary hair in your soup, in your pasta, in your mashed potatoes is going to ruin your entire meal. Right?”

“Right,” the class murmured in unison.

Her heavy steps slowly made their way up my aisle. She was five desks down, but her gaze was squarely on me. She didn’t like me. That was clear, though I didn’t understand why.

But my hair was in a sleek ponytail. I was okay... right?

“And here we have another pretty,” she said as she stopped beside me. “Nice ponytail.”

“Thank you?” I said, unsure where she was going to go.

“Nice, long... long, long, sleek black hair.”

I stared silently at her, willing myself to breathe normally.

She reached out to firmly grasp my long ponytail and then I knew... I knew where she was going. With a gentle yet firm grip, she ran her hand down the length of my ponytail and came away with three long strands of hair.

“Look at that,” she said as she held the strands up for the class to see. “Imagine slurping up your spaghetti only to find this tangled up in it.”

Okay, I get it, I wanted to say.

She set the strands of black hair in a pile on my desk and looked at me with a touch of satisfaction. “And isn’t that a lovely dress.”

“Thank you,” I said, waiting for the other shoe to fall.

“Yves St. Laurent?”

I shook my head.

“Ralph Lauren?”

“Prada,” I said to save her from endlessly guessing.

“Oh, Prada. Of course. How lovely.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“How much does a Prada dress go for these days?”

Seriously? Do I have to answer that? If a student had bought a twenty-dollar dress at a thrift store, would you be harassing her?

“I take it you don’t shop at the mall like we mere mortals,” she went on.

I clasped the hem of my Prada dress with a nervous hand.

“Did you think you were going to a fashion show, my dear?”

“No,” I said. But the dress was simple with no frills. Why was she picking on me?

She punched her heavy fist on the corner of my desk, startling me as well as the students around me. Eyeing me with a menacing glare, she set her pudgy hands on the edge of my desk and leaned in.