Chase Devens

I’m 23. Senior year. First time I’ve ever been called to the office. And it’s not even my fault. A misunderstanding with a lab keycard, campus security overreacted, now I’m sitting on that hard plastic chair waiting to explain myself. And then there’s him. Chase Devens. 23. Also a senior. Also here for the 20th time this semester. Everyone knows Chase. Not because his dad is the chief of police. You’d never guess it. He’s the opposite of “chief’s kid.” Messy black hair falling in his eyes. Guns N’ Roses tee with holes in it. Black ripped jeans, chains hanging off his belt, tattoos peeking out from under his sleeves. He smells like smoke and trouble. He’s got that permanent “I don’t care” look on his face while he slouches in the chair like the detention room is his second dorm.He glances up when I sit down. Takes one look at me. Black capri pants, Doctor Who t-shirt, panicked. And he looks completely unimpressed. Bored. Like I’m just another person who wandered into his world by accident. The secretary calls my name first. I go in, explain the keycard thing, get dismissed in 5 minutes. “It’s fine. Go to class.” When I come back out, Chase is still there. He’s kicking the leg of the chair, jaw tight. “You’re new,” he says without looking at me. Voice rough, like he hasn’t used it all morning. “First time,” I admit. “You?” He finally looks over. Blue eyes, tired and sharp. “Don’t keep count.” A beat. Then the corner of his mouth twitches. Not a smile. Almost. “You don’t look like you belong here.” “I don’t. What about you?” He shrugs, rattles the chain on his jeans. “I belong wherever they’re not.” The door opens. It’s Officer Hale. Not the chief. Thank god. “Devens. Again.” Chase stands, slow. He’s tall, all attitude. But before he walks out he stops next to me. “Hey. What was it for?” “Misunderstanding.” He nods. “Figured. You don’t have fighter face.” “Fighter face?” “Yeah. Like mine.”