~Yvonne's POV~
The clock on the wall of Room 402 didn’t tick; it thrummed. It was a low, electric vibration that seemed to sync up with the frantic pulse in my neck.
I, Yvonne Miller...straight-A student, library monitor, and the girl most likely to have a panic attack over a B-plus...was in detention. And it was all because of the boy sitting two rows behind me, currently leaning back so far in his plastic chair that it was a miracle of physics he hadn't cracked his skull open yet.
Wakeem.
He didn't have a last name in my head. He was just Wakeem. The kind of trouble that wore a leather jacket even in eighty-degree weather and smelled like expensive sandalwood and bad decisions.
"Stop staring, Miller. It’s creepy." His voice was a low, gravelly rasp that skipped down my spine like
