Текст книги "After Tonight "

Автор книги: Annie Kelly

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Chapter Five

Damage Control

For a good minute or two, the only thing keeping me upright is the door behind me. I take in sips of air so as not to start heaving in panicked breaths. I need to get my bearings and consider the facts. Once I feel confident enough in my walking abilities, I move slowly over to my desk and sit down, then let my head fall forward until my forehead meets the cool surface.

I’m going to have to quit—that’s all there is to it. I’ll make an excuse to Mr. Weathersby and I’ll ask to be reassigned. Hell, I’ll move my ass to kindergarten if that’s what it takes to get away from this disaster.

I try to take a few deep breaths, try to focus hard on the flecks of the linoleum or the porous surface of the cinder-block walls—anything but my rising panic. Sure, I might have said that being challenged was a good thing for me, that maybe I didn’t need to be so perfect. But, shit, that was all bullshit and bluster. I never would have taken this job had I not thought I’d ace it as much as anything else. I can’t imagine failing at anything, but especially this. And, yeah, maybe quitting is a drastic step. But . . . I mean, there’s a part of me that would rather quit at something quietly than fail at it spectacularly.

God. Just hearing myself acknowledge that makes me feel like the biggest pussy ever.

It takes a minute for me to notice that there’s an insistent buzzing coming from my desk drawer. Sighing, I pull out my purse and dig through it for my phone. There are three unanswered texts. Two are from my dad.

Are you coming today?

Hello?

And one from Carson.

You up 4 wine-a-ritas 2nite? Let’s head to La Tolteca & get our drink on! Thirsty Thursday, baby! 1 more day till the weekend!

No, I’m really not up for wine-a-ritas tonight, though they are delicious. I need to get over to Holly Fields so that I can eat dinner with Dad, then I need to attempt to figure out this mess. Which, of course, I have absolutely no idea how to do.

As I head out the main doors toward the staff parking lot, my phone vibrates again—this time with a call. I glance down at it and I want to sigh, but I force myself to swallow it as I slide my thumb across the screen and put the phone to my ear.

“Hey, Daddy—I’m on my way.” Dad coughs for a second, then clears his throat. “Hey, princess—I’m sorry for bugging you.”

“No, it’s fine—I got pulled into a meeting. But I’m leaving school now.”

“A meeting already? You’ve only been working that job for a month. I suppose that’s bureaucracy for ya.”

I smile. Dad’s “Damn the Man” attitude is nothing new.

“It’s not technically a job, Dad. I don’t get paid or anything. It’s supposed to help me get a job once I graduate with my master’s.”

“And you said you’re down at the Franklin School, right?”

“Right,” I say, steeling myself for the lecture.

“You know I don’t like you in that part of town.”

“Well, I want to teach high school, and this was the position that was available,” I say.

Although I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here.

“Alright. Well, you said you’re coming now?”

“Yep. I’ll be there by”—I pull the phone from my ear to look at the time—“five thirty.”

“Okay, well, you know where to find me.” He coughs again and I hear the phone sort of clatter against something—his nightstand, maybe—before the line goes dead.

I toss my phone into my purse as I reach my car, then start digging through the front pocket for my keys. I guess I don’t notice the footsteps behind me, which is why I jump a foot when I hear the voice so close.

“So, you’re a teacher.”

I whirl around. Smith is standing there, hands in his pockets, a half smile tugging his lips up on one side. His short-sleeved blue T-shirt is almost like a second skin the way it stretches over his muscular frame, not to mention how much it brings out his eyes, which flicker over me in a way that feels all too familiar. I step backward until my butt hits my car door.

“I’m not exactly a teacher,” I say slowly. “Yet.” My hands have found my keys now and they’re clenched around them hard enough that I worry I might draw blood.

He lifts an eyebrow and pulls his hands from his pockets to cross his arms over his chest. I try not to think of the Superman emblem.

“Doesn’t look that way to me,” he says.

“Well, it is that way.” I practically spit the words. “I’m a student teacher.”

“Ah.” He gives a curt nod. “So, then, I guess this shouldn’t be quite as awkward.”

I snort a laugh because, really, could this be any more awkward?

“You want to explain to me how you’re twenty-one and still in high school?” I ask, crossing my arms to match his stance. He shrugs.

“It’s a long story. Starting with the fact that I’m not twenty-one.” Oh, shit.

Please don’t be a minor, please don’t be a minor, please don’t be the oldest-looking minor ever to walk the planet, aside from LeBron James, who looked forty when he was seventeen . . .

“I’m twenty,” he supplies, rocking back on his heels. His grin is annoying. Like he knows I was worried.

“How did you get into the club?”

“Fake ID. Besides, I know the owner, remember?”

“Oh.” I swallow, unsure of what to say to that. Instead, I just shake my head. “Look, this is a huge mess, so all I ask is that you give me a chance to talk to Mr. Weathersby before I quit.”

He frowns.

“Why would you quit?”

I stare at him. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously.”

He takes a step forward and I stiffen. The car is still at my back and I can’t move any further away as he gets closer to me.

“Nothing really happened, Hyacinth,” Smith says, his voice low.

I laugh out loud. Hard. Hard enough that I snort.

Lovely.

“You seem to be forgetting how we were attached at the mouth on Friday.”

“Trust me.” His jaw flexes and I think he’s clenching his teeth. “I haven’t forgotten.”

Yeah. Me, neither. That’s the problem.

“Still, that was before,” he argues. “Before you were my teacher and I was your student.”

I swallow, hating how that sounds coming from his mouth and hating that I hate how it sounds.

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” he continues. “We met outside of school, we had a good time that really didn’t break any rules—certainly not any laws.”

A lump of emotion presses at the back of my throat. He doesn’t understand.

“Besides, it’s only for a few months,” Smith counters. “When June rolls around, I’ll have graduated and I’ll be out of your life.”

I swallow. When June rolls around, I’ll be done at this school, too. But I don’t tell him that.

Instead, I say, “I don’t know. I really think I should just cut my losses and quit.”

Smith steps back then and surveys me, eyebrows raised.

“I think the truth is that you find me attractive,” he says, smirking. “And that you don’t trust yourself not to do anything about it.”

I open my mouth. I close it. I clench both of my hands into fists so I don’t smack him because, if I hit a student, I would definitely get in trouble.

“You’re wrong,” I manage to say through my gritted teeth. He shrugs and steps away.

“Okay. Whatever you say.” He starts to walk over to where I now see a large black Ram truck parked.

“You didn’t leave your number,” I blurt out. He turns and stares at me.

“What?”

“Last weekend.” I swallow hard, feeling my cheeks begin to redden. “You didn’t leave your number.”

Smith tilts his chin up and meets my gaze. I have to force myself not to look away.

“Well, all things considered, Miss Hendricks, I think it’s probably better that I didn’t.”

I guess I can’t argue that point, no matter how much I want to.

“Look, Hyacinth . . .” Smith trails off, then scrubs a hand over his head. “Seriously, I’m not going to tell anyone about what happened at the bar. Or after. I swear to you.”

I nod. “Thank you.”

Then, I climb into my car, start the engine, and shift into drive, all while trying my hardest to ignore the biggest mistake I’ve ever made as he watches me pull out of the parking lot.

***

I guess someone wheeled Dad to the cafeteria, because he’s already eating by the time I arrive.

“Hi, Daddy.” I lean down and kiss my father’s cheek. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

I flop down in the chair next to him, then glance down at his tray.

“Meatloaf again?”

“Yup.” He chews, swallows, takes another bite. “What can I say? It’s delicious.”

“I’m glad,” I say, squeezing his shoulder. “I’m going to go grab a sandwich, okay?”

“Sure, princess.”

I hang my coat and bag on a hook by the door before getting in line at the food bar. Mr. Anderson, one of the older residents, is in front of me in line, and he gives me a warm smile when I grab a tray.

“Hey, Cyn—how’s student teaching going?”

The last thing I want to talk about is my job, but I give him the most sincere smile I can muster. He really is a sweet old man, and I know he doesn’t mean any harm.

“Great! Thanks, Mr. A.”

“Glad to hear it, honey,” he says, smiling back at me.

As we move forward, Laverna, one of the cafeteria servers, hands me my turkey sandwich and apple. She’s a resident, too, but she loves to cook, so the management lets her work the dinner shift a few nights a week.

“Here you are, dear.” Her voice is a little raspy today and I give her a concerned look.

“Are you using your nebulizer, Miss Laverna? You don’t sound too good.” She shrugs, giving me a guilty smile. “I might not have used it last night. I fell asleep early.”

I shake my head and cluck my tongue. “If you’re not careful, I’m going to start coming down here every night and make sure you use it.”

She chuckles and waves me down the line.

“You act like that’s a threat. Your daddy would love it if you were here that often. So would the rest of us.”

I hold in my sigh. “Yeah. I know.” There are a lot of things about Holly Fields that I’m grateful for. Dad gets great care here. The nurses are wonderful and he’s made a bunch of friends. Of course, he’s lost a few along the way, too—part of the collateral damage of living in a place like this.

The truth is that I never wanted Dad to have to live here. For a long time after his car accident, I was able to manage—he’d lost the ability to use his legs, but he was still completely alert and capable. He collected disability and we managed.

But when the strokes started, in the middle of my freshman year of college, he needed constant care. After the second one, his face slacked to one side and never really returned to its former glory. He’s still able to feed himself most of the time, and he can usually dress himself on his own. But there’s no tying shoes or driving vehicles or opening jars in his world. No two-handed tasks, not without a nurse. Or me.

Still, he’s the one who insisted on Holly Fields. I was adamant that I could take care of him and go to school. I was on scholarship, so tuition was covered. We could make it work. Then, about a year ago, I got home on a random Tuesday and he was sitting in the kitchen, in his wheelchair, with his bag packed.

I don’t think I’ve cried that hard before or since that day. And I know I’ve never felt so much like a failure. Irrational? Maybe. But, since my mom disappeared when I was still in diapers, I’ve been the only constant in Dad’s life. The only woman in his life, too. At least since he started getting sick. And, likewise, he’s my guiding compass. My North Star. In the end, I wasn’t sure if I was more afraid of leaving Dad on his own or if the reverse was more terrifying.

Now, though, I try to push that thought out of my mind as I make it back to Dad’s table. He’s flanked on both sides by his two closest friends here—Rocky and Wyatt. Holly Fields is the kind of facility that houses people of all ages and all states of health. My father made quick friends with two guys who, like him, were a lot younger than one would expect a person to be who’s in an assisted living facility.

“Gentlemen,” I say, grinning at them. “Am I interrupting or can I join you?”

“Of course, Cyn. You’re the only reason I eat with this bum anyway,” Rocky says, nudging my dad with his elbow.

Rocky has been here for a year or two longer than Dad, and he’s sort of like the Holly Fields mascot. Everyone loves him. His diagnosis—ALS—is a scary one, but every time I see him, he couldn’t look happier or more pleased with life. He prides himself on being “on the right side of fifty with a full head of hair,” and he’s always asking me to bring my friends with me when I visit. I have a feeling he was quite the ladies’ man back in his prime.

Wyatt, on the other hand, is much more quiet, much more reserved than Rocky, despite being decades younger. He turned twenty-six last month, and he hasn’t been here long. The accident that caused his injuries happened only six months ago, and he was in a coma for about two months after that. Dad says he’s heard the doctors say that he’s recovering nicely.

“Hey, Hyacinth,” Wyatt says, smiling up at me. His dark brown curls have really filled in over the last few weeks—I can hardly see the scar from his operation, which usually crests, angry and red, over his left ear like a cursive letter C. Brain surgery is about as complex as it gets, and Wyatt was lucky to survive his injuries at all, let alone the surgery that came after.

Now, he scoots his wheelchair over to the side so I can slide my chair in.

“Turkey sandwich again?”

“You know it.”

He manages a jerky nod and I give his shoulder a squeeze. There’s still a remarkable amount of muscle tone in his body, and both his arms are a riot of colorful tattoos. Dad told me he was a pretty successful musician before his accident—a drummer, I think. Then again, most of the men and women in Holly Fields were something great before they got here.

As we begin to eat, I make myself focus on my sandwich and not on the men around me, all of whom tend to struggle at mealtime. Sometimes, it’s hard to block out the obvious—my father feeding himself with one hand, his other lying lamely in his lap; Rocky’s hand trembling as he tries to hold a spoon or a cup; and Wyatt, who will sometimes stare down at his food as though willing it to rise up and feed itself to him. I know he is trying to get his body to work on command—he’s just not quite there yet.

“Do you need help?” I ask him quietly. But he shakes his head, giving me a rueful smile.

“Tell me a story instead,” he suggests. “How is your teaching going?”

I glance up at the ceiling, then back down. “Honestly?”

“Sure.”

I look at Dad, who is stirring his potatoes with his fork and biting his bottom lip in concentration. “I think I screwed up. I’m not sure what to do about it.”

Wyatt, who finally manages to place a hand on the table next to his tray, stops to look over at me.

“I have a hard time believing that, Cyn,” he says softly. His gray eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and I shake my head.

“There’s someone at the school who I—I know from before. I’m not sure he saw me in the best light. I’m thinking it might make more sense for me to transfer to a different school.”

Wyatt doesn’t say anything at first. He’s too focused on trying to pick up his fork, and I have to literally hold my hands in my lap to stop myself from helping him.

“Do you like the school you’re at?” he asks, finally managing to get a hold of the fork. I watch him spear a cooked carrot and slowly bring it to his mouth.

“I do—I mean, Dad would rather I wasn’t at Franklin. He thinks it’s not safe. But when I knew I wanted to teach high school and that I had to student teach, I always wanted it to be there. I don’t want to just camp out at a cushy private school with a bunch of privileged kids with trust funds. I want to be useful.”

Wyatt nods, chewing his carrot. “Yeah. I get that.”

I look down at my tray, then pick up my sandwich and start eating it. Dad is watching me now, and I don’t want him to think I’m upset.

“What’s wrong, princess?” he asks. “You look like someone kicked your puppy.”

I force myself to shake my head and smile.

“I’m fine, Daddy. Just tired. And I can’t stay for long tonight.” I glance at Wyatt, then back at my dad. “I’m starting my Hamlet unit tomorrow and I want to make sure I’m prepared.”

“To be or not to be,” Rocky quips, taking a gulp of his milk. “What was Hamlet’s fatal flaw again? Ambition?”

“Indecision,” I say, practically choking on the word.

Man, what is it about literature that always seems to mirror real life?

Apparently, I’m going to teach Hamlet tomorrow to a room full of teenagers who couldn’t care less.

Oh, and one man who’s seen me almost naked.

Fucking hell.

I wonder if it’s too late to call in sick.

Chapter Six

Class Warfare

Deep breaths.

You can do this.

Deep breaths.

It’s only an hour.

Nervously, I touch my hand to my dark curls, which I’ve pulled back into a ponytail. When the bell rings, I jump a good three inches at least.

Christ, Cyn. Get a grip already.

Taking a deep breath, I head to the door of my classroom and step out into the hall. I run my sweaty palms over my skirt. Technically, it’s casual Friday and we’re allowed to wear jeans, but I felt like I needed to stay a little more formal today. Of course, a skirt shows my legs and I didn’t really consider that until I was already at school. But my blouse is modest and my flats are boring and, overall, I’m just really hoping I look dismissible. Like every other teacher. Like the opposite of “fresh meat.”

Mrs. Hardy and Mr. Christopher, two of the science teachers, are standing at their morning duty location next to the hallway metal detectors. Mrs. Hardy is going on her thirtieth year as a high school teacher, and she talks about her upcoming retirement every chance she gets. In fact, by the glazed-eye expression on Mr. Christopher’s face, I’m pretty sure she’s doing that at this very moment.

“Good morning,” I say, walking a little closer. Mr. Christopher gives me a grateful little smile. He’s fairly young, too, and I think he’s on his second year here at Franklin.

“So, any big plans for the weekend?” he asks me, cutting off Mrs. Hardy’s rant about retiree benefits. “Did you do anything fun?”

I shrug, leaning back against the wall behind me.

“Does grading papers count?”

He laughs, then shoves a hand back through his dark hair. “I’ve gotta say no—sorry.”

I shrug at him, smiling again. “Well, once I’ve finished student teaching, I’ll try to find something you approve of, Mr. Christopher.”

He snorts. “Please, call me Jeremy.”

Jeremy is actually sort of handsome, in his own way—his features are dark and, like me, he looks young for his age.

Sort of the opposite of a certain student whose first day of classes are today.

“Motherfucker!”

I spin around just in time to see a tall boy wearing a Yankees hat launch himself at another guy—a stocky, Vin Diesel–type. It takes me a second to recognize him as J. D. Fenton; he’s in my first-period class, although you wouldn’t know it by how little he’s shown up. When he actually does grace us with his presence, he pretty much sleeps from bell to bell. I’d actually decided to confront him about it, and had told as much to my mentor teacher, when I got an impromptu visit from Officer Rains, the school resource officer assigned by Baltimore City. He suggested that it might be safer if I just left J. D. Fenton alone.

Safer.

Yeah. I can see why now.

Neither guy waits for his opponent to hit the floor before attacking the other. J. D. anchors one hand on the linoleum tile as he levers back and launches rapid punches into the tall guy’s face.

“Hey!” Jeremy is off like a shot, running directly into the fray and pulling back on J. D.’s arms with both hands. A few feet away, another teacher is already on the red emergency phone next to the fire extinguisher. It’s mere seconds later that there’s a flurry of activity coming from one end of the hall and Officer Rains comes barreling forward. When he reaches the two students, he yanks the kid in the hat up by the straps of his backpack.

“Peterson. I shoulda known.” He drags him over to the metal detectors. “Walk through it.”

“Fuck you,” Peterson sneers, crossing his arms and jutting out his chin.

“No, but thanks.” Rains gives him a grim smile, then pushes him hard through the detector’s entryway. The beeping is immediate and Rains shakes his head.

“You gonna empty your pockets or you want me to strip-search you?” Peterson glares at Rains, making no move to give up whatever he’s got hidden. Rains forces him up against the nearest wall, then starts patting him down. When he reaches his waist, he yanks up Peterson’s shirt and pulls out something black.

It’s a gun.

My entire body freezes—blood, heartbeat, everything goes both cold and still.

“How’d you get this through the detectors this morning?” Rains asks him, still peering at the weapon. Peterson shrugs, but doesn’t speak. Rains sighs. He pops open the chamber, then rolls his eyes.

“You’re damn lucky it isn’t loaded, kid. They might actually let you come back here next year.”

He tucks the gun into his belt, then grasps Peterson’s arm and leads him away.

There’s a few seconds of silence, then the roar of a typical high school hallway returns in full force. I stare at Jeremy, who’s still holding J. D. back by both arms.

“I think you can let me go now, Mr. Christopher,” he drawls. “Unless of course you’re trying to cuddle or something.”

“Very funny, Fenton,” Jeremy snorts. “Get to class, will you?”

J. D. smirks and gives a salute before sauntering toward my classroom. I open my mouth to protest, then close it. At my high school, all students were suspended for fights. At Franklin, if you’re not bleeding, you’re reading. Not to mention the fact that the state mandates that students are only suspended under very specific conditions. Like murder. Or arson. Or murder by arson.

“Just another Friday morning,” Jeremy says as he shakes his head.

“In what world?” I mutter.

He gives me a shrug, then grins before starting in the direction of his room.

I walk back into my classroom behind a handful of male students. Man, every time I see a flash of baggy jeans or a glimpse of golden brown hair, I feel a sinking flutter in my stomach. It’s like butterflies, but made of lead. And dying. Yep, it’s like dying, lead butterflies are attempting to survive in my stomach as I work up the courage to face Smith with a smile when he walks through my door.

Except that he doesn’t. Walk through my door, I mean. The final bell rings and I blink up at the hall clock.

Eight o’clock.

The school day has started.

And Smith Asher hasn’t shown.

I don’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Okay, I do know. I should be relieved. But, dammit, I am sort of disappointed. I exhale hard, then shut the door behind me with a resounding thud.

“Good morning, everyone,” I say, flashing my teacher smile as I head toward the front of the room. There are two students with earbuds still in, and I signal for them to take them out. Neither of them are happy about it—one of them mutters something his under his breath that I’m pretty sure ends with the word bitch. I pretend not to hear it.

“We’re going to be starting with our next literature unit today,” I begin, flipping on the projector and gesturing to the screen behind me. “Hamlet is one of the most well-known and loved Shakespeare plays, and you’ll be one of millions of students around the world who have studied it.”

“Man, seriously? Senior English is supposed to have less reading,” Tyson White complains. “What are we supposed to be getting out of all that Shakespearean shit.”

I narrow my eyes and he rolls his.

“I mean, stuff.”

“Thank you. And, well, it’s funny you should say that.” I lean back against my desk. “I was actually just thinking the other day about how Shakespeare’s poems and plays are still completely pertinent to today’s world. He uses universal themes, which is to say themes that lots and lots of people can relate to.” There’s a grumble of disbelief and I switch the projector to the next slide—a picture of the Globe Theatre.

“Let’s start with a little background.”

I’m glancing down at my notes when the door flies open, and my heart stutters before leaping into my throat. I immediately picture Smith’s face, and I grip the paper in my hand a little harder.

But it isn’t Smith.

It’s Caroline Jenks, my mentor at Franklin.

She raises both eyebrows to me, then jerks her head, motioning me to follow her to the front corner of the room.

“Uh—okay, everyone,” I say, letting my eyes travel over the classroom, “how about you guys get out something to write with so you can take some notes?”

There’s a collective groan as I follow Caroline away from the door and closer to the window. I feel my pulse speed up, and my anxiety, as always, settles right in my stomach where it’s most at home.

If she knows about Smith—if I’m getting cut from the program—wouldn’t they wait until the end of the day to tell me?

But Caroline is smiling.

“How’s everything going?” she asks quietly.

“Oh—um, it’s fine. You know, just starting on our Shakespeare unit.”

I play with my ID badge, hanging from my neck on a Franklin School lanyard. Caroline nods, her reddish brown curls bobbing with her head.

“Good, good. I just wanted to make sure you’ve turned in all of your required paperwork. You can’t technically instruct unassisted unless you’ve completed the requisite forms, and I forgot to ask you about it last week.”

The folder of documents I got at orientation had been overwhelming—I mean, it’s like you needed a security clearance to be a teacher or something. Of course, since there are teachers who try to seduce their students, I would imagine that probably isn’t the worst idea . . .

I open my mouth to respond just as there’s a strange sort of screech and a loud crash coming from behind me.

Shit.

I spin around and, in a split second, the entire class is now standing in a throng around two students who are clearly pummeling each other.

“Hey! Hey, get up this instant!” Caroline bellows from behind me, sort of elbowing her way through the crowd. I feel frozen, rooted to my spot and paralyzed at the idea of having to break up a fight.

“Call the main office, Hyacinth,” she yells back to me. She’s now standing above the two bodies, still rolling around on the floor. Desks are pushed from one side to the other with loud scrapes against the linoleum, and students on all sides are yelling at the girls.

Yep, there’s a girl-fight happening in my room.

I grab the classroom phone, then dial the extension for the main office.

“There’s a fight in room 201,” I half yell when the secretary answers. She doesn’t even respond. I just hear the phone disconnect and, in what has to be less than ten seconds, Principal Weathersby busts through the door.

At this point, the entire class has surrounded the two girls, and Caroline is attempting to get them apart by scolding them from five feet away. From the grip they seem to have on each other’s hair, I don’t think her methods are working.

“Miss Sampson! Miss Green!” Mr. Weathersby bellows. “Get off of each other immediately!”

Officer Rains comes through the door next, completely out of breath.

“Sorry, had to wait for another officer to take care of Peterson.”

He glares at the girls. Caroline is guiding one, Angela Green, toward the front of the room. Her hair is sticking up in a million directions and her nose is bleeding where her piercing has been pulled out.

“Mrs. Jenks,” the principal says, his voice stern, “please take Angela to my office. I’ll have Officer Rains take Priscilla to the conference room.”

She nods curtly, her eyes sliding over to me. She gives me a sympathetic smile and heads through the door with Angela. Officer Rains and Priscilla Sampson follow close behind.

Now, Mr. Weathersby has his arms crossed over his chest and he’s glaring around the classroom.

“How did this altercation begin?” he booms, letting his eyes move from student to student.

No one says a word. Several students—boys, mostly—are staring up at the principal in stony silence, a sort of “stop snitching” stance that I’ve seen them use before when someone is in trouble. The rest of the class is looking away—down at their desks or their hands or their laps. Or, more likely, at their phones in their laps. Except J. D. of course, who is somehow still asleep despite the commotion.

“Let me be clear,” Mr. Weathersby continues, “if you believe that kind of behavior is acceptable in this building, you are sorely mistaken.”

He turns to me and lowers his voice a bit.

“What happened right before the fight got physical? Did you hear them arguing about something in particular?”

“I—no—” I shake my head, regretfully. “They’ve always been friendly with each other, at least in here.”

“They didn’t say anything to each other before the altercation began?”

I hesitate. “Well, Mrs. Jenks came in and we were chatting . . .”

I trail off as I see Mr. Weathersby’s frown deepen.

“So, the students were unsupervised?”

“I mean, I was still in the classroom, I just had my backed turned—”

He holds up his hand to stop me.

“Miss Hendricks, please remember that all students are our responsibility at every moment they’re in our care. You should never leave them unattended under any circumstances. Ever.”

“Of course, sir.” I force myself to meet his gaze. I will the tears forming in my eyes not to fall. Mr. Weathersby turns to face the class.

“If anyone remembers any other details of what just occurred, I expect you to come see me in my office.”

He leaves the room, but doesn’t shut the door behind him. I glance out at the class, now silent, then over at the door. Then, I do a double take.

Of course he’s here now. Why wouldn’t he be?

Smith has his back against the cinder-block wall, arms crossed over his chest and legs casually crossed at the ankles. When our eyes meet, he pushes off of the wall and walks toward me. As he gets closer, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded yellow paper.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, handing me the paper. “I was with Weathersby.”

Right. He was meeting with the principal before class. I was there when they made that plan, wasn’t I? “Um, of course—I, uh, have the attendance somewhere around here . . .”

I sift through a stack of papers on my podium, praying that my face isn’t as red as it feels. When I reach for the clipboard on my desk, I knock over an entire stack of papers, which falls to the floor like the worst kind of avalanche—the kind where you drop your tray in the cafeteria in front of everyone. The only difference? Well, the judgmental eyes are still there, but I’m not a student anymore. I can hear half the class snickering, and I drop to my knees to start cleaning up the worksheets.