With one heavy exhale, I push the right door open and slip quietly inside. The bells have sounded and the classroom doors are closed. I’m holding this golden late pass of a new student’s schedule, though, so I can take my time. My steps are measured, a fraction of what they were outside. Might as well also take advantage of this time to cool down. I let Abby talk me into wearing my hair down straight. It feels like a damp warm blanket on my back and shoulders, though, and I’m pretty sure my flat iron work to smooth out the kinks has all been undone. My hair isn’t curly, but it’s far from perfectly straight. It’s more tousled without the supermodel image that word conjures.
The class door flies open easily but I manage to grab the handle before it flings into the wall. My entry still catches most everyone’s attention. I focus on the teacher, an older man wearing a shirt like my dad owned—collared and polo-style with a single breast pocket. Today’s color is orange. Vivid orange. I wonder what the rest of his closet looks like.
“I’m sorry. I’m new, and I had to stop at the office,” I explain, diffusing the disgruntled look forming on his face. He wasn’t here my freshman year. I knew all the teachers, despite only knowing maybe six students.
“Oh, yes! Miss Mabee.” A few snickers are poorly masked by fake coughs. People my age are so amused by alliteration. He takes my paper and tips his glasses forward on his nose. He has a thin comb over, and the gel he used to swipe the hairs from right to left is still fresh. It glistens.
“I hope you’re all right with a front-row seat,” he says, bending at the edge of his desk to sign my form. He points with the tip of his pen to the only open seat in the classroom. I’ve already noticed it though, and the six-foot-something pissed-off jock sitting behind it.
“Here you go,” the teacher says, handing back my paper. I keep my focus on the teacher’s name on the page rather than the desk I’m sliding into. He didn’t say it when I walked in, so the pronunciation is still a mystery to me—Slatvka.
Situated in my chair, I lean forward, elbows on the small desktop so my hair doesn’t tangle itself with anything Lucas-related behind me. I’m so obsessed with that fear that I reach behind my neck and sweep it over my right shoulder, entwining it with my mechanical pencil and flinging it around like a rogue swing set.
“Oh, my God,” I whisper just as the pencil falls loose and onto the floor, bouncing backward of course. I run my fingers through my now-tangled hair, flattening it over my shoulder before I lean to the side and slouch in my seat in an attempt to reach my pencil. Our teacher is writing a list of the things we need to purchase for class on the board, and he’s about to hand out the syllabus, which means I have about three more seconds before he turns around and spots my contortionist act. The rest of the class is already privy to this spectacular view. I’m nearly flat in my seat, head practically resting on Lucas’s desktop behind me while my hand flails about, fingers stretching and pinching desperately at the floor but coming up with nothing but air.
Lucas groans and taps on the top of my head with a flick of his finger.
“Sit up,” he says, leaning to his right while I do, and easily picking up my pencil. I twist just enough to glance at him sideways, taking the pencil in my hand. He doesn’t let go right away, holding on for an extra two or three seconds to make sure I feel the burn of everyone staring at me. It irritates me, and the thank you I was preparing to say gets swapped out for an entirely different response.
“You could have picked it up sooner.” I give my best glower, and he lets go of the tip, pulling the eraser out and tossing it back on the floor where it bounces a good four or five feet away. I breathe out a faint laugh then look back at him before turning around for the final time—ever!
“Good thing I don’t make mistakes,” I say, holding his gaze for a beat then turning to greet Mr. Slatvka just in time to take the syllabus from him.
I busy myself copying down the list of items that I plan to get tonight at the office supply store, feeling pleased with myself for how I handled that little interaction. When our teacher makes it to the back of the classroom, Lucas leans forward on his elbows and brings his mouth close enough to my neck that I feel the tickle of his warm breath.
“June,” he says, breathing out my name. Both the sound and the feel of it along my skin force me to stop writing and pay attention to the prickle of every hair on my body. I blink at the words typed on my paper. “You are so far from perfect, you have no clue.”
His weight shifts against the back of my seat where his desktop touches my chair, and I shake with the blunt force of his shoe on the leg of my chair as he rests it there, pushing me forward an inch or two.
This isn’t one of those moments when I don’t have a response. I’ve got one. It just wouldn’t put him in his place. I say it in my head instead of giving him the satisfaction.
I know exactly how imperfect I am.
Chapter Three
The day just gets better and better. And by better, I mean complete nosedive into a shit pool.
I had the option of getting out of school early this year. I earned enough credits, and none of the last hour electives appealed to me. I hate cooking, so culinary was out. I’ve already taken photography—and I live with a photographer—and the thought of being in the weight room with half of the football team trying to bulk up sounded like torture. But Abby has to be here for the full day, and she begged.
She begged, and I caved.
I figured being a teacher’s assistant for the last hour would be a cake walk, and I’d be able to sit in the back of the class and fly through my homework in an hour. I’m assigned to a freshman algebra class, so the only work I’ll have to help with is making copies and handing out paper since student grading isn’t allowed. It looked promising, until Tory was camped out in Mr. Newsome’s chair when I walked in. He’s Mr. Newsome’s favorite, because Tory D’Angelo and his brother Hayden are the one-two punch on Public’s basketball team, and Mr. Newsome is their coach. I could have been assigned to any classroom for this hour, and somehow, I’m doubling up with him.
“Why the glum look, Mabee?” Tory twists side to side in the office chair a few feet away from me. I’ve been pretending to ignore his existence while I review the stack of class rules and instructions I collected today, and jot down lists of other teachers I can potentially assist.
“No glum look. Just relishing how comfortable this box is, and what a gentleman you are,” I say without peeling my eyes from my work. I’m sitting on a large storage bin filled with donated school supplies like note cards, handwipes and tissues. This class is full and there are no extra chairs. Tory hasn’t moved from his seat—too busy playing solitaire on the teacher’s laptop.
“Oh, I’m a gentleman. I offered to share.” He swivels so his knees are square with me then pats his thigh.
“I’m not sitting on your lap,” I say, my tone flat and head tilted. I’ve twisted my hair into a knot and poked two pencils through it to hold it in place. It’s slipping a little, so tiny hairs stick out in all directions and tickle my face. I pull the pencils free to retwist.
“You should leave it down,” Tory says. Ignoring him, I continue to twist, holding one pencil in my hand and one gripped by my teeth.