Oblivious to the budding couple, Mrs. Brewster continued to write on the board. She was one of the nicest teachers at the school, but her disciplinary skills were weak at best. Most of the time, everyone respected her, but certain students still got chatty at the end of every class. Once, when she was writing on the board, Tiffany Neilson and Liam Mayor made out in the back row for two minutes and thirty-seven seconds. To this day, Mrs. Brewster still didn’t know why the class had erupted in laughter.
Ignoring my classmates, I glanced at the clock and tried to nonchalantly sniff my T-shirt. At least I didn’t smell like that nasty beef gravy they served with the mashed potatoes in the cafeteria. Even though the incident in the lunchroom had left me in a foul mood, class was a good distraction.
AP Lit was by far my favorite class. Yesterday, we’d finished reading The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas. It had immediately become one of my all-time favorite books. I’d loved it so much, I bought my own copy and filled the margins with notes. I’d also color coordinated florescent tabs with matching highlighters. That way, I could quickly locate the sections with important themes and my favorite quotes.
More giggles. This time louder. The rage that had been simmering since getting to class and seeing Fuller’s stupid face began to boil.
I spun around in my seat and opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out.
“Jealous much?” Lyla hissed.
You wish. I cursed myself for not being able to say the words out loud.
Fuller’s eyes danced with amusement as he watched me squirm.
Why did he have to act like such a d-bag all the time? We were both seniors. By now, he should be smart enough to figure out how to act like a decent human being from time to time. Or at least pretend to.
Before I could turn around, Lyla rolled her eyes. “Loosen up, Wrentainer. It’s not like you’re ever going to be in the back of the class with a guy.”
I thought I saw Fuller’s smile falter for a moment, and then he was back to being obnoxiously handsome.
Mrs. Brewster cleared her throat. “If you three are done.” She tapped the whiteboard. “You’ll have two days to come up with a topic for your essay. Once I approve it, you can begin writing. You’ll have one week to complete this paper.” She set down the whiteboard marker. “Are there any questions?”
“Is that, like, one week from today or one week from the two days?” Lyla asked.
“One week after your topic is approved. That would make your paper due next Wednesday,” Mrs. Brewster said, circling the due date in red dry erase marker on the whiteboard. “Any other questions?”
My mind raced. I’d already considered several topics for my paper. I’d typed up a list and had it tucked away in the front pocket of my binder. I wanted to go over my ideas one more time next period in study hall before I picked my favorite and ran it by Mrs. Brewster.
Several of my classmates groaned as they began shuffling dog-eared paperbacks into their backpacks. The girl sitting next to me sneezed into a tissue. I immediately grabbed the bottle of antibacterial hand sanitizer clipped on to my backpack and applied a liberal portion to my hands. I couldn’t risk bringing any germs home to Gramps. He’d come down with a bad case of the flu last winter, and it had been really scary.
After rubbing the clear gel all over my hands, I waved them in the air and checked the clock mounted to the wall above Mrs. Brewster’s head. One minute left, then study hall, where I’d have to start my math homework over again from scratch. Stupid mashed potatoes. Scratch that. Stupid Fuller James.
“Also, if you turn in your topic late, I’ll deduct ten percent from your paper.” Mrs. Brewster pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her long, thin nose. More groans erupted from behind me. “Oh, and, Wren, please see me before you leave class.”
“Ooh,” Fuller called from behind me. “Somebody’s in trouble.”
“Shut it, Fuller,” I snapped. Holy crap. I called him out. I hated to admit it, but my constant lack of sleep had been playing a major role in my moodiness both during the day while I was at school and in the evenings when I was at home. Not that it mattered in this situation. Fuller was a complete jerk, and he deserved everything I threw at him.
Our eyes locked for several seconds before Lyla placed her hand on his leg.
Whatever. By next week, Lyla would be a distant memory in Fuller’s black book. He and Marissa would probably be back together and we’d all have to be witness to their spit-swapping, over-the-top make-out sessions in between every class.
“Don’t talk to him like that,” Lyla sneered just loud enough for me to hear.
“Wren’s agi-tatered,” Fuller said, chuckling. “Get it?”
Liam, the varsity quarterback, burst out laughing. In the process, he knocked over his water bottle, which instantly soaked through the back of Jenny’s shirt.
“Ugh,” she screeched.
Mrs. Brewster put her hands on her hips. She looked like she was about to reprimand the boys, but before she could open her mouth, the bell rang.
Shaking my head, I stepped out of Jenny’s way and shot a withering look at Fuller before making my way to Mrs. Brewster’s desk. Two large bookshelves stood on either side. There were stacks of books overflowing from both, and smaller piles had started to accumulate on the top.
“Agi-tatered?” she asked as Fuller and the rest of the students filed out of the classroom.
I glanced down at her desk. There were papers and red pens covering every square inch. She must have been in the midst of grading essays from another class. “Yeah, Fuller thought it would be cute to throw mashed potatoes at lunch. He hit me in the back of the neck. I’m still sticky.”
“Oh,” she said, giving me a sympathetic nod. “Agi-tatered, as in the taters he threw at you.”
“Yeah, apparently Fuller thinks starchy vegetables are funny,” I said. “It’s a bit of a stretch, but so are most things that involve thinking when it comes to Fuller James.”
Mrs. Brewster picked up one of the pens on her desk. Tapping it against her open palm, she tilted her head to the side and said, “I have a favor to ask you.”
“Sure, what’s up?” I asked.
She stopped tapping the pen against her hand. “I need you to tutor someone in class for a couple of weeks.”
I looked around at the empty desks. There were a few kids who struggled in class, but I didn’t think anyone was failing. I mean, most of the time, if an AP class got too hard, kids would just switch to a regular class.
“Sure,” I said, “happy to help.”
“Great,” Mrs. Brewster said. “I’ll give you ten extra credit points on your paper in return. Plus, you two already have study hall together the last period of the day, so it should work perfectly.”