“Whatever. You already said it,” I muttered. “And it’s true anyway.”
Avery spent the next ten minutes trying to explain how being a partial American Girl doll was actually a good thing. I listened politely. When we hung up, my thoughts immediately drifted to Mr. Connelly and if he thought I was like an American Girl doll. And then I wondered why he would even know what that was.
I remembered the CD he let me borrow. It became a nightly ritual to play “Midnight in a Perfect World” right before I fell asleep. I checked the time. Still early, but there was nothing else to do, so I pressed PLAY on the stereo and crawled under my sheets. I knew it was wrong, but I imagined Mr. Connelly in bed with me, holding me close while we tried to pick out all the different parts of the song. And then he whispered in my ear that it was a perfect song to listen to on a perfect night beside a perfect person. I only halfway believed him. It was a perfect song. And it could be a perfect night. But I was far from a perfect person.
***
“Where is everyone?” I asked, poking my head in the doorway Tuesday afternoon.
“I’m not tutoring today. I have a doctor’s appointment,” Mr. Connelly replied. “Did you forget?”
“Ohhh, that’s right,” I said. My heart filled with instant excitement. Two hours! All to myself! Dad didn’t need to know the session was cancelled. I practically salivated at the idea of unmonitored time to myself. Where would I go? The mall? A movie, perhaps? Maybe I would just drive around, heading nowhere in particular, just happy to be free, even if it was for a short period of time.
“What are you thinking, Cadence?” Mr. Connelly asked.
I shook my head.
“Nice try,” he said.
My face broke out into the widest grin. “I have two hours,” I breathed, eyes big and glassy. Like I was in a daydream—a too-good-to-be-true wonderful, delirious daydream.
“To do what?” Mr. Connelly asked.
I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t care what I do so long as I do something. Two hours!”
“Cadence, I think the smart thing would be to go home,” Mr. Connelly said.
I looked at him like he betrayed me. “No.”
“If your dad finds out there was no tutoring session today and you’re not home, things could go south really fast,” Mr. Connelly said.
I was instantly pissed. “Do you understand that I have no freedom? My parents watch me like a hawk, afraid I’ll fall in with some other bad group and rob another convenience store. This is probably the only time all year that I’ll be able to go somewhere or do something that they’ll know nothing about. And I’m not passing on that chance.” It was a complete lie, but he certainly didn’t need to know my arrangement with Avery. And anyway, I didn’t need him to be my teacher right now. I needed him to be a sympathizer.
Mr. Connelly smiled wearily. “I’d just hate for you to lose your driving privileges.” And then he added more quietly, “I’d hate to not see you after school Thursday.”
I was shocked. I couldn’t believe he said it. Why would he hate to not see me Thursday?
He turned his back and continued packing his bag. He pulled the strap over and across his body, then closed and locked his desk drawers. I hovered in the doorway waiting for him to look at me. He took his time adjusting the bag, looking everywhere except my direction. I grew bold.
“Why?” I asked.
“Why what?”
“Why would you hate to not see me at tutoring Thursday?” I couldn’t believe my own courage.
Mr. Connelly looked me square in the face. And then his eyes travelled to a spot just above my head. “Because you’re failing math. And I’d like to see you improve.”
I exhaled. I felt like a tire that had been punctured by a fat, unforgiving nail, deflating fast and hard to nothing.
But his eyes moved, my brain kept telling me. Don’t get discouraged. His eyes moved.
“Where do you plan on going?” Mr. Connelly asked, walking towards me.
“I don’t know,” I replied, trying to hide my disappointment. It didn’t matter what my brain told me. Didn’t matter that Mr. Connelly couldn’t look me in the face when he obviously lied to me. I wanted to hear the truth. “Maybe a movie.”
Mr. Connelly checked his wristwatch. “Not enough time.”
I nodded. “Maybe the mall then.”
He grimaced. “Why would anyone wanna go there?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” I said. “It’s a teenage thing.”
He chuckled. “I was a teenager, too, once.”
I shrugged.
“You like that CD I let you borrow?”
“Yeah. I should probably give it back to you, huh?” I chuckled nervously. I’d had his CD for weeks with no plans to return it. I didn’t want to.
“Keep it for as long as you’d like.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. And if you like that, there’s an independent music store on Roswell Road that sells a bunch of it. It’s not more than five minutes from here. You can go and listen to some stuff on records. Completely different experience. You may like it. And it’d be a hell of a lot better than wasting your time at the mall,” he suggested.
“What’s a record?” I asked teasingly.
Mr. Connelly rolled his eyes. “I’m not that much older than you. And what is the world coming to when young people have never heard music on vinyl?”
I giggled. “I seriously never have.”
“Then you need to go. Listen to anything. I don’t even care, so long as it’s an LP.”
I didn’t understand what he was talking about, but I thought if I asked what an LP was, he might have a heart attack.
“What’s the name of the store?” I asked.
“Curb Your Dog Music,” Mr. Connelly replied with a grin.
“Curb Your Dog?” I asked, eyebrows raised.
“Whatever. The point is that it’s a good place. The owner’s a good friend of mine. His name’s Dylan. Just ask him to help you find some stuff,” Mr. Connelly said. “Now don’t waste any more time.”
He placed his hand on my shoulder and gently nudged me aside. His touch was electric, and I tried not to jump. I didn’t want him to know he had that kind of shock value.