We’d been told to personalize our arguments, to appeal to emotions, as well as reason. From an outside perspective, that was exactly what John Thomas was doing. He was using a real human example to make his audience care.
This man was degenerating. This man was losing his memory. This man was going to continue losing cognitive capacity and parts of himself until he died.
John Thomas took us through it in excruciating detail. And the entire time, he was staring straight at me. “Imagine the pain of knowing that someone you loved was going to degenerate to the point where they would lose the ability to walk, to talk, to communicate in any meaningful way.” John Thomas’s expression was so solemn, so impassioned, but his eyes—his eyes gleamed. “Now imagine the months—or maybe even years—leading up to that. Imagine someone you loved forgetting you, not even recognizing you, blaming you . . .”
At first, I thought the room was shaking. Then I realized that I was. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from my grandfather’s picture. I’d known, objectively, that his condition was going to get worse. I’d known that—
My fingers dug into the sides of my desk.
“Stem cell research won’t provide a cure for Alzheimer’s,” John Thomas was saying. “But it might allow for treatments that stave off the inevitable brain cell death. And if it can buy precious days, months, even years with a loved one . . .” He changed the picture on the screen.
Gramps, with his arms around me.
“I’d say it’s worth it. Wouldn’t you?” John Thomas mimicked compassion perfectly as he nodded toward me—as if I’d known he was doing this, as if he’d done this for me instead of to me.
My ears rang. I barely heard Mr. Wesley dismissing the class. I bowed my head as I gathered my things, my jaw clenched so hard it hurt. I pushed my way out of the classroom. I made it to my locker, opened it, and leaned forward, shutting out the noise. Degeneration. Inevitable. Fatal. I couldn’t block out those words.
“My father told me about your grandfather.” Without warning, John Thomas was there beside me, his expression morose. He crowded me, bringing his face down to mine. “I hope you don’t mind that I did a little internet sleuthing for some photos. The visuals really make the presentation.” I tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go. He leaned into me, his lips so close to my ear that I could feel his breath on my face as he whispered, “My condolences.”
I could hear the smile in his voice.
Something inside me snapped. My hand balled itself into a fist, but just as I started to swing, there was, without warning, nothing to swing at. John Thomas wasn’t where he’d been standing a second before.
It took me a second to register the fact that he was on the floor, and another second after that to realize that the person who’d helped him onto the floor was Henry Marquette.
“My apologies,” Henry said. The expression on his face was oh so proper and oh so polite, considering he’d just knocked the other boy’s legs out from beneath him. “I didn’t see you standing there, John Thomas.” He reached down and offered John Thomas a hand. “Let me help you up.”
He held on to John Thomas’s hand a little longer than necessary—and, I was guessing from the expression on John Thomas’s face, a little harder than necessary.
Once he had his hand back, John Thomas gave Henry a look that was just as proper, just as polite. “You, too?” he said. “I knew Tess here was, shall we say, servicing Asher, but I had no idea she offered a two-for-one deal.”
For one horrifying moment, I thought Henry might actually punch him. “I’d defend your honor, Henry,” I cut in, “but he’s not worth it.”
Henry gave a curt nod. “His own father would be the first to tell you—he’s not worth much.”
John Thomas’s veneer of control evaporated the moment Henry said the word father. He lunged at Henry, slamming him back into the locker. This time I really did come to Henry’s defense.
Some people just need to be flying tackled.
“Would any of you care to explain your behavior to me?” Headmaster Raleigh glared at the three of us from the other side of his desk. I was sitting to his left, John Thomas to his right. Henry was in the middle.
“I believe someone must have spilled something in the hallway,” Henry said. “It was terribly slippery.”
He had quite possibly the best poker face of anyone I’d ever seen.
“You expect me to believe you fell?” the headmaster said.
“Well, first John Thomas fell,” Henry said diplomatically. “Then I helped him up. Then I fell. I think that must have thrown Tess off balance.” Henry offered the headmaster the same polite smile he’d given John Thomas. “She fell last.”
“Ms. Kendrick?” Headmaster Raleigh raised an eyebrow at me.
I adopted an expression that mirrored Henry’s. “I do believe Henry is right. I fell last.”
The headmaster was not amused. He turned his attention to John Thomas. “If you would prefer we talk alone . . . ,” he started to say.