“Desperation,” she says quietly. “Why?”
“I guessed.”
“You didn’t guess. Why desperation?”
My hand goes still, and now I glare at her. You could hear a pin drop in the classroom. I don’t like being the center of attention, and I want her to move on. “I said it’s a guess.”
“Okay, guess again,” she says equably. “Why desperation?”
I slam my book closed, and two kids near me jump. “Maybe he’s afraid of the damn dark.”
She doesn’t flinch. “Maybe he is. What kind of darkness?”
The wrong kind. Sudden emotion clocks me upside the head. My shoulders tense, and I want to rip this book to shreds. My breathing is so loud I sound like a trapped wild horse.
“Give it a shot,” she says. “What kind of darkness?”
Her voice is encouraging. I’m about to rattle apart, but she thinks she’s somehow going to get through to me, to find shiny silver under a little bit of tarnish. I’ve seen this look before: in social workers, in school psychologists, in other teachers.
What they fail to understand is that there’s no point in trying.
Keith Mason snorts under his breath a few rows over. “They probably don’t read much poetry in juvie.”
I push out of my chair so hard it scrapes the floor.
Mrs. Hillard is quicker than I’d give her credit for. Braver, too. I’ve got six inches on her, but she blocks my path.
“Prove him wrong,” she says quickly. “Answer my question. What kind of darkness?”
It takes me a moment to filter intelligent thoughts. I tear my eyes away from Keith and look down at her. My head is spinning with emotion from the girl’s note and the memories the poem evoked and the humiliation from another reminder of what I am. Of how these people see me.
“He’s not wrong,” I say, and my voice is rough again. I drop into my chair and keep my eyes on my book. I find my pencil and take up the same doodle.
She inhales to say something more, and my fingers threaten to snap my pencil. Without meaning to, I start digging a hole through the paper.
The bell rings, and the students around me explode into a flurry of activity. The teacher begins calling instructions about our homework assignment, some paragraph I’ll probably write between classes.
I slip the girl’s note into the textbook and shove it into my backpack. I have a clear path to the door. Everyone avoids me.
Except Mrs. Hillard. She steps in front of me again. “Do you have a minute?”
I’m tempted to ignore her. Students are streaming out of the room around us, and it would be simple to glance away and slip into the flow. If she looked like she was going to write me a detention or otherwise hassle me, I wouldn’t hesitate.
She doesn’t look like that, so I stop.
“Are you going to be late for your next class?” she says.
I shake my head. “I have lunch.” Then I realize I could have lied and gotten out of here without too much trouble.
She nods at a desk in the front row. “Sit down for a minute.”
I inhale and hesitate—but then I let it out in a sigh, and I slide into the seat. It’s the first time I’ve sat in the front row of any classroom in this school.
“I want to talk to you about what you said,” she begins solemnly.
Oh. Oh. I’m such an idiot. I begin to rise from the chair, and a familiar bitterness settles in my chest. “Whatever. Just write me a detention so I can get the hell out of here.”
She blinks, startled. “I don’t want to write you a detention.”
I frown. “Then what do you want?”
“I want to know why you said desperation.”
“It was a stupid guess! Maybe you should have asked—”
“Are you really so afraid to appear smart?” She leans back against her desk and folds her arms across her chest.
I scowl, but I don’t say anything.
She doesn’t say anything, either.
The weight of her words pins me in this chair. My pride picks them apart. Afraid. Are you really so afraid? To appear smart?
I’m not a bad student—that’s a good way to get hassled, and I don’t need to give these people any more reason to get in my face. There was a time when I was a good student, when my mother would pin my report cards on the refrigerator. Now I only bother with enough work to scrape by, making sure I don’t fail anything.
Her words are a dare.
We sit there for the longest time.
“I’m missing lunch,” I finally say.
Her shoulders fall. A little. Enough. “Okay,” she sighs. She nods toward the door. “Go ahead.”
I’m halfway down the hallway when her voice catches me. “Declan. Wait. Your assignment.”
I turn, and she’s coming down the hallway, a folded slip of paper between her fingers. “I heard it in class.”
“No, I want you to write me something else.” She holds out the paper. “Write me as little or as much of an answer as you want.”
I take the paper, and her eyes light up.
Then I crumple it in my fist and turn away.
I skip the line in the cafeteria because Rev will have enough food to feed an army. Kristin always packs something extra for me.
I can’t remember the last time my mother packed me a lunch. Not like I deserve it.
I drop the crumpled piece of paper on the table, then slide onto the bench across from Rev. We have the table to ourselves. Rain rattles the windows and the place is packed, but no one bothers us.
“You look like the grim reaper,” I say, because he does. His hoodie has a skeleton silk-screened on the chest and arms, and as usual, the hood is up.
“I think that’s the point.” He uncrumples the paper and reads. “‘Why is Dylan Thomas desperate?’ What is this?”
“English homework. That’s not the note I want to show you.”
He pulls a sandwich bag out of his lunch sack and slides it across the table. “More from your girl?”