They walked out. I waited before I went to AP History. If I timed it right, I’d get to my desk before Mr. Stewart walked in, but not be in there long enough to have to talk to anyone—especially Michael.
I got to my desk before Mr. Stewart, as planned. Michael was talking to the person on the next aisle as I sat down in front of him.
“Holy crap, Jason,” he said in a voice that carried over the pre-class conversation hum. “What’d you do? Stop a fist with your face?”
The room went so quiet I could hear the blood in my ears.
“Mind your own damn business.” The venom in my voice would etch glass.
Michael clapped my shoulder like we were the best of friends and I’d just ranked him.
Something stopped me from knocking his hand away. Maybe because if it looked like we were playing, then my face wasn’t a big deal and they would stop noticing.
Or at least stop talking about it.
Mr. Stewart walked in sipping a soda. He went behind his podium and squinted out at us. “You’re all being quiet today.” He smiled. Then his eyes snagged on me. “Okay, everyone, your work is on the board. Get going.”
Papers shuffled as people began writing their answers.
I closed my eyes.
“Jason. Good to see you back. Do you have an excuse?”
He was the first teacher to ask.
I walked up to the podium, pretending I didn’t feel the eyes of every damn person following me. I handed over the note, stapled to the office slip. Went back to my desk and watched him through my hair.
He made a few marks in his attendance book and then read the note. He sighed, squinting back at me.
I looked out the window. A custodian was slapping a dripping paintbrush over a shoddy, spray-painted anatomy lesson.
After the bell work was done, Mr. Stewart began lecturing. I probably would have been interested, might have even listened, except a headache started and my eyes were so sandy dry I could strike matches off them. I wished I’d taken another migraine pill at lunch, like Janie had told me to.
I let my eyes close, but I couldn’t drift off. Michael’s presence behind me, poised like a scalpel, kept me awake.
The bell finally rang. Kids shoved their things in bags and headed out to last period. I stood up. Grabbed my notebook.
Michael slid up beside me like a friend. “Don’t worry.” His voice was soft. “I’ll think of a way to take care of your problem, too.”
“Jason. Stay a minute, will you?” Mr. Stewart frowned at us.
“See you after practice.” Michael sauntered out the door.
Like I was going to wait around for him.
I walked up to Mr. Stewart, keeping my eyes down.
“Look at me, Jason.”
Any other teacher would have to wait for hell to freeze first. Any other teacher would’ve let me go on through the door without scrutinizing my face or the note too closely.
I looked at him, cut my eyes away fast.
“Here”—he held out some papers—“these are the notes from the three days you missed.” I reached out to take them, but he didn’t let go.
“Damn it, Jason.”
The curse caused my eyes to flit back to his face. He was staring at my hand. He grabbed my wrist, turning the palm up.
The notes spilled onto the floor.
I yanked my hand away.
“What the—” I bit off the curse that rose when he’d grabbed me.
“I’m supposed to believe you fell out of a truck?”
My chin snapped up and out. “Yes.”
“And yet your palms don’t have a mark on them. Your arms don’t have a scratch. But your face looks like you went a few rounds with a prizefighter.”
I shrugged. My eyes dared him.
“Jason.” His tone caught my eyes again—like bugs flying into a web. “I know.”
I shook my head. “What?”
“You didn’t fall out of a truck.”
“Yes. I did.”
He sighed, stooped, and picked up the pages. He turned and handed them to me. “You don’t have to do this. You can let me help you. There’s help to be had. Ways to get out—”
I must’ve laughed, because he stopped talking. He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose like his eyes hurt. “Take a chance, son.” His voice was soft. “Let me help.”
The only thing worse than a bully is an ignorant do-gooder. I walked to the door.
He followed like a kid sister. “I’m not the only one who knows, Jason. I’m ashamed to say, I didn’t notice like I should have, until your friend came to talk to me. We’re worried—”
I whirled on him, hands bunched. “Who? What the hell are you talking about?”
Was it Michael or Cyndra? Or someone else?
“I have to report this. I have to call the police—”
“Don’t do me any favors. You’ll make it worse.”
“Jason, it can’t get worse.”
My arms drew in. If he said another word, I’d hit him.
He saw it. Wasn’t completely ignorant of my past, then. Wise teacher.
I walked down the hall.
Mr. Stewart didn’t follow.
I went to study hall and sat, staring at nothing. When the last bell rang, I walked through the interior of the school toward the old gym. I would get the money out of the glove and leave before Michael or the others could find me. I figured I wouldn’t run into anyone because of football and cheer practice.
The hell with it. With them. Cyndra and Michael. With Mr. Stewart’s heart-in-the-right-place. With love and concern or game playing. Whatever it was. The hell with it all.
No one was around, and the money was still in the glove. I shoved it into my pocket and walked back into the afternoon sunshine.
“Hi.” Cyndra stood beside the door.
I waited.
She stepped closer. A hand fluttered near my face. “Sorry.” Like she had anything to do with it.
Maybe she did.
“I’m fine.” I shook out a cigarette and lit it, facing the security camera, thinking it’d be a relief to be sent to in-school suspension.
“Did you get my note?”
“You mean the one-sentence one? Yeah.” I hoped I didn’t sound like I felt.
“I can explain.” She took a step closer. Her hand landed on my arm.
I took a step back, still feeling the heat of her touch. “You don’t owe me anything.”