Breakable

I swallowed thickly and shook my head. ‘No. I mean, yeah, you can come over.’

Had I just invited Melody Dover to my house – where I had no real bedroom? Was I a total jackass? Yes and yes. But I couldn’t take it back. And I couldn’t get the idea of her in my bedroom – which was really a bed and nothing else – out of my head.

I leaped out of bed this morning, the first time my phone sounded an alarm. The sudden storm hastened the already rushed pace I’d set when I walked out the door, so I arrived way early – ten minutes before the first bell. Students weren’t usually allowed inside the building until first bell, but it was raining. They’d look like total dicks making us stand around outside.

My shoes squeaked against the linoleum, echoing in the near-empty hallways, and I knew without glancing back that I was probably leaving a trail of watery footprints. My strident footfalls were loud enough that I didn’t hear anyone come up behind me, and I was so distracted thinking about second-period geography that my usual self-preserving instincts were muted.

‘Take a dip in the ocean, Maxfield, or just piss yourself?’

I didn’t stop or turn, but I also didn’t run. Something about rabid animals and power-hungry ass**les makes them chase what runs.

He grabbed my backpack and I almost shrugged out of it and kept going, but something wouldn’t let me kneel that far. I jerked round to face him and of course, he was flanked by two friends. He was almost as soaking wet as I was.

‘What do you want, Wynn?’ I sounded more composed than I felt. My heart was hammering, but I wasn’t shaking visibly.

‘What do I want?’ He stepped closer, the strap of my backpack still caught in his fist, the muscles in his neck bulging and his nostrils flaring like a bull on the verge of charging. ‘I want to make you pay for that little stunt in auto shop. I want to bring the pain and make you bleed and cry like the little bitch you are.’

I narrowed my eyes. The hell. ‘You might be able to make me bleed, but you’ll never make me cry. Crying is for cowards who can’t fight without the help of their bitches.’ I indicated his mates with a jerk of my chin, and they bristled. One of them growled.

Then a teacher rounded the corner. She slowed a bit, like she was assessing the details of the scene from a distance before judging what was taking place.

Wynn dropped my strap and sneered. ‘I’ll be watchin’ you, assface. There won’t always be someone around to save you from the whoppin’ you deserve.’ He bumped my shoulder as he passed.

LUCAS

I checked my email, expecting nothing important. Mostly, I planned to scrap the draft to Jackie about dropping the class, since that no longer applied. I did delete that message – but not for the expected reason.

Two emails stood out from the half dozen others, as if they’d been highlighted. One was from Heller – subject line: Jacqueline Wallace. The other … was from JWallace.

I opened Heller’s first.

Landon,

The above referenced student is currently enrolled in the econ section you tutor. She’s missed a couple of weeks of class, unfortunately including the midterm. She intends to salvage her grade, and to that end, I’m allowing her to replace the midterm grade with a research project (information attached). I’ve given her your email address and told her she must contact you to get started. Before your sense of justice goes into overdrive, know that the project will require quite a bit more work than the missed exam, so she’s not escaping easily. (Neither am I, since I’ll have to grade the damned thing when she’s finished. She’s apparently suffered something comparable to Carlie’s recent trouble, though, and after watching my daughter self-destruct a bit before finally bobbing back to the surface, I have renewed sympathy for emotionally distressed students.) I imagine she’ll need individual tutoring to catch up on the new material before the third exam. If she fails to do what I’ve asked of her, she’ll simply receive whatever grade she’s earned at the end of the semester. I’m requesting that you assist her insofar as your tutoring duties extend, but she must complete the work alone. Hopefully she’ll give her academic career precedence over some idiot boy in the future.

CH

I reread Heller’s email. Twice.

She and Moore were broken up, but she hadn’t dropped the class.

She was no longer Moore’s girlfriend, but she was still my student.

She’d nearly thrown a gear when she saw me across the counter at the Starbucks this afternoon – which didn’t exactly indicate awareness that the guy who’d beat up her assailant Saturday night was also the tutor in her economics class. My email address was an ambiguous LMaxfield.

‘Son of a bitch,’ I said to Francis, earning me a yawn combined with a meow.

I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t care.

But I did.

Dear Mr Maxfield,

Dr Heller told me to contact you regarding a research project for macroeconomics that he wants me to complete. I missed two weeks of class after an unexpected breakup, which means I also missed the midterm. I know that doesn’t excuse me for skipping classes, however. I’ll do my best to complete the project and catch up on the new material as quickly as possible. Please let me know when you’re available and what additional information you need from me.

Thank you,

Jacqueline Wallace

I shot an answer back immediately, informing her that I didn’t need to know the reasons she’d skipped class, and suggesting when and where we could meet.