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The teacher—whose name I hadn’t asked for because I wouldn’t remember it, anyway—coughed lightly to get my attention. “I’m Mrs. Martin, your homeroom teacher. Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Walton and take the seat behind Miss O’Connell.”
As I stepped toward her desk, the girl finally looked out from her textbook and behind the curtain of her dark hair peeked the lightest and most beautiful hazel eyes I’d ever seen. So beautiful, I froze. “Hi.” I heard myself say then swallowed hard to keep the next thing I was about to say from spilling out. You’re beautiful stayed safely in my throat. I looked away and sat down behind her.
What the hell is going on? I asked myself, rifling through my backpack. Get a grip, man. You’re never like this with girls. You’re Henry-freakin'- Walton. I opened my notebook and wrote my name in the top corner of the first sheet of paper for no reason other than to have something else to do besides think about this girl.
She’s just a tutor. I reminded myself as I checked the clock above the teacher’s desk. Another brainy kid who’ll get paid to do your homework, so you can pass your classes and not embarrass the Walton name.
“Mr. Walton,” the teacher called out. “Here’s your textbook. Please come and get it.”
Dragging my loafers across the polished wood flooring to be sure the teacher knew how little I cared about anything that had to do with school, I grabbed the book off her desk and turned to face the class, being sure I had everyone’s undivided attention—except Tutor Girl who’d gone back to reading—and rolled my eyes as loud as possible, so they knew I didn’t give a crap about school, either. Just because I’d changed schools didn’t mean I’d changed my opinion about what a waste of time it was.
A kid with a bowl cut in the back row laughed, and I thought for a second about scratching the itch I’d had to start a fight all morning because I knew that’s the only way for kids to know not to mess with the new guy. Then, I looked over at her—the girl with the hazel eyes—and figured it wasn’t worth getting suspended if it meant missing our first tutoring session.
We hadn’t even spoken, and Grace O’Connell had already changed me.
Homeroom droned on for the next hour, and Ms. Martin—as she reminded me each time I blurted out, “Hey lady!"—announced at the end of class, “Henry and Grace, meet me in my office at lunch.” She slipped on her book bag and scooted off to her next class, slipping by the math teacher who was on his way in.
Grace gave Ms. Martin a sharp look then snapped her head around in my direction like it was my fault she had to spend her lunch hour with me. I gave her a little smile to let her know I was sorry, but she quickly looked away when our eyes met.
Our math teacher—another name I won’t learn—was tall with black-framed classes he must’ve bought From Nerds R Us.
“Hey scholars!” He said with far too much enthusiasm for a dude who teaches math to a bunch of sixteen-year-olds who could care less. “Ready to get your trigonometry on?” He flipped two thumbs up then laughed at his own joke.
I looked around to see if anyone was as annoyed as I was and caught the eye of a kid with a bowl cut in the back of the classroom. Watch this, I mouthed to him and snickered. I tore out the sheet of paper I’d written my name on and scrunched it into a ball that I lobbed at the teacher’s skinny, giraffe neck.
Startled and red-faced, the teacher shot a look to the class and hollered in a stern voice, “Alright, who just did that?”
Because I’m not a coward and know teachers don’t take on Waltons, I raised my hand and gave him a wry smile and a shoulder shrug. “You got me, Mr. Trig. I did it.” I leaned back and folded my arms across my chest defiantly, a challenge that he could meet but probably should ignore.
I looked over my shoulder at bowl cut and the other boys in the back of the room and knew I’d earned their approval, even though I didn’t really care or need it. Then, Grace turned around in her seat and shook her head at me, and I realized that although she definitely had a different effect on me than other girls, I had some habits that were too automatic to break that quickly.
I had decided earlier that morning to do what I had to do to force my parents to send me back to Brixton, but this girl had gotten in the way of those plans. I wanted my parents to get a call before lunch from the headmaster who’d tell them, “While we appreciate all you’ve given to Riverview Academy, we are not sure it’s a good fit for young Mister Walton. We think Brixton is the better choice.”
My shoulders dropped, and I sank down in my seat—stuck between a rock and a hard place. Do I act like the jackass I’d planned to be and get back to my friends at Brixton before the weekend, or do I let this girl I don’t even know to keep me from seeing my old friends ever again?
“You’re new,” the math teacher stated the obvious with a frown. “Please stand up and tell us your name, son.”
I sighed loudly then stood up, rolling my shoulders back and lifting my chin. “Walton. Henry Walton.” Replying with all the confidence in my father’s wallet, I waited for the teacher to say my last name in his head a few times before realizing that I was the same Walton that’s in giant letters on the sign in front of the gymnasium, the same Walton on the wooden statue of Einstein outside the science building, and the same Walton that’s engraved on the bronze plaque hanging on the brick wall of the Billionaire’s Block—the largest and nicest dormitory on campus that houses the tenured teachers and the children who are legacies at Riverview Academy.
His long, thin face wrinkled up and he nodded that he suddenly realized who I was.
Bingo. I thought to myself and nodded back, like a handshake between the two of us. He now knew the rules he was playing by that I would never have to learn. “I don't like standing much, Mr. Trig. You okay if I sit now?” I asked but didn’t wait for his reply and sat on top of my desk with my legs crossed.
He looked at me in bewilderment and slowly shook his head. “That’s extremely inappropriate Henry. If you want to sit with your legs like that, you can head down to detention.”
I snickered and my head fell back in a peal of laughter. “You wouldn't dare, sir.”
“Get out of my class,” he snapped and pointed toward the door.
I stared at him, expressionless. I could see the helplessness on his face, hoping I’d do as he said and not push him any further than I already had. The other students’ whispers encouraged me to see just how far I could take this. So, I gave one last nudge to the nerd with the pocket protector. “My parents are the largest donors at Riverview. I’m sure you wouldn't want me to tell them you kicked their son out on the first day for a tiny bit of paper that landed on you instead of in the trash can where I was aiming, would you?”
The teacher's face was flushed red with embarrassment, and I couldn’t help but giggle a little. “Return to your seat,” he muttered.
I turned but then stopped and stared at him.
“What?” he asked.
“I like standing, actually.” I shrugged. “I think I’ll stay here.”
