Jazzy’s main character syndrome flaring up again, I see.
As I walk to detention, I send my aunt a text telling her where I am and that I’ll take the late bus home. Of course she asks what I did to deserve it, and when I explain I triggered Healey’s ire by being five minutes late for homeroom, her response makes me snort out loud.
Maggie:Lordy! Janice Healey is just the worst, isn’t she?
Chase is already there when I walk in, holed up in the back of the room scrolling on his phone. Six other students take upresidence at their desks, either on their phones or whispering with each other. I guess I was the only sucker who thought to bring homework.
At the front of the room sits a bored-looking male teacher I’ve never seen before who doesn’t seem at all concerned about enforcing the no-phones-in-class policy.
Despite my better judgment, I take the seat next to Chase. He nods in greeting.
I don’t open my calculus textbook. Instead, I study Chase, tracking the movement of his long fingers gripping the phone. I like his hands. I think they’d be nice to photograph.
“What’s your deal, Ryan?”
His sudden query catches me off guard. “My deal?” I echo, amused.
“You’ve been in town for months now and nobody knows shit about you. About your life in Switzerland.”
I offer a casual shrug. “My family knows.”
“Okay, fine. But everyone else doesn’t.”
“Because it’s none of their business. I’m a private person.”
“Private. Right.”
“Oh, lay off it, Mr.Mysterious. Nobody knows much about you either. From the way you’re always skipping class, I can only assume you’re up to some nefarious shit.”
“Or…I have a job,” Chase says, rolling his eyes.
I falter. “You do?”
“I apprentice for the mechanic in town. And I don’t skip class—I have permission from the school to miss calculus sometimes so I can make it for my afternoon shifts, as long as I see the tutor twice a week and complete some extra credit.” He lets outan irritated breath. “My mom didn’t want me working my senior year, but money’s been tight, so I wanted to help out at home. She was starting to take on extra shifts and I didn’t like it. Mom already works too much. She’s a nurse.”
I can’t hide my surprise. “Really?”
My mom was a nurse too, I want to blurt out. I want him to see we have something in common. That I’m not this callous heartbreaker who showed up in town and hurt his best friend.
“Yeah. She’s been busting her ass ever since my dad died, takes as many shifts as she can. She’s tough.”
“Oh.”
“What,” he says sarcastically. “You assumed I came from some messed-up family?”
“What? No, I—”
“Because I ride a motorcycle and hook up at parties? Obviously, that means my dad’s a deadbeat and my mom’s a drunk, right?”
His words hit harder than they should, mostly because there’s truth in them. Ididmake assumptions.
A wave of guilt washes over me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to judge you like that.”
He shoots me a sideways glance, his features softening a little. “Whatever. I’m used to it.”
I chew on my bottom lip, unsure of what else to say. I guess I take too long to decide, because he lowers his gaze to his phone and proceeds to ignore me for the rest of the hour.
When we’re leaving detention, he surprises me by tipping his head toward me, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You want a ride home? My vehicle of death is right outside.”
