Page 6 of Irish Betrayal

Discreetly, of course. Though honestly, the kids in STEM are here to learn, not to make fun of the super, SUPER, tiny deaf girl.

Mom said that the best things come in small packages—she would say that. She’s tiny too. Which means I don’t have a lot of hope that I’ll grow.

And don’t get me started on my figure. My best friends always tell me that I’m perfect. They said that it doesn’t matter if I’m petite. My mom was small, she found my dad, and he’s “Soooooo handsome.”

Gag. Seriously, gag.

Still, it gives me hope.

Gotta go. Rowan, River, and Raven are making me, Mags, Gray, and Bébhinn popcorn and slushies for movie night, and I still need to study my notes for classes tomorrow.

PS~ Today was the last day of classes. And something weird happened. Kind of weird, like not a huge deal or anything.

I’m probably being a baby. I’m twelve, not two, for crying out loud.

Anyway, I’ll just write it here and forget it.

So, Peter asked me to find him after my last class today (mathematics, so boring). All the other kids had gone to the cafeteria, where the staff was providing treats, and to discuss everyone’s favorite things they’d learned this year.

I really wanted to go, but I would never say no to Peter. I finally found him in the small tropical greenhouse. I felt prickles of gross sweat instantly dot my forehead.

Peter was repotting five Ficus lyrata—Fiddle Leaf Figs. They’re native to Africa’s Congo Basin, the second largest tropical rainforest in the world!

Peter immediately starts explaining that because the Fiddle Leaf Figs need high humidity, bright indirect light, and warm temperatures, they are currently his biggest challenge to keep them thriving.

I already knew all that, but my parents told me it’s rude to interrupt. I didn’t have anything to say anyway because Peter wasn’t wearing a SHIRT. I know he’s a guy and they always have their shirts off, but he’s my TEACHER, and he isn’t my DAD or BROTHER or Bébhinn’s brothers!

I try to concentrate on why he’s repotting the Fiddles. As he explains the process, which again I already know—hello—my mom owns a gazillion greenhouses. I pulled a hair band from my wrist and, with a whispered prayer to the hair gods, I wrangled my curls into submission.

It didn’t work, but it was off my sweaty neck. Mostly.

Anyway, Peter then explained that for my last task, he wanted me to successfully replant three of the plants and that he would put a special note in my file that would help me continue to get chosen for the program.

That was good, except that I didn’t think I needed the extracurricular to be considered again, but…maybe.

I was about to start the process for myself after watching him do the second pot transfer when he told me that I should take my shirt off.

MY SHIRT!

He said that it was “hotter than hell” in the hothouse and that it would also save my shirt from getting dirty. He didn’t have any aprons small enough for me—that was embarrassing. But he did tell me that he preferred to go shirtless while he worked and not to worry. He said the girls at the gym wore a lot less than that.

I was wearing a sports bra even though I didn’t really need one, except that I do have nipples and they do get too pointy at times.

I tried to act nonchalant, but I know very well I looked like a hot, sweaty, red-cheeked hedgehog.

So, I did it. I took my shirt off. He didn’t even look at me and went back to work on his laptop, which made me more comfortable. And he was right. Women did wear a lot less at the gym.

And I’m just a young girl. So, it didn’t really matter anyway.

four

DANIEL O’FAOLAIN

Oklahoma. America. Every muscle in Daniel’s body was locked tight. His heart was screaming at him to confront Blair.

Why are you avoiding me?

Why don’t you look at me like you used to?