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Chris slouched in the back of the classroom, drawing a pattern along the margin in his notebook.
He’d forgotten she was supposed to be his History partner.
Maybe he should ditch. He still had time before the bell. He’d seen her in English Lit, the way she sat across the room and avoided his eyes. Her shoulders had been hunched, her torso twisted deliberately away from him.
Good.
The thought made him wince. She’d looked exposed, moving like someone had a sniper rifle trained on the center of her back. His fault—all of it. It made him want to take her by the hand, lead her into a corner, and offer reassurance. But keeping his distance was better. She’d be safer. The last thing she needed was to be seen whispering with him.
But maybe he could talk to her now. She’d be close, a captive audience for an hour. He remembered the way she’d smelled on Friday, like almonds and vanilla, from lotion or shampoo or something.
Yeah, on second thought, he should definitely ditch.
But she appeared in the doorway of the classroom, dark hair pouring across one shoulder. Her movements were still tight and controlled, but some of the tension had leaked away.
That Hunter guy was walking behind her.
No, wait. With her.
Whatever. Chris dropped his head and sighed, sketching a cube on the lined paper. He’d just started a pyramid when he felt someone watching him.
He looked up. Becca was headed his way, her jaw tight, looking anywhere but at him. Chris shifted his gaze. Hunter was glaring at him, his eyes dark.
Chris could read that look like a book. The guy’s posture had a whole monologue going. Don’t screw with her. Don’t talk to her. Don’t even breathe in her direction. Get me?
Chris gave him the finger.
“Mature.” Becca dropped into the seat next to him and flung her backpack to the ground.
A lot of force hid behind that movement. It made him pause. “You all right?”
“I’m great.” She yanked a notebook out of her backpack. Then a pen. All this aggression was throwing spots of pink on her cheeks.
She didn’t turn her head. “Stop looking at me.”
He jerked his eyes away. Now his cheeks felt hot.
Beamis swept into the room. “Good afternoon, class. Thank you for your patience. Today we’ll be comparing the Treaty of Versailles with the Treaty of Paris, and how they immortalized the fall of two of the greatest powers in Europe’s ...”
Chris felt his attention drift. He couldn’t look right, because Becca was sitting there.
To his left, Tommy Dunleavy was sneaking glances at Becca, a smirk on his lips. A piece of paper was folded between his fingers. He glanced furtively at Beamis, clearly waiting for his chance.
Chris gave him a wordy glare of his own. Try it, dickhead.
Tommy glared back—but he backed down and crumpled the piece of paper when Chris didn’t look away.
Typical.
A pen knocked against his knuckles, and Chris swung his head around. Becca was staring straight ahead, at the board, but she tapped her pen on her notebook.
He looked down.
There’s another pentagram on my door.
He didn’t doubt it. She could paint over it twenty times and they’d put another one up there. He wrote the only thing he could think of.
Sorry.
