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“Didn’t you hear what he said? He’s––”
“He’s not going anywhere, Say. He’s pissed, yeah. But even with whatever blowup that was in there, he still promised to stick around. Just give him some time to cool down.”
“Then what?” I choke out.
“Then we’ll figure it out. But for now, you need to calm down so we can get you to class.”
Shoving my hair away from my face, I drop my head back and stare at the ceiling. She’s right. I have to go to work and put on a happy face for my students.
Fan-freaking-tastic.
A very worried Skye watches me carefully, waiting for another breakdown.
“I’m fine,” I tell her.
“You sure?”
“Yup. Just peachy.”
“Okay.” She grimaces. “Do you want me to see if I can switch to your class today to help? I’m in Bullock’s class, but she saw what went down so––”
“It’s fine. I’m fine. Just…go.” I wave my hand toward the door.
“Say––”
“I’m serious,” I tell her. “I’ll be fine. I just need thirty seconds to myself, and then I’ll put on the same freaking mask that I’ve worn since the moment Owen left me after high school, and no one will be able to notice the difference.”
Her expression falls. “Say––”
“Just go.”
She chews on her lower lip, studying me carefully.
“Seriously, Skye. Go.”
With a quick squeeze, she disappears through
the door, and I take a deep breath.
Focus, Say. It’s gonna be okay.
I just don’t know if it will be.
As I rest my head against the closed door, the tardy bell rings across the halls like a bucket of ice water drenching my tired muscles.
Time’s up.
On Jell-O legs, I get to my classroom and paste a fake smile on my face before making the rounds between desks to catch up with my students’ lives. I always thought it was easier to spend five minutes doing it in the morning than to battle them every few minutes while trying to keep their attention focused on the curriculum. Unfortunately, I have a feeling today’s going to be more difficult than usual.
“Morning, everyone!” I call out, trying to keep my tone even and upbeat. “Did you guys have a good weekend?”
The dull ringing in my ears overwhelms their responses, but I nod every few seconds and add, “Ooo, that sounds fun,” every once in a while for good measure as I weave between their tables until a certain voice cuts through the noise.
“Right, Miss Swenson?”
I turn to the culprit, who’s sitting at his desk with the sweetest look of curiosity I’ve ever seen. “What was that, Grady?”
“I told Turner that the next one is called Attack of the Clones.”
