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I couldn’t care less about keeping up with currentwho likes who, who hates whodrama. But basketball is one of the few things that matters to me. I won’t pursue anything that might negatively affect that. I pass both girls and head for the back of the classroom without a word.
Grace glances back at me, her arms crossed, and her eyes narrowed. I assume she’s irritated I never responded to the million texts she sent me this past weekend asking where I was and what I was doing. Questions I’m as unwilling to answer as she is to stop asking, apparently.
I slouch in a seat in the very back row and tap a pencil against the desk as the principal drones through the morning announcements. Finn kicks my chair from his spot next to mine as Principal Stevens starts reading off the day’s birthdays. “What are we doing for yours?” he asks.
“It’s during the senior trip,” I reply. “We’ll be in New York.”
“Exactly. You only turn eighteen once, man. We’re going all out.” Finn waggles his eyebrows. There’s a hell of a lot more to do there than in Pembrooke.
I shake my head and smile.
Mrs. Berwick begins taking attendance. “No hats inside, Mr. Adams,” she tells me when she reaches my name.
I toss my baseball cap on the desk and run a hand through my short hair. Lacie Williams is sitting on my other side. Her brown eyes widen as she spots the bruise on my cheek. I wink at her. She blushes before looking away to focus on the class discussion about some Shakespeare play.
I slide down lower in my chair and yawn, wishing the day was over already.
The final bell rings. It’s a loud, annoying chime. But right now, it sounds like the sweetest sound in the world.
I shove the paper we just got back into my textbook and slide it into my backpack. Stand and sling one strap over a shoulder before heading toward the door.
“Holden. Wait a minute.”
I sigh and stop, playing with the strap of my backpack as I walk over to Mrs. Golden’s desk. An ironic last name if you ask me. Everything about her is dark. The navy dress. The black hair. The stern expression on her face.
She has the decency to wait until the last student files out of the room, at least.
“A D was generous,” she states. “You were three thousand words short of the word count and didn’t cite a single source.”
The strap digs into my palm as my grip tightens. “I was in a rush. I’ll do better on the next one.”
“You know what the student athlete policy is. You’re close to failing this class, Holden.”
I hold in a gush of air before exhaling. This was the first essay of the semester, meaning it’s currently the bulk of my grade. “I know the policy, yeah.”
“I haven’t seen anything to give me the confidence you’re capable of making improvements on your own. If you want to be eligible to play, you’ll need to work with another student and hand in a new copy of this paper.”
My molars grind. “I don’t need a tutor. I’m not stupid.”
“I don’t think you’restupid, Holden. I think you’re unfocused and unmotivated. The student I have in mind is one of the brightest I’ve ever taught. I have full confidence she’ll be able to help you manage a passing grade.”
I don’t miss the pronoun. I sigh, annoyed Mrs. Golden is insisting, but the girls at this school generally are falling all over me. If it will get Mrs. Golden to pass me and allow me to play, I can handle it. “Fine.”
The classroom door creaks open. I glance over automatically, then do a double take. Cassia gives me a small, tentative smile before shifting her gaze to Mrs. Golden. “Sorry to interrupt. I can wait in the hall.”
“No need,” Mrs. Golden says. “This is perfect. I was just letting Holden know you’ll be helping him out on the essay.”
My head whips back toward Mrs. Golden so quickly my neck cracks. “What?”
Mrs. Golden isn’t paying attention to me any longer. She’s handing Cassia a folder and pointing out lines on a document. The haze of surprise starts to lift. The papers she’s giving Cassia are the syllabus. The prompt for the paper I just got back. “…let you decide where to start,” she’s saying.
And then we’re being dismissed. Another student shows up—some wide-eyed freshman asking for help on a European history quiz.
Blindly, I follow Cassia into the hallway. It’s half-empty by now. The final bell rang about ten minutes ago. If practices had started up yet, I’d be running late.
Cassia turns to the left. Without thinking, I grab her arm, stalling her in place. She spins around, eyes wide and expression stunned.
I avoid touching her.
