Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71967 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
I’m insulted he thinks so little of me.
I end up staying home again the following day. Monday, I tell myself. I’ll go to school on Monday.
On Friday, he hands Gracie a note to give to me. It says I should meet him in his office first thing Monday morning, so he can give me the notes I missed.
I stay home Monday too.
I know I’m going to transfer classes, but I also know that I’m still going to have to face him. If for nothing else other than so he can sign the transfer slip. I’m just so mad at myself because while mortified, I can’t get mad enough to hate him. I still just want him too damn much.
When Tuesday rolls around, Mom forces me to go to school (don’t think I didn’t try and stay home again). I slowly get out of bed and put on sweats and a T-shirt, not in the mood to wear something nice in the form of actual clothes.
I get to school minutes before the final bell rings and rush to math.
I don't even change for gym, since I'm already in good enough attire, and afterwards, my hair is still in the same messy bun that it stays in all day.
I have the transfer form in my bag. I just need his signature, and I’m a bundle of nerves by the time chemistry rolls around. I take my time after study hall and stop at my locker, even though I don't need to.
I get to class a few minutes late, and the entire class looks my way as I walk in. Mr. Harrington stops talking, but I don't pay attention, or look his way, as I settle in my seat.
Class is slow, and I have to force myself not to look at him, since doing so has been my natural instinct for such a long time. And really, who am I kidding, it still is. I’m dying to glance up, but my eyes never leave my notebook.
“Luci,” he calls just as he finishes his lesson. I brace myself to look at him for the first time in days. “You missed quite a lot when you were absent, so I'd like for you to stay after school.”
“I'm already staying after for math.” I wasn't really planning to, but I am now, not yet ready for our one on one. Not yet ready to say goodbye.
“Then when you're finished there,” he spits.
I ignore the snickers and low whispers from my peers as the bell rings. Looks like you’re no longer the teacher’s pet is the only thing I pick up as I leave.
I debate all of public speaking if I should just go home after school, but the truth is, I could use the math help after missing so many days.
I decide to simply stall, so maybe he won’t wait very long, and as planned, I leave my after school math session very late, hoping to avoid him completely. In fact, Mrs. Stalling all but kicks me out.
Unfortunately, it’s to no avail, as I see him pacing back and forth as I make my way up the stairs. The transfer form is weighing heavily on my shoulders in my bag and I know what I have to do. It’s for the best, really.
“Thought track practice ended,” I mumble, noticing he's still in his coaching uniform.
“This is the last week.” His tone matches mine, short and angry.
He starts walking, and when he realizes I’m not following, he calls after me. “You're feeling better.” He’s not asking, and the tone of his statement stings.
“I can get the notes from someone,” I sigh. “So I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I know he needs to sign the transfer form, but of course my heart suddenly has a mind of its own. I can’t bring myself to ask him. Ever. I know I can never change classes. I refuse to admit why, because deep down, on top of everything, I know I still want to see him tomorrow. And the day after that.
He keeps on walking, and I think I may be in the clear to go home.
Obviously, I shouldn’t think such stupid things.
“You’re not following me,” it comes out as an order, and I cringe, my feet automatically making their way towards him.
He holds his office door open for me as I step inside. There’s no sense in denying anything, and we have to get this over with at some point, so I throw my bag down and turn to face him, crossing my arms over my chest.
“I know you're worried I'll say something, but I won't.” I hear the door click shut, followed by the turn of the lock.
His bitter look transforming to needy, and I can’t help the desire that crashes into me.
“God you’re so much trouble,” his eyes soften. They’re almost gentle now, but a hint of severity still remains, torturing me. I lean back against the island, my eyes searching his as they dig a hole, deeper and deeper. “Do you know why I call you that?” He asks, and I shake my head no, the pounding of my heart ringing in my ears.