Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
I take a breath and look at Sybil, who’s glaring at Mr. Carter like she’s tempted to say something she’ll regret.
“Don’t bother.” I nudge her in the side. “It isn’t worth it.”
“We need to do something,” she whispers.
I wait until we file out of the doorway and onto the quad before I respond. “I think I should just withdraw from his class. It’s clear he doesn’t like me, and if I stay, he’s probably going to fail me.”
“Ugh, I hate him.” Sybil pouts. “It’s so unfair. That’s the only class we have together. But I think you’re right. Maybe you should go to the office now and talk to an advisor. They can give you a late pass for the next class.”
I nod in agreement, and we hug our goodbyes, going in separate directions. The administration building always has at least one student advisor hanging around during the day to chat with, and though it’s typically by appointment, I’m hoping they will make an exception in my case. When I arrive, the woman at the front desk greets me and checks the schedule upon my request.
“I think Mrs. Hart can speak with you for a few minutes. Come with me and we’ll see.”
I follow her around the counter and into the office where Mrs. Hart resides at her desk, tapping away at her keyboard.
“Cacey, do you have a moment to speak with Miss LeClaire regarding her schedule?”
Mrs. Hart checks the time on her watch and nods, gesturing for me to sit down. “Sure.”
The other woman leaves, and the door remains open while Mrs. Hart stares at me in question. “What can I help you with, Stella?”
“I wanted to see if it was possible to withdraw from my AP Research class and transfer to something comparable.”
“Hmm.” She adjusts her glasses. “Let me check.”
I wait quietly while she clicks around my file and studies the class schedules.
“I’m afraid all the other AP classes are full. And I would highly advise that you stick with it if you can, since it looks like your career path is noted as a communications major. Is that still your plan for college?”
“Yes,” I admit. “I’m trying to get into Cornell.”
Or at least, that’s what I’m supposed to do.
“Well, you’ll need all the help you can get. Every detail makes a difference on an application. Can I ask why you want to withdraw from Research? It looks like you’ve already completed the first year of Seminar for the Capstone program. It might not work in your favor to quit halfway, as colleges are likely to notice.”
I bite my lip and squeeze my hands together in my lap, fighting my reluctance to betray Mr. Carter, even though he’s an ass.
“It’s nothing,” I assure her. “I think I’m just overreacting. It’s all a little overwhelming for me.”
“Okay.” She tilts her head to the side, studying me. “I know Mr. Carter can be tough on his students, but I assure you he’s an excellent teacher. He does have office hours too, if you need extra help. You’ll be well educated in his class if you can hang in there.”
“I’m sure I will.” I swallow and stand. “Thank you, Mrs. Hart.”
She smiles, and I move for the door, only to have my heart sink into my stomach when I see Mr. Carter standing in the office. And judging by the scowl on his face, he heard everything.
CHAPTER TEN
SEBASTIAN
AS FRIDAY DRAWS TO AN END, my irritation increases by the second. My father has called me an additional six times this week, which is unusual, even for him. I still haven’t responded, but I am questioning his sudden urgency to speak with me. Three of his latest letters rest in the bottom of the garbage can, and I have no desire to open those either.
In addition to that annoyance, Stella LeClaire is challenging my last nerve. I have to give her credit, she’s more resilient than I anticipated. Every day, she shows up on time for class, and every day, I find new ways to humiliate her. On Wednesday, I threw her sorry excuse for notes in the trash and told her to try again. On Thursday, I taped her assignment to the whiteboard as an example of what not to do. I gave her extra homework. I asked her impossible questions and challenged her at every turn. And still, she has not cracked. She remains as stoic as the day she walked out of the office after the little traitor tried to escape me.
In detention, she doesn’t bother to doodle in her journal anymore. She does her homework in silence and leaves. She only speaks when spoken to and never asks to use the restroom. Her devotion to perfectionism is getting on my last nerve, and it’s written all over my face as I glare at her from across the room.