Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
“Hey, do you have an extra pencil?” Jameson whispered.
I stared at him in surprise for a second. I was pretty sure we hadn’t spoken at all since summer school began. Close-quarter eye contact with someone as physically perfect as Sky was jarring. I wasn’t a troll by any means; I just wasn’t special. I was five eleven with shaggy brown hair, brown eyes, and a medium build. I never thought twice about what I wore or what anyone thought about my looks. Maybe Jameson didn’t either, but that almost made it worse ’cause real people weren’t supposed to look that good. It was…disconcerting. And why was he staring at me? What did he want? Oh, yeah.
I eyed him warily as I grabbed a pencil from my bag and handed it over. “Here.”
“Thanks.”
I grunted in response and got to work. I whipped through the multiple-choice questions, then read the word problems carefully, writing down the formulas I thought applied. The first one was easy, but the second one didn’t compute. I mulled over possible formulas until I felt the weight of someone’s stare. I cast a curious glance sideways just as Jameson averted his gaze.
“Are you cheating?” I hissed in a low tone.
He frowned, looking toward Mr. J before turning back to me with a sly, lopsided grin that doubled as a slick “What are you gonna do about it?” I furrowed my brow and craned my neck unthinking to see which of my formulas he copied.
“Mr. Fischer, please turn your quiz in.”
I glanced up in confusion. “I’m not finished.”
Mr. J crooked his finger meaningfully, then pointed at his podium at the front of the classroom. The rush of heat to my face was instantaneous. I felt like I’d opened an oven door and couldn’t figure out how to close it fast enough. I was probably beet red and no doubt Mr. Jackoff would assume any flush of color was proof of my guilt.
Wrong. I was pissed.
I set the unfinished paper on the podium and did my best to get my anger under control so I wouldn’t say anything I might regret.
“You know the rules, Mr. Fischer. We have a zero-tolerance policy for cheating of any kind. Including wandering eyes,” he said in a smug, grating voice that made him sound like someone’s great-grandmother, which was funny ’cause I doubted he was thirty.
“My eyes weren’t wandering. Check the jock sitting next to me,” I replied loudly.
Mr. J narrowed his eyes sternly. “Take your seat, please.”
I chewed the inside of my cheek angrily as I returned to my desk. I walked up the far aisle to avoid not-so-accidentally crumbling Jameson’s test and shoving it down his throat. See? I had this anger thing under control.
I pulled my textbook out, practiced a few breathing exercises, and gave myself the same kind of pep talk I did before I hit the ice. You got this. Stay focused. Keep it together. And above all…don’t lose your shit.
It worked. I got lost in numbers and variables and even memorized a new formula. By the time the test was over and regular instruction began, I’d compartmentalized my issue with the dickhead seated to my right. I ignored him and concentrated on the boring lecture like it was the play-by-play highlights from overtime of game seven in the league championships. And trust me, it wasn’t.
The urge to gather my stuff and race to my car after class was strong. I told Elliot and the guys I’d meet them at the beach for a game of volleyball, but I figured I should maturely address the alleged cheating issue with the TA first. So I took my time, methodically stacking my notebooks and sliding them into my backpack as I watched Jameson with the cute brunette, aka Miss Smartypants, at her desk. He must have cracked a joke, ’cause she laughed hysterically, then followed him into the hallway. And he didn’t spare me a second glance. Fucker.
Probably for the best. My temper was still on a high simmer, and I doubted that would change until I got off campus.
“Mr. Fischer. What can I do for you?” the TA asked with a friendly grin, as though he’d forgotten about the quiz fiasco.
I didn’t bother trying to return the gesture. I had zero time or respect for phoniness in any form. Even a smile. I nodded curtly and got to the point.
“I’m not sure how you grade these quizzes, but I’m not taking this course to fail.”
He regarded me thoughtfully and let out a parental-sounding sigh.
“Don’t worry about the quiz. But I’d suggest you keep your eyes on your own paper in the future,” he warned, grabbing his briefcase from under the podium and heading for the door.
I gritted my teeth and hiked my backpack over my right shoulder just as my cell buzzed in my bag. I paused to check the incoming text from our team captain. Something about a change in the preseason practice schedule. I typed a quick reply as I made my way to the exit. Then I slipped my phone into my pocket and immediately ran into a human wall.