by Sarah Sutton
“So.” He drew out the word, reaching for his coffee tumbler, and I realized I hadn’t responded. I’d been too lost in my thoughts, consumed by the turmoil that was my life. “I saw Jeremy over at your house yesterday.”
I shifted in the passenger seat, knocking my boots together and watching the snow clumps fall. “He brought over homework.”
Elijah slowed down for a stop sign, brakes squeaking as the truck came to a halt. “How sweet of him.”
I didn’t tell him that he’d only done it because Mr. Valdez asked. I wanted to look away, to not see his expression, but my eyes were magnetized to him. His pale eyelashes caught the light, cute and wispy—wait, no. What? Ridiculous. Not cute, normal. Totally normal eyelashes.
“He asked me out on a date, too,” I said.
I waited for any instance of surprise, annoyance, agitation—something to prove that he cared about what I said—but Elijah only tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “And you said…?”
“We’re going to see a movie after school today,” I said.
“That’s great, Bean.”
Was it? Then why did I feel like throwing up all over my boots?
“We tell each other everything, don’t we?” he asked immediately, turning to glance at me. His mouth formed a firm line. “We’re best friends. You said so yourself: we’re best friends. We’re honest with each other.”
Am I going to forever live in this constant state of anxiety? “I—I guess so. Yes.”
“I think you and Jeremy are a great fit. I know you’ve been crushing on him for a while, but I think you two would be great.” He hesitated, still drumming his fingers. “Mr. Valdez actually gave me the homework.”
My eyebrows pulled together. “He gave it to you?”
“And I gave it to Jer. And I may…or may not have told him you have a crush on him. But it’s obvious he likes you too, so I thought I would move things along.” Elijah hunched his shoulders up, like he expected me to punch him. “I know, I know, I’m a jerk who broke friendship code.”
The fabric of my scarf felt choking at my throat, but I didn’t move to loosen it. “It’s okay,” I said, because it was. Everything had worked out. The pressure on my chest had nothing to do with the fact that Elijah had pushed us together, orchestrated the start of a relationship. It was just my too-tight scarf. “I should be thanking you, then. For being our matchmaker.”
“Exactly. Hey, speaking of being a matchmaker, I’ve always thought Casper Renner and Julia Ferrand would be cute together. What do you think?” Elijah looked over at me. “You okay, Remi? Awfully quiet this morning.”
“Yeah,” I said immediately, knocking my boots together again and looking out the window. The sun hadn’t begun to crest the horizon yet, leaving the world in a state of darkness. “Just have a little bit of a headache.”
Savannah lived on the higher end of Greenville, where houses were all three stories with gated backyards and frozen animal-shaped shrubbery. Elijah eased the truck into her paved driveway, turning to me. “I’ll go get her.”
You mean, you’ll go warn her I’m here. “Okay.”
I took the time to glance around the interior of the cab after he hopped out, moving across the snow-covered lawn. No trace of Terry remained—no gas station receipts, no cigarette lighters. There were a few art pencils rolling around, but I knew those were from Elijah. The smell of coffee from his mug hung in the air, warm and familiar.
I hugged my backpack closer on my lap, leaning my chin against it as I thought about this afternoon. When was the last time I’d been on a date? And how long had I been dreaming of going out with Jeremy? Hottie Jeremy. Guy I’d been crushing on forever. So why were there no butterflies at the idea of going out this afternoon, no thrill of anticipation? Why was there…nothing?
The driver’s side door popped open, as well as the door behind me, the interior lights glowing. Elijah climbed into the seat and immediately brought his seatbelt over his lap, cutting a glance my way. It seemed to linger, and I took it as my cue.
“Good morning, Savannah,” I said.
The girl in question poked her head between the seats, giving me a face-full of her freckles. I tried not to look at her expression too closely, afraid she’d be able to read my mind. “Morning, Remi. Oh, your makeup looks so good today. You must’ve woken up super early to do it.”
There was something passive-aggressive about her statement; I was sure of it. “It’s just mascara.”
“Well, it looks really good.”
Elijah put the truck in reverse, hooking his hand on the back of my seat to watch as he backed out. Five fingers, just inches away from the back of my head. Those same five fingers had pressed against the back of my neck before, gentle and— “Did we have a quiz today in physics?” I blurted out, desperate for any onslaught of conversation to distract myself. “I can’t remember.”
The rest of the ride, we talked about school, boring and unexciting, and I couldn’t help but notice the way Elijah’s hand kept twitching on the gearshift. While their words passed through my ears, I imagined what it’d be like to slip my fingers into his, and wondered whether his grip would be warm or cold.
By the time fourth period rolled around, I had my story down. I hadn’t completed my papier-mâché project, but I did have a great excuse and alibi ready, rehearsed and memorized.
Greenville High’s art teacher wasn’t as much of a free spirit as one might’ve thought. Her love for art was all internal, apparently, but none of it spilled into her outward appearance. She wore blazers, wide glasses and pencil skirts, and kept her hair slicked back into a tight bun. Definitely not artistic-looking at all. Elijah said that her personality was where her creativity stemmed from, but from her hostile words on Thursday, I didn’t think that was the case.
She sat at her desk as she looked up at me, no trace of happiness on her face. “Remi, I wanted to talk to you about your papier-mâché project.”
I looked at her innocently. “Mrs. Keller, did you hear that I had a concussion? This weekend was mandatory bed rest. Doctor’s orders. I can give you his number if you need it.”
“I did hear, and I also heard that it happened Thursday night. Plenty of time for your project to be finished.” Mrs. Keller blinked patiently at me, holding onto a pause. She put her hands on the desk, crossing her fingers and looking at me expectantly. With that devious glint in her eye, she looked more like a lawyer than an art teacher, or maybe a detective. “But you did good by asking Elijah to turn it in for you.”
Turn it in for—huh?
“He dropped it off before school Friday morning. But I was curious as to why you chose to paint it.”
“Um, painted…what exactly?”
Mrs. Keller’s expression remained neutral. “Your papier-mâché.”
Back up the bus. Elijah actually turned in a fake assignment? For me? He risked his own grade for me. Something in me just…melted. Like a bar of chocolate left in a hot car, it spread into a puddle of warmth. My stomach turned ever so slightly as the butterflies’ wings brushed alongside it, flipping it over.
I tried to squash the feeling, stamp it out like a flame beginning to form, and harness my poker face. “Um, you’re asking me why I was being creative…in an art class?”
“The assignment was to create something out of papier-mâché with only newspaper clippings. Not to paint it or add any sort of color. Yours was the only one that’d been painted. I’m asking you why you took an extra step that you didn’t have to, when all semester you’ve barely done the bare minimum.”
I flattened my palms along the surface of the desk, entering her space. “Listen, Mrs. K. I get that it’s kind of suspicious. But papier-mâché is really interesting to me, with the whole glue and newspaper technique. Super cool. Peeling the glue off my hands was practically my favorite part. I just felt…inspired.”
Mrs. Keller’s lips twitched a bit at that, and she leaned back, reaching for something underneath her desk. “I was
n’t suspicious until Elijah turned in his assignment.” In one swift movement, she set a medium-sized papier-mâché bowl on the surface of her desk. It wobbled from its uneven base. The words on the newspaper were smudged and see-through, only enough layers pasted on to keep the shape. “As you can see, not his best work.”
I stared at the crappy bowl with tunnel vision. “He did that?”
“Yes, and this was yours.” She placed another project beside the bowl, and it completely blew the dish out of the water. It was a mask, resembling the kind one would find at a party supply store, with a newspaper skin tone and dark holes for eyes and a mouth. But a river of paint cascaded down the cheeks from the eyes, beginning with a pastel blue before blending into a bloodred. The surface of the mask had been smoothed out perfectly, unlike the bowl’s, and it rested flat on the desk. “You can see why I’m curious, can’t you?”
A spark of irritation lit inside me, like a match kissing a candle, and I welcomed it with open arms. Irritation was good. “What are you saying?”
“I think you’re claiming Elijah’s work as your own to boost your grade. It’s very interesting that you turn in something at this level after I told you that if you failed this semester, you wouldn’t graduate.”
I tried to imagine what she’d say if she knew Elijah had made the crappy bowl too.
But seriously, what the freak was he thinking? Didn’t he think she’d question it? Sure, he didn’t know about my grade predicament, but this definitely didn’t do me any favors.
My answer was a psychologist’s approach. “Why would Elijah let me claim his project?”
“I’m assuming you told him about our conversation on Thursday.”
I glanced around at the room behind me, making sure no one tried to listen in. They all seemed to be engrossed in a new assignment. It was something to do with pottery, but I hadn’t listened when someone tried to relay to me the project’s requirements earlier. “Elijah doesn’t know I’m failing. No one does. I—I painted it because I thought it would give me extra points. Your speech scared me, Mrs. Keller. I have to graduate.”
See, here’s the thing with Mrs. Keller: she could kind of see through my bullcrap. I mean, I’m not that great at it anyway, but with her, it was like I didn’t even try. She had a detector for it or something.
So I had no idea why she didn’t call me out. She just leaned back in her seat, eyeing me the entire time. For a long moment, we had a stare-down. On the surface of her desk, my fingers trembled.
“The semester ends next Friday,” Mrs. Keller said finally. “Nine days to bring your fifty-six to a sixty. Which is very unlikely, Remi, since there is only one assignment left.”
Raising my grade four percentage points in less than two weeks would’ve been a sight to see, especially since it had taken me the entire semester to tank it.
Whoa, wait. Wait a second. Was she really saying that it was impossible I’d pass this semester—pass my senior year? Fine Art was going to keep me from graduating? “What about the papier-mâché grade?”
“Remi. Let’s cut it out. I may not have proof, but we both know you didn’t do that mask.”
My heart started to beat faster as desperation set in. “Is there a bonus assignment I could do? Extra credit? Anything?” Heck, I’d even donate my piggy bank to the art department if it meant it could save my grade.
“I can’t give you any extra opportunities that I’m not giving to any of the other students,” she said simply, coldheartedly, evilly. “It would be unfair.”
Everything around me dimmed for a moment as my blood pumped hard, emotion starting to tickle my throat and tear ducts. “So, what? You’re saying I’m going to fail this semester and that’s that?”
“You need to pass two semesters worth of Fine Art credits your senior year. This semester counts as one credit, and the spring semester counts as the second. Since you can’t take two classes of Fine Art in one semester, if you fail the one, it’s over.”
My brain hung on her words. Mrs. Keller was saying there was no way I could make up this class if I failed it. No way.
She was quiet for another long moment, drawing out my agony for as long as possible. Did teachers learn that in college, how to make their students almost pee their pants at the edge of their desks? Maybe she went to a different kind of teacher school, one that wrote grades down in students’ blood. “The student council is throwing the annual Snowflake Dance next Saturday night. Have you heard about that?”
Uh, hello, what senior hadn’t heard of the Snowflake Dance?
“Due to budget cuts, the art department and student council are in charge of making the displays and decorations this year, instead of going out and purchasing banners and decorations. That’s a lot of snow and ice for a handful of people to do in a short period of time. I’ve taken a list of volunteers, and those who choose to help are given two percentage points toward their semester grade.”
“But two percentage points—”
“The sculpture assignment we’re working on now counts for two points, since it’s essentially your final exam for this class. That will be due as well. I’m willing to bring your grade to a sixty if you’re willing to put in the work, Remi.” Mrs. Keller gave me a stern look behind her glasses. “Without cheating.”
“Deal,” I said immediately, nearly gasping the word out. “One hundred percent. What do I have to do?”
Mrs. Keller glanced at the clock on the wall. “The bell is about to ring. Meet me after last period and we’ll talk about what you can be in charge of.”
I nodded so fast that my ponytail shook, whipping around my head. A chance existed. I’d be able to bring up my grade just enough to graduate. It would totally wreck my GPA, but who cared? I would graduate.
I turned my back on her and headed back to my seat, doing a quick once-over and making sure that no one was paying attention to our conversation.
I used the cover of my hoodie to pull my cell from my pocket, trying to keep it hidden from Mrs. K, and shot out a quick text. You are so dead.
Chapter Nine
After last period, I swung back by Mrs. Keller’s room to pick up the templates she had prepared for me. I, Remi Grace Beaufort, was on snowflake patrol for the Snowflake Dance. Such an honor. It didn’t seem like a big deal until Mrs. Keller said that I needed to have 150 done by the dance. One hundred and fifty blue snowflakes needed to be cut out and covered in white glitter. She gave me the address to the craft store she frequented, as well as a couple of coupons for the glitter and the construction paper.
I didn’t know what I was going to do. One hundred fifty handmade snowflakes by next Saturday? It didn’t sound like a big deal—only thirteen snowflakes a day—but that was on top of other homework and midterms and the sculpture project we were working on now. And they were big snowflakes, twelve by twelve inches, that I had to cut out by hand.
Mrs. Keller had said no cheating, but would she really know? And what did cheating mean? Did that mean no help at all, or just don’t let anyone do them all for me?
I hooked my lock on the side of my locker and pulled out my backpack, sliding my math book inside. My teachers had been pretty accommodating, not loading me up with homework and giving me some extended deadlines. My headache worsened after fourth period—probably from all the stress. Not enough to have me call home, but enough that focusing was troublesome.
A shadow dropped over the edge of my locker, and I felt my stomach shift in a way that almost made me nauseous. I tried to take in a discreet breath, coaching myself to speak—
“Are you going to pretend I’m not here?”
Yeah, my stomach dropped again, but for a whole new reason. “I didn’t realize it was you,” I said finally, glancing up from the depths of my locker to stare him in the eye.
Elijah’s expression appeared strangely somber as he looked down at me, light blond hair curling into his eyes. I never noticed how much of a wave his hair held before, but a hot flash of a memory worked i
ts way over me. My fingers tightened instinctively as I remembered how his locks felt against my skin, how I tugged on the ends to bring his mouth closer to mine. And the noise he made in response…
“Who did you think I was?” he asked.
I didn’t answer that question. Instead, I faced my locker, trying to convince myself that my fingers weren’t shaking. “I’m mad at you.”
“I figured, since I got a death threat during fourth hour.” He leaned against the lockers, smiling a little. “I’m assuming Mrs. Keller talked to you about your papier-mâché.”
“Yeah, the stupid papier-mâché I didn’t even know that I did. Why on earth would you give me yours?” I demanded, my voice pitching high as I turned and slapped him on the shoulder. “Of course she would question it—were you not using your brain?”
“I thought she’d just think I coached you to perfection is all.”
“Yeah, except the piece you said was yours was absolute garbage.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners as he watched me. “Yeah, fine, I didn’t think that through.”
“No kidding. It’s not funny.” I tried to hold onto that annoyance, I really did, but as I looked at him, the first thing I focused on was his mouth. He bit the edge of his bottom lip, eyes flicking down the hallway with an attentive gaze. I wanted to say something like, if you keep biting your lips, Savannah’s not going to want to kiss them, but what would’ve once been an easy sarcastic comment now felt entirely different. “Are you looking for your girlfriend?”
Elijah’s teeth left his lip. “No. Why?”
Because I need to remind myself that this is wrong, and you have a girlfriend. Because I need to remind myself that my Elijah detox worked, and any leftover feelings are some sort of weird transference attraction meant for Jeremy. That’s all. “No reason. How’s your entry for the county contest coming? The deadline’s almost here.”
Elijah seemed to relax a little, the tension seeping from his shoulders. “It’s coming along. Slowly but surely.”