“Have you slept at all?” I scan him, worry tugging an invisible string in my heart. He looks like complete shit. His eyes are red, and his skin looks clammy.
“I’m fine. Mind your business.”
Ryan is fidgety on the way to school, tapping his handlebars at every stoplight and jiggling his knee. Even when he pulls into the West Point parking lot, he can’t seem to get me off his bike fast enough, and he takes off before I can even mutter a ‘thank you’. He seems nervous. Paranoid, almost, with the way his eyes dart around, constantly surveying his surroundings.
After first period, I can’t find Christian anywhere, so I head to second period early. When I see that Mr. James is the only one there, I rethink my decision. I stop short in the doorway and hesitate a minute being turning around to leave.
“Come in, Miss Stringer. Have a seat,” he says casually, not giving any indication if Friday made things weird for him or not.
“I, uh, didn’t know you’d be here already,” I say lamely.
He gives me a brisk nod before returning his attention to his laptop.
I make my way to my desk and notice that our papers from last class are graded and waiting. I spot the B minus on mine and roll my eyes. That was an A paper, no doubt. I flip to the second page and notice a sticky note attached that reads:
Remington,
If you ever find yourself in trouble.
702-639-0628
Holy. Shit. My teacher just gave me his number. Part of me wants to do a happy dance in my desk, but my giddiness dies when I realize that it’s for all the wrong reasons. Or, I guess, the right reasons. He feels sorry for me.
“What the hell is this?” I ask, waving the note attached to my finger.
“It’s exactly what it says it is. You don’t seem to have a parent around. Your source of transportation is your unreliable, unstable stepbrother. And you live in the roughest part of Vegas.”
“And? That’s your business, how?” My wounded pride has me acting like a snot, but I can’t help it.
“It’s not. I just…” He sighs and scrubs a hand across his jaw. “I’ve seen firsthand what can happen to girls in your shoes,” he says cryptically while he gets a far-away look in his eyes. It’s an unexpectedly candid moment free of any sarcasm, and some of my irritation melts away. I don’t know what to make of it.
“You know many poor girls with absent but well-meaning fathers and borderline obsessive stepbrothers from the hood, do you?” I push my lower lip out and nod. His usual aloof mask falls back into place at my teasing, and the bell rings.
“Save the damn number, Miss Stringer.”
“Yes, sir,” I say sardonically. When he looks up at me again, I swear I see a hint of a smirk, but he wipes it away the second students start to pour into the classroom, and the moment is gone.
During class, I sneak my phone under my desk and program his number. In a moment of bravery, or maybe temporary insanity, I scrawl out my number on the back of the Post-it. He’s standing in front of his desk when we’re dismissed, and I take my time packing up so I’m the last one out. As soon as the last person stands, I follow and slip the Post-it into his palm. His warm hand squeezes mine, and he rubs his thumb over my wrist before jerking his hand away, pocketing my number with a quickness. His eyes dart around to make sure no one else saw, then he looks at me expectantly.
“In case you ever need me,” I explain, unable to hide my grin. His eyebrow cocks in amusement, and I walk away, my hand still burning from his touch.
“Somebody got laid,” Christian jokes upon seeing the stupid grin still firmly fixed on my face. He hooks an arm through mine.
“I wish.”
“I can help with that,” Benton Herring—the kid from second period that likes to harass me—says as he takes my books out of my hands.
“No thanks,” I snap, reaching to snatch my books back.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, I’m just trying to be a gentleman here.” Benton laughs as he holds my books over my head.
“Dude, come on,” I whine. “I have first lunch today, and it’s pizza day. Pizza,” I stress. “I’ll never forgive you if they run out before I get a piece. Or seven.”
“Agree to go out with me tomorrow, and I will.”
“Ew,” I say, crinkling up my nose, because it is the only appropriate response to that.
“Tick-tock, baby girl. Pizza goes pretty quickly.”