Sweet Venom
Page 47
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But as I walk into class and see him sitting there in the desk behind mine, my courage fades.
I’m not scared of him, not exactly. I just don’t understand him. I don’t understand why he’s immune to my hypnoeyes, why he won’t back off from pursuing me, why he keeps showing up when I’m in the middle of a monster fight. And it’s not as if I can ask him any of those things.
I can’t run from the unknown forever.
Straightening my shoulders, I march into the room and drop into my seat. I ignore the fact that the hair at the back of my neck prickles to attention. I ignore the fact that I can practically feel his eyes on me. I ignore everything but the process of getting my notebook out of my backpack, pulling my textbook out from under my chair, and opening it to the page indicated on the board.
I’m tense, waiting for him to say something. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
The bell rings and he hasn’t said a word. There’s no indication that he’s even noticed that I’m here. Or that I was gone the last three days.
When Mrs. Knightly closes the door and moves to the whiteboard, I think I’m home free.
“Nice to see you again, Miss Sharpe,” she says. “I do hope your teeth are feeling better.”
“Uh,” I stammer, remembering that my notes said something about dentist appointments. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I trust you can find someone to catch you up on what you’ve missed.”
“I—”
“I’ll help her,” Nick says.
“Thank you,” she says, turning her attention to the board. “Now, if you’ll look at the diagram . . .”
“You’re welcome,” Nick whispers over my shoulder.
Ignore him. Ignore him, ignore him, ignore—
I feel a tickle against my left ear, and when I jerk around at the sensation, I find a folded piece of paper waving before my eyes. I snatch the paper, throwing Nick a quick glare, and turn back to face front. I don’t need Mrs. Knightly calling me out for note passing, especially not because of him.
For several long seconds, I sit with the note clasped between my palms, resting in my lap. Don’t be curious, I tell myself. It’s only going to annoy you anyway.
In the end, of course, curiosity wins out.
Carefully, so I don’t draw any attention, I unfold the note and slip it beneath my textbook. When I’m sure Mrs. Knightly is focused on the board, I slide it down to read: Can we talk after class?
Frankly, I’m a little disappointed. My imagination came up with so many better ideas for what the note might say. Like You fight giant scorpions often? Or Can we be more than friends now? Or even Thanks for leaving me with a concussion.
Can we talk? seems so tame in comparison.
I quickly scribble No on the paper and slip it under my arm and onto his desk.
Seconds later it comes flying back over my shoulder. I slap my hand down before it sails off to the floor.
Mrs. Knightly glances up at the sound, and I force a very interested and attentive look on my face. When she looks away, I open the note: Coward.
I write back: Brain-dead idiot.
He chuckles when he reads that, and I find myself smiling in return. I have to admire a guy who can laugh at being called an idiot. He must be pretty self-confident.
When he doesn’t return the note right away, I catch myself anxiously waiting for the next installment. Get real, Gretchen. I turn my attention to the board and start copying the academic notes I should have been writing all along.
I’ve almost forgotten his presence—almost—when the note slides back over my shoulder a few minutes before the bell.
I nonchalantly open it over my notebook and see that the message is longer this time. Like half a page long.
I’m sorry for whatever happened on Monday. I don’t remember the whole thing, but I know you were upset and for that I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again. I think you’re a different kind of girl—
I have to snort at that. He has no idea how different I really am. And he can’t know. I keep reading.
—and I like that. But if you want me to back off, I will. Even if I don’t want to. (BTW, in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t want to.)
The bell rings. I don’t say a word, just fold the note up and slip it into my backpack along with my notebook. I half expect him to stop me as I get up and head for the door. I’m relieved. And, to be honest, a little disappointed.
He’s backing off. That’s exactly what I’ve wanted all along, and I refuse to let myself be annoyed that it’s finally happening. This is a good thing. And I’m really glad I didn’t transfer out of biology . . . because I like Mrs. Knightly.
Chapter 14
Grace
Our next unit in English class is on mythology. Like I haven’t had enough myth showing up in my life lately. As Mrs. Deckler starts handing out unit outlines halfway through class on Friday, I can’t help a giddy giggle at the thought that I am myth now.
I accept the papers from the girl in front of me, take one, and pass the rest behind me.
“Something funny, Miss Whitfield?” Mrs. Deckler asks.
I bite my lips and shake my head. “No, ma’am.”
“While you read over the unit plan,” she says to the class, “I’m going to set up a quick introductory PowerPoint to prepare you for Monday’s lesson.”
I scan the topics—everything from Homer to Edith Hamilton to some contemporary fiction about teens descended from gods.
I’m not scared of him, not exactly. I just don’t understand him. I don’t understand why he’s immune to my hypnoeyes, why he won’t back off from pursuing me, why he keeps showing up when I’m in the middle of a monster fight. And it’s not as if I can ask him any of those things.
I can’t run from the unknown forever.
Straightening my shoulders, I march into the room and drop into my seat. I ignore the fact that the hair at the back of my neck prickles to attention. I ignore the fact that I can practically feel his eyes on me. I ignore everything but the process of getting my notebook out of my backpack, pulling my textbook out from under my chair, and opening it to the page indicated on the board.
I’m tense, waiting for him to say something. Waiting, waiting, waiting.
The bell rings and he hasn’t said a word. There’s no indication that he’s even noticed that I’m here. Or that I was gone the last three days.
When Mrs. Knightly closes the door and moves to the whiteboard, I think I’m home free.
“Nice to see you again, Miss Sharpe,” she says. “I do hope your teeth are feeling better.”
“Uh,” I stammer, remembering that my notes said something about dentist appointments. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I trust you can find someone to catch you up on what you’ve missed.”
“I—”
“I’ll help her,” Nick says.
“Thank you,” she says, turning her attention to the board. “Now, if you’ll look at the diagram . . .”
“You’re welcome,” Nick whispers over my shoulder.
Ignore him. Ignore him, ignore him, ignore—
I feel a tickle against my left ear, and when I jerk around at the sensation, I find a folded piece of paper waving before my eyes. I snatch the paper, throwing Nick a quick glare, and turn back to face front. I don’t need Mrs. Knightly calling me out for note passing, especially not because of him.
For several long seconds, I sit with the note clasped between my palms, resting in my lap. Don’t be curious, I tell myself. It’s only going to annoy you anyway.
In the end, of course, curiosity wins out.
Carefully, so I don’t draw any attention, I unfold the note and slip it beneath my textbook. When I’m sure Mrs. Knightly is focused on the board, I slide it down to read: Can we talk after class?
Frankly, I’m a little disappointed. My imagination came up with so many better ideas for what the note might say. Like You fight giant scorpions often? Or Can we be more than friends now? Or even Thanks for leaving me with a concussion.
Can we talk? seems so tame in comparison.
I quickly scribble No on the paper and slip it under my arm and onto his desk.
Seconds later it comes flying back over my shoulder. I slap my hand down before it sails off to the floor.
Mrs. Knightly glances up at the sound, and I force a very interested and attentive look on my face. When she looks away, I open the note: Coward.
I write back: Brain-dead idiot.
He chuckles when he reads that, and I find myself smiling in return. I have to admire a guy who can laugh at being called an idiot. He must be pretty self-confident.
When he doesn’t return the note right away, I catch myself anxiously waiting for the next installment. Get real, Gretchen. I turn my attention to the board and start copying the academic notes I should have been writing all along.
I’ve almost forgotten his presence—almost—when the note slides back over my shoulder a few minutes before the bell.
I nonchalantly open it over my notebook and see that the message is longer this time. Like half a page long.
I’m sorry for whatever happened on Monday. I don’t remember the whole thing, but I know you were upset and for that I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again. I think you’re a different kind of girl—
I have to snort at that. He has no idea how different I really am. And he can’t know. I keep reading.
—and I like that. But if you want me to back off, I will. Even if I don’t want to. (BTW, in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t want to.)
The bell rings. I don’t say a word, just fold the note up and slip it into my backpack along with my notebook. I half expect him to stop me as I get up and head for the door. I’m relieved. And, to be honest, a little disappointed.
He’s backing off. That’s exactly what I’ve wanted all along, and I refuse to let myself be annoyed that it’s finally happening. This is a good thing. And I’m really glad I didn’t transfer out of biology . . . because I like Mrs. Knightly.
Chapter 14
Grace
Our next unit in English class is on mythology. Like I haven’t had enough myth showing up in my life lately. As Mrs. Deckler starts handing out unit outlines halfway through class on Friday, I can’t help a giddy giggle at the thought that I am myth now.
I accept the papers from the girl in front of me, take one, and pass the rest behind me.
“Something funny, Miss Whitfield?” Mrs. Deckler asks.
I bite my lips and shake my head. “No, ma’am.”
“While you read over the unit plan,” she says to the class, “I’m going to set up a quick introductory PowerPoint to prepare you for Monday’s lesson.”
I scan the topics—everything from Homer to Edith Hamilton to some contemporary fiction about teens descended from gods.
