Total pages in book: 174
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 173355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 867(@200wpm)___ 693(@250wpm)___ 578(@300wpm)
“You don’t look traumatized to me,” he says, bringing his eyes up. That bright thing is still alive in his gaze, only it has become brighter and ever so mysterious.
I blush for some reason.
Even more than before.
I ignore it though. I ignore his scratchy sounding words as I insist, “I am. Extremely. Because it’s not something that you just say to a student. It’s unspeakable. That’s what we call it here at St. Mary’s: The Unspeakable. You never talk about The Unspeakable. You don’t threaten a student’s graduation. That’s like the first rule of being a teacher at St. Mary’s. This is a reform school. It’s like a prison. You can’t talk about extending someone’s prison sentence just for the heck of it. And then you made that big bad speech about making everyone’s life miserable if they didn’t do what you say. ‘You need to show up like ten minutes early to practice or I’ll make your world come crashing down around you.’ Or something. Of course I was traumatized. Of course I came here early and wanted to check if you were really here or not. I didn’t want to be unnecessarily punished even though I did everything right.”
His face is unreadable as I finish my rambling explanation.
It’s not false, what I’ve said. But it’s also not the whole truth. And since I’m never going to tell him the whole truth, I just hope he buys it and we can put this stupid, ill-thought-out incident behind us.
“What’s the second rule?”
I frown. “Second rule?”
His features are arranged in a cool mask so I don’t know what he’s thinking, as usual. But his eyes are still bright and they are still watching me in the way that makes me clasp my hands in front of me.
“If the first rule is to never talk about The Unspeakable,” he explains, “what’s the second rule?”
My heart thuds in my chest.
At his innocuous question. Because he asked me something similar on the night we met. Maybe that’s why I say, “The second rule is to be careful.”
“Of what?”
“Of the girls here.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because they can be… dangerous.”
“Dangerous,” he murmurs, dipping his head slightly.
I nod, my voice dipping as well. “They like to prank new teachers, make trouble for them. Start fights and arguments, trying to get them to quit. Things like that.”
At this, he dips his chin even further as he says something that makes me feel like I’m floating. “So maybe I should really start hiding in the closets then, huh. Just to be safe.” He looks me up and down really quickly. “From all the danger.”
And just because I’m so light that I’m floating, my dusty Mary Janes in the air, I say, “Actually, scratch that. I don’t think you have to worry about girls trying to get you to quit. I think you should worry about other things. Because your problems are going to be different.”
Yeah, definitely.
I mean, just look at him.
He’s still leaning against the door and his arms are still folded.
But somewhere in the middle of our tumultuous conversation so far, he’s bent his knees some. His shoulders are a little less rigid than they were when he entered the room and his mouth is slightly tipped up in what I can only assume is a very tiny dose of amusement. The smallest dose of amusement that anyone has ever felt maybe.
But it’s enough, you see.
It’s enough to transform him.
It’s enough to make him look relaxed and casual. A picture of arrogance and masculinity.
And if I wasn’t so obsessed with him already, I would be now.
Like all the other girls at St. Mary’s.
Poe was right yesterday. Callie shouldn’t worry about girls giving her brother a hard time. Because they’re already halfway in love with him. That was the other topic of conversation at the dorms last night.
How hot our new coach is.
“What should I worry about then?” he asks, bringing me out of my thoughts.
And before I can stop myself, I reply, “About the things they might do to get you to stay.” Looking into his eyes, I continue, “You should worry about all the things they might do to get you to notice them.”
He watches me back. “Yeah, like what?”
“Like…” I pause here for a second because it feels like my heart will burst out of my chest. “Girls stopping you in the hallway to talk to you for no reason. Or hanging around your office or on the soccer field, pretending to like soccer just so you’ll talk back.”
“What else?” he murmurs in a voice made of velvet.
I’m running out of breath right now but I don’t care. I don’t even care about what I’m saying as long as I get to keep going. “They might pretend to get in trouble just to get you to save them. They might drop their books when you’re around just so you’d help pick them up. Or they might pretend to stumble on their feet just so you’d catch them.”