Call It What You Want(36)

A few days after that all happened, Lexi texted her credit card number to our inner circle. She said, “If my parents don’t care, you all should be able to reap the benefits.”

I still have it saved somewhere. I remember being tempted but never used it.

It felt too much like stealing.

The irony.

“I need to ask Mr. London where they keep the older periodicals,” Lexi is saying, and her voice gives me a little jolt. In a second, they’ll be in view.

I remember again the expression on Connor’s face when he stood over me, the open cash box in his hand. I’m torn between ducking behind the counter and balling up a fist to clock him upside the head.

I must look like it, too, because Mr. London steps back and raises the counter. “Want to hide in my office?”

I suck in a breath, startled. I’ve basically just told Mr. London to go to hell. The last thing I deserve is compassion.

But then Connor says, “Whatever, Lex. But hurry. I want to get a bagel.”

I slip through the opening and into Mr. London’s darkened office.

My breathing is too quick, loud in the space around me.

After lying to my mother and stealing from the fund-raiser, it shouldn’t feel so humiliating to add hiding to the list, but it does. I listen as Lexi asks for directions, and Mr. London offers to show her whatever she needs.

Then I’m alone, standing here in the quiet dimness.

His office is tiny, with no windows, but it’s homey. His desk takes up most of the space, and one of the school’s ancient computers occupies almost half of that. Books and slips of paper are stacked everywhere, but there are three chairs: one for him, and two for whomever else.

Dozens of photographs are tacked to the wall. My eyes flinch from the ones of him and his husband—the husband my father ripped off. I swallow, and it hurts. I need to get out of here.

Mr. London appears in the doorway. “They’re gone.”

“Thanks.” I can’t quite meet his eyes. “I didn’t touch anything.” My ready anger from a minute ago feels foolish, but I can’t quite work out how to apologize.

He leans against the doorjamb. “I wouldn’t have told you to wait in here if I was worried about you touching anything.”

Suddenly, I feel trapped. Confronted. My skin is all prickly. I wish he’d get out of the doorway. My breathing quickens again, and I rub a hand over the back of my neck. I still haven’t been able to meet his eyes. My fingers tighten on the strap of my backpack.

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is low. “Sit down a minute.”

“I need to go to class.”

“I can write you a pass.”

I shift my feet. “It’s okay. You don’t have to.”

“Rob … what you said—”

“I didn’t know, okay?” My chest is so tight that the words fall out of my mouth like they’re trying to escape. “Everyone thinks I knew, that I was helping him. But I didn’t know. I didn’t help. I wouldn’t … I wasn’t …”

I choke to a stop. I have to swallow this emotion before it pours down my face. I’m nearly shaking from the effort.

I hate my father so much.

Mr. London hasn’t moved. “Rob. Sit. Take a load off.”

His voice is no-nonsense, and maybe I needed someone to tell me what to do, because I drop into a chair and dump my backpack on the ground beside me. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes. I’m distantly aware of Mr. London sitting in his desk chair, when it gives a squeak of protest.

Then the room falls into silence, only broken a moment later when the first bell rings. After a minute, I lower my hands. I keep my eyes on the edge of his desk. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to lose it.”

He’s still quiet, and the chair squeaks again as he shifts his weight.

He’s quiet so long that my emotion dries up and my breathing steadies.

I finally look up. He’s studying me, his expression inscrutable.

“What?” I say.

“I don’t hate you, Rob.” He pauses. “I won’t lie—it was … hard at first.” Another pause. “Especially when you kept coming into the library.” He grimaces. “I thought … I thought maybe you were taunting me.”

I frown. That never occurred to me. A new kind of shame sets up shop in my stomach. I shake my head quickly. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I—”

“No, I know that now. At first I didn’t think you were really reading the books. I thought you were coming in every other day to screw with me.” He catches himself and half smiles. “To mess with me. But then you checked out the Harry Potter books in order, and then the Winner’s Curse series, and then all the Throne of Glass books, and I realized you were actually reading them. I mean, if you were trying to get to me, you’d grab any book off the shelf and check it out. You wouldn’t spend fifteen minutes reading book jackets.” He hesitates. “You would have given up when you didn’t get a reaction from me.”

I consider how brightly he asks about every book I return. “So, you’ve been screwing with me. Got it.” I grab the strap of my backpack.

“At first, yes. But not now. I can’t read everything. And I really am curious to hear what you think.”