Secret Lucidity(28)

Fourth period comes, and the moment our eyes catch is the moment my schoolgirl daydreams flicker into static. He quickly looks away from me, diverting his attention elsewhere.

“Stare much, creeper?” Linze says when she takes her seat.

“What?”

“You . . . Mr. Andrews. I mean, I get it, but relax on the obvious.”

“Zoning out,” I lie. “I’m tired and still feeling a little crappy.” Another lie.

“Seriously. I tried calling you like a thousand times. I’m starting to get a complex.”

“I was sick. Nothing personal.”

She flips her notebook open and starts scribbling on the page with her pen.

“You’re not mad at me, are you?”

Keeping her focus on her paper, she responds with a shadow of agitation, “Just wondering when the old Cam will be making her return.”

Her words prick my nerves.

She’s kidding, right?

Coach calls the attention of the class, and what I was hoping would be my hour pardon of the day, is already ruined by Linze’s remark and the fact that the guy who was so tender with me the other night is blatantly avoiding me. If he’s trying to be discreet in his diverging eyes, he’s failing miserably.

So, I play the part of a good student, pull out my notebook, and take notes as he drones on about Shakespeare and preps us for our unit on Othello, which we will be doing for the next three weeks.

The bell couldn’t come soon enough, but torture doesn’t relent when he calls, “Miss Hale, I need you to stay after so I can go over the work you missed last week.”

My guard goes up at his formality, doing what I can to shield myself from the oncoming pangs of rejection. I stay put in my desk, forcing him to approach me, and when the last student leaves, he comes to the back of the class and takes the seat next to me.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” I mutter, keeping my eyes on the pencil that I’m fidgeting between my hands.

“I think we should talk about the other night.”

I can already feel it coming in the tone of his voice, in his tempered attention toward me, and his offish demeanor.

It was a mistake. It should have never happened.

“It can’t happen again,” he states in a hushed voice, and I nod—completely humiliated. Taking the pencil out from between my fingers, he continues, “I care about you, Cam. And I’m still here for you if you need me. But whatever this is between us . . . I could lose my job.”

“I’m not stupid.”

“I know you aren’t, which is why I know you understand the severity of what could happen.”

For a moment, I had peace. For a moment, I had a silver lining. Now, I’m just mortified.

“Is that all?” I’m eager to get the hell out of this classroom and far away from this conversation.

“Look at me,” he requests, and I do. “I get that things at home are rough right now, and I want to be here for you, I need you to know that. The last thing I want is for you to feel like you did anything wrong. You didn’t. I take responsibility for what happened. But from this point moving on, I can only be your teacher and your coach, okay?”

Heat creeps up my neck, and I agree with him quickly just to get this over with, but he holds me to the flame a bit longer. “I’m also concerned about your swimming. We have a meet coming up at the end of September. If you want to swim, you can’t keep avoiding team practice.”

“Fine,” I exhaust on a lengthy breath. “No team today though.”

“Individual then?”

“If you’re saying that I have to practice today, then yeah, I don’t want a team swim.”

“Be in the water at five.”

Without giving him another second, I grab my backpack and what little self-esteem he left me with and hightail it out of here.




“Do five one hundreds, flutter kick, on the one forty-five,” he calls out.

With my kickboard in hand, I work my legs to propel myself down the lane.

Silence is my friend, and I decide to embrace it in an effort to shield myself from the embarrassment of this whole situation between the two of us. I don’t have the option to avoid him, not unless I request a class transfer and drop the swim team, which I refuse to do. But he’s keeping it strictly business, calling out drills to build my strength and endurance. As long as I stay focused, surely the tension will eventually lessen.

“Legs up,” he shouts, and I push harder, doing all I can to ignore the burn in my quads as he times my laps.

I tighten my core and kick, kick, kick, until fire slices down my left leg, seizing it in an excruciating cramp. Hissing through my teeth, I flex my leg under the water and whimper as the pain bites back against my attempt to alleviate.

“You okay?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. I abandon my board and grip my leg with both hands, letting myself sink below the surface. I hear a distorted shout seconds before he dives into the water and swims out to the middle of the pool where I’m stranded in agony. Looping his arm around my waist, he gets us over to the wall. When I’m out of the water, he begins to dig his fingers into my leg to massage out the cramp.

“It hurts so bad.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” he instructs calmly. “Breathe.”