See Me After Class(118)

It’s over.

It’s so fucking over.





“I don’t quite understand why you’re mad. He told the truth,” Keeks says while unpacking one of my boxes.

The room stills, and Stella and I look at her.

“Keeks, read the room,” Stella whispers.

She looks around, confused. “Read what? There’s no literature on the walls.”

“Good God,” Stella says, going to my dresser and putting my sweaters back in the drawer.

Thankfully, I hadn’t packed much because Arlo was supposed to help me, but I’d gotten a jump-start on it. When I got home, I realized I couldn’t do this on my own and called the girls over, forgetting how Keeks’s brain functions. She sees logic, not so much emotion. It’s one of the reasons I love her so much, but right now, I don’t want logic.

I want all of the emotion.

“He hurt her,” Stella says. “What would you do if Kelvin wrote up an evaluation on you and said you weren’t a good chemist?”

“That would be preposterous. He’s not in the same field of study as me, which renders his evaluation baseless.”

Stella pinches the bridge of her nose. Somewhat humored by her distress—only a little—I take a big gulp of wine from my glass while I sit on my bed, cross-legged.

“Pretend that he’s in your field of study.”

“Is he a chemist? Physicist? Biologist? Or floating around in general science, unable to figure out which direction he’d like to take, so decides to dabble in every topic?”

“For the love of God, he’s a chemist, like you,” Stella answers exasperated.

Keeks considers the notion and shakes her head. “Kelvin would never be a chemist.”

“I give up.” Stella flops on the floor, arms spread, as there’s a knock at the door. “It’s open,” Stella calls out.

The door cracks open, and the first thing we see is a box of Frankie Donuts. Then a voice calls, “I swear, it’s just me. I bring donuts. Please don’t hate me because my brother is an idiot.”

“Come in,” I say.

Cora peeks around the door, and I can tell she’s been crying from the red around her eyes and the blotchiness in her cheeks. When our eyes lock, her lips tremble and she says, “I’m so sorry.”

I pat the spot next to me on the bed. “Sit. There’s nothing to be sorry about. This isn’t on you.”

She steps over Stella and takes a seat. “I know, but I still feel awful. We share the same blood, after all.”

“To be specific, siblings most commonly share fifty percent of their DNA, but half-siblings—”

“Keeks, why don’t you grab napkins for the donuts?” I ask kindly. She nods. Turning to Cora, I say, “I’m sorry I’m not moving out. I know you were looking forward to moving in here.”

“Why are you apologizing? Don’t apologize. This is Arlo’s fault. When he told me—God, I’ve never been so upset at my brother. I wanted to yell and scream at him but there was no chance I could. He was crying, and that just about broke me. I had to leave, or else, I’d have felt sad for him and I didn’t want to feel sad for him.”

“He was crying?” Stella asks.

Cora nods. “Yeah, he came into the house like that. I thought maybe someone died, but I guess it was your relationship.”

He cried . . .

Hard.

Oh God, that makes me feel—

No, it makes me feel nothing. I don’t care if he cries. He brought this upon himself.

I flip open the pastry box and pick up the first donut I see. Not caring about the flavor, I shove half the thing in my mouth, taking a giant bite. Cora does the same, followed up by Stella. Keeks is the only one who doesn’t partake in a donut; instead, she stands over us, a confused look on her face.

“Why aren’t you having a donut?” Stella asks.

“If Arlo cried, then maybe he feels true regret over the evaluation,” Keeks says.

“Of course he’s regretful—he lost his girlfriend over it.”

Still confused, Keeks takes a seat on the floor and says, “But he evaluated you fairly.”

“He evaluated me by his own rules, without looking outside his unadaptable and inflexible technique.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but he’s the department head. He evaluates everyone. That’s part of his job. Is he supposed to lie because you’re now romantically involved?”

Stepping in, Stella says, “Keeks, it’s about how he’s always thought her teaching techniques don’t match up to his expectations. He’s always thought that.”

“Okay.” Twisting her lips to the side, brow furrowed, she asks, “Then why are you surprised by his evaluation? Shouldn’t you have already known what he was going to say?”

Why am I starting to feel like I’m in the wrong here? Why is her argument sounding logical?

I don’t like it.

This isn’t on me.

This is on Arlo.

“I’m not the one who did something wrong,” I say, growing irritated.

“You’re mad,” she says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t intend on making you angry. I’m trying to gain an understanding. My first-year evaluation was impeccably difficult to listen to. George Calhoun was head of the science department at the time. Vastly intellectual, quite a curmudgeon, didn’t acknowledge contemporary science. I was appraised as frigid with students, awkward while lecturing, and inadequate in expounding knowledge. The school board agreed my personality was ill-fitting for a teaching role.”