Eighteen (18)(5)

“Yes,” the older woman says from across the counter. “Now here’s your official schedule.” She holds it out, pointing. “You owe three hundred and fifty dollars.”

“What?”

“Sorry, let me explain. Normally you would owe three hundred and fifty dollars, but Mr. Bowman got your fee waived this afternoon. It takes a few weeks for that to come in. So if you get a bill in the mail, just ignore it.” She smiles at me.

“OK, thank you,” I say, taking my schedule and exhaling a long breath. I guess if Bowman has anything to say about it, I’ll get that diploma after all. “I’ll be back—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” the secretary says, just as I’m about to make my big break. “Since the trig class is by special arrangement, you have to set up your schedule with Mr. Alesci. He’s down the hallway in room twenty-one. So go do that and then you’re free.”

She gives me this motherly smile and I wonder how much Bowman told her about me. It’s not like I give a shit if people know my sister was a loser who OD’d. I just hate the idea that people are discussing me. It feels like an invasion of privacy.

A crack of thunder scares the both of us and we jump, looking at each other with wide eyes.

“Rainy season,” she says.

“Great.” I get to look forward to waiting for the bus in the rain. “Which way is twenty-one?”

“Right down there, sweetheart.” She points to a grungy hallway off to the left.

“Thanks.” I hike my backpack over my shoulder and walk off.

Twenty-one is the last classroom on the left and the door is closed. There’s a small window, but all I see are empty desks.

I open the door and walk in to find a man in a suit looking down at some papers on the desk in the front of the room.

“Hey, I’m Shannon Drake. I’m here to set up a time for trig class.”

He looks up and all I see are those green eyes from the counseling office this morning. It takes my breath away for a moment. I’m shocked.

“I thought you were gonna ditch me, Shannon.”

Just hearing this gorgeous man say my name sends a tingle through my body. “Um…”

“We’ve met, remember? The counseling office this morning.”

“But you weren’t…”

“Looking very professional this morning. I know. Sorry. I didn’t expect to see my only student.” He gives me a small smile and then leans back in his chair, folding his hands behind his neck like he hasn’t a care in the world.

His white dress shirt stretches across his muscled chest. And yes, it’s muscled because I can see the outline of his pecs through the fabric. He looks almost as delicious dressed up as a teacher as he did as a biker.

“So,” he says, releasing his relaxed pose and grabbing a pen from the desk. “Have a seat and let’s see how much work we have to do.”

I let out a long breath and he averts his eyes and pretends not to notice that I’m nervous and flustered.

I walk forward to the one chair pulled up to the opposite side of the table that acts as a desk. I set my backpack down and pull the chair out, taking a seat. But the table is not that wide and my foot bumps against his when I settle.

I quickly move my feet back and look down so he can’t see my blush. Jesus. Get a hold of yourself, Shannon.

“So how much do you remember?”

“What?”

“Geometry? I heard you this morning saying it’s not your thing. So how much of it was your thing?”

I swallow. “Um…”

“That much?”

I shake my head to clear my mind and blurt. “None of it. I cheated.”

He bursts out laughing.

“I mean, I didn’t cheat for real. But I cheated because I didn’t learn a thing. I only memorized things for the tests, and then I went out and partied that night, and then the shit flew right out of my brain with the pot smoke.”

Oh. My. God. What the hell did I just say? Filter, Shannon. Filter.

His smile grows. “Well, we have our work cut out for us.”

“Look, I really don’t belong in this class, OK? I’m terrible at math. I don’t understand why I can’t just take some stupid lower math to get that credit.”

He looks down at his paperwork, which to my horror I realize is my file. My f*cking file. This hot motherf*cker who dresses like a biker and a teacher in the same day has been reading about me.

“Well, you took all AP classes in ninth and tenth grade. Why would we assume you’re not smart enough to move forward?”

“Right, but that was two years ago. This is twelfth grade.”

He leans back in his chair again, like I’m about to tell him a story and he’s interested.

“I don’t know why I was put in those AP classes, OK? I’m really not that smart, but most importantly, I’m really not that motivated.”

He looks down at my file again and taps it. “Then how did you get an A in AP Biology?” When he looks up, I can tell his mood is changing. He’s going from biker who thinks I’m funny to teacher who thinks I’m lying.

“Biology was different.”

“How so?”

“Um…” Holy f*ck. Why? Why me, God? It’s my birthday and you can’t cut me one f*cking break?