Hopeless(23)

“Shit,” I mutter. Holder walks to Mr. Mulligan’s desk and lays a form on it, then walks toward the back of the room fiddling with his phone the whole time. He takes a seat in the desk directly in front of Breckin and never even notices me. He turns the volume down on his phone, then puts it in his pocket.

I’m too in shock that he showed up to even speak to him. Did I somehow change his mind about re-enrolling? Am I happy about the fact that I may have changed his mind? Because I sort of feel nothing but regret.

Mr. Mulligan walks in and sets his things on the desk, then turns toward the blackboard and writes his name, followed by the date. I’m not sure if he honestly thinks we forgot who he was since yesterday, or if he just wants to remind us that he thinks we’re ignorant.

“Dean,” he says, still facing the blackboard. He spins around and eyes Holder. “Welcome back, albeit a day late. I take it you won’t be giving us any trouble this semester?”

My mouth drops at his condescending remark right off the bat. If this is the kind of shit Holder has to put up with when he’s here, no wonder he didn’t want to come back. At least I just get shit from other students. I don’t care who the student is, teachers should never be condescending. That should be the first rule in the teacher handbook. The second rule should be that teachers aren’t allowed to write their names on blackboards beyond third grade.

Holder shifts in his seat and replies to Mr. Mulligan’s comment with just as much bite. “I take it you won’t be saying anything that will incite me to give you trouble this semester, Mr. Mulligan?”

Okay, the “shit giving” is obviously a two-way street. Maybe my next lesson, beyond talking him into coming back to school, should be to teach him the meaning of respecting authority.

Mr. Mulligan tucks his chin in and glares at Holder over the rims of his glasses.

“Dean. Why don’t you come to the front of the room and introduce yourself to your classmates. I’m sure there are some new faces since you left us last year.”

Holder doesn’t object, which I’m sure is exactly what Mr. Mulligan expected him to do. Instead, he practically leaps from his chair and walks swiftly to the front of the room. His sudden burst of energy causes Mr. Mulligan to take a quick step back. Holder spins around to face the class, not an ounce of self-doubt or insecurity about him.

“Gladly,” Holder says, cutting his eyes toward Mr. Mulligan. “I’m Dean Holder. People call me Holder.” He looks away from Mr. Mulligan and back toward the class. “I’ve been a student here since freshmen year with the exception of a one and a half semester sabbatical. And according to Mr. Mulligan, I like to incite trouble, so this class should be fun.”

Several of the students laugh at this comment, but I fail to find the humor in it. I’ve already been doubting him based on everything I’ve heard, now he’s showing his true colors by the way he’s acting. Holder opens his mouth to continue with his introduction, but breaks out into a smile as soon as he spots me in the back of the room. He winks at me and I immediately want to crawl under my desk and hide. I give him a quick, tight-lipped smile, then look down at my desk as soon as other students begin turning around in their seats to see who he’s staring at.

An hour and a half ago, he walked away from me in a pissy mood. Now he’s smiling at me like he’s just seen his best friend for the first time in years.

Yep. He’s got issues.

Breckin leans across his desk. “What the hell was that?” he whispers.

“I’ll tell you at lunch,” I say.

“Is that all the wisdom you wish to impart on us today?” Mr. Mulligan asks Holder.

Holder nods, then walks back to his seat, never pulling his gaze from mine. He sits and cranes his neck, facing me. Mr. Mulligan begins his lecture and everyone’s focus returns to the front of the room. Everyone but Holder’s. I glance down to my book and flip it open to the current chapter, hoping he’ll do the same. When I glance back up, he’s still staring at me.

“What?” I mouth, tossing my palms up in the air.

He narrows his eyes and watches me silently for a moment. “Nothing,” he finally says. He turns around in his seat and opens the book in front of him.

Breckin taps his pencil on my knuckles and looks at me inquisitively, then returns his attention back to his book. If he’s expecting an explanation over what just happened, he’ll be disappointed when I’m unable to give him one. I don’t even know what just happened.