Diary of a Teenage Jewel Thief(7)

Though he seems friendly, Jamie leads me to B wing, then the stairs, in virtual silence. I wonder if he’s just not talkative or maybe he feels as awkward as I do. Finally, I’m standing outside room 204.

“This is your class.” He sets a finger on my map again. “Your next one is there.”

“Thanks,” I tell him and give a half wave as he starts to back away. I almost don’t want him to leave. I don’t know how late I am, but I know it’s late enough that I’m going to cause a disruption when I go in. I tamp down the nervous butterflies threatening to take flight in my stomach and reach for the door handle.

As soon as I’m inside the room, I wish I could have just stayed in the office until the end of the period. All eyes are on me, watching as I stand awkwardly in the doorway. And the teacher is the worst. She’s older, probably been teaching for longer than I’ve been alive, and dressed to the nines. Her eyes are narrowed on me, as if she’s silently scolding me for interrupting her time, but then her face folds into a warm, wrinkled smile. “Welcome, I’m Mrs. Leonard.” She holds out her hand for my pass.

I scurry to hand it to her. She scans it, then folds the small blue paper and slips it into her pocket.

“Take a seat.” She points toward the row nearest the door. There’s an empty chair at the very back, and I start that way. A flurry of movement halfway down the row catches my attention, and I look over just in time to see my sidewalk savior from earlier all but shoving another boy out of the desk in front of him. The boy puts up a feeble protest but vacates the seat and claims the one I’d been aiming for at the back.

I drop into the newly vacated seat.

“We have a new student,” the teacher tells the room. Her voice is strong but friendly. “Class, this is Marisol Flores. Would someone like to get our new student a book?”

My champion is out of his seat almost before she’s finished speaking, and he rushes across the room to the row of bookshelves lining the wall under the window. He picks out a book from the top shelf while I’m settling into the newly vacant desk in front of his seat.

“Here you go, flower,” says the boy who already has my stomach tied in knots just from his proximity, and he sets the book on my desk with a smile. Flower, he called me. A play on my last name, I’m sure. My heart does a ticklish flip-flop behind my rib cage, and all those nervous butterflies hanging out in my stomach swarm into a maelstrom. My face heats. Yep, I should have waited in the office for second period to start. Of course he’d be in this class, because clearly I needed more opportunities to be socially awkward in front of him.

The teacher clears her throat, drawing my attention to her where she still stands behind her podium. “Write your name in the front. First one’s free. You lose it, you pay for it.” I open the front cover and write my name inside as instructed.

He slides into his desk behind me, accidently brushing my ponytail on his way. Outwardly, I ignore him, sinking low in my desk and propping my legs up on the rack under the chair in front of me. Inside, I’m aware of every fraction of an inch between us.

“Now, back to the problem set.” Mrs. Leonard addresses the class as she moves to the board and writes out a series of equations. “All of this will be on the test on Friday.”

I cringe at her words and do my best to tamp down the desire to flee the room, charge back to the office, and beg them to put me in an easier class. I understand French better than I understand calculus, and these equations are way out of my depth.

The rest of the class is a blur. By the end of the period, I’m aware of one thing. I might actually be getting worse at math—if that’s even possible. I wait for the majority of my fellow classmates to trickle out of the room. Then I approach Mrs. Leonard where she sits behind her desk.

She’s focused on her computer monitor, and I’m hesitant to interrupt. So I stand in front of her awkwardly until she looks up at me. “Yes?”

“I think my class at my old school might have been a little behind your class.” Or maybe the fact that I don’t understand the material is because I was a little lax in completing the work in my online classes since well before our botched museum heist and not-so-great escape. I’m hoping she’ll take pity on me and give me a rain check for Friday’s test, let me have a little extra time to acclimate to my new school and new workload.

She narrows her eyes at me, then looks around the near-empty room as if searching for the answer there. Her roaming gaze lands somewhere behind me, and her eyes light up. “Mr. Campbell. You’re doing well in my class.”

“Yes, ma’am,” a familiar voice answers from somewhere over my shoulder. I already know who it is. I don’t need to turn to confirm it’s him. Nervous energy collects in my chest and threatens to force its way out as a flustered giggle. But I manage to bite it back.

“Good, you can help our new friend here catch up.” It’s more a command than a suggestion, and the way she dismisses us both and returns her attention to the computer proves she expects no argument. The case is closed, the matter settled.

“Um, sure,” he answers, but he sounds less than sure.

And I’m not sure I want to turn and face him. I’m suddenly feeling overly awkward and painfully aware of how little practice I’ve had socializing with guys my age. Chances are high, if I spend enough time with him, I will say or do something to embarrass myself. But I can’t refuse the help. After just one class, it’s already clear how woefully behind I am.