One Small Thing(19)

“I’m stating a fact. You go here now. I go here. We have classes together.” I awkwardly jerk my hand at the door behind me. “So...yeah. Given that this is the situation we’re in, I think we should...clear the air, I guess.”

His dumbfounded gaze collides with mine. “Clear the air.” He makes a choked noise. “I...” He wrenches his gaze away again. “You’re Rachel Jones’s sister.”

My heart clenches. “Yes.”

“So there’s no air to clear, Elizabeth.”

“It’s Beth.”

He ignores me. “Move away from the door.”

“No.” I stubbornly plant my feet on the ground and cross my arms. “You can’t pretend I don’t exist. You can’t pretend that we didn’t have se—”

“Shut up,” he growls.

My eyes widen.

Almost instantly, his features twist with distress. “I’m sorry for snapping,” he says roughly. “And I’m sorry for the other night...” He trails off, and I realize that the dark emotion swimming in his eyes isn’t quite remorse.

It’s shame. He’s ashamed of what we did, too.

“You regret it,” I mumble.

This time, he looks right at me, and his stare doesn’t waver. “Yes.”

I can’t explain the wave of hurt that crashes into me. “Because I’m her sister?” I have to ask. My voice shakes wildly with every word.

“Yes,” Chase says again.

That gives me pause. “But if I wasn’t her sister...” I draw a quavery breath. “Would you regret it?”

He eyes me for a long moment, those blue eyes sweeping over my face, then shifting lower. “No,” he finally admits.

It’s my turn to feel ashamed. That one tiny syllable—no—brings a flash of relief, a flicker of happiness. Nausea burns my throat and I want to throw up at my response to this guy.

While I stand there immobile, Chase gently moves me aside and opens the classroom door. He disappears inside without another word.

I turn and watch his broad back as he makes his way to his desk. He folds his tall frame into a chair and stares straight ahead.

At the front of the room, Mrs. Russell is talking about Mathematical Practices for AP Calculus, or MPACS, that will dictate our course of study this semester. She notices me in the doorway and a slight frown creases her lips. She glances at Chase, then at me, then says, “Beth, why don’t you take a seat? There’s an empty one in the back.” AKA as far away from Chase as possible.

I trudge into the classroom, making a pointed effort not to look at him. Our conversation was too short. I have more to say to him. I’m not entirely sure what, but I do know one thing. Chase and I have unfinished business.

I check my watch. Our next class together is Music History. That gives me two hours to plot. Even a stone can be worn away by a constant drip of water. Well, watch out, Chase. Here comes a flood.





9

I haven’t passed a note since the fourth grade and that was to Scarlett asking her if she wanted to learn how to skateboard. I’d watched a YouTube video of some girls in Afghanistan burning it up and wanted to be as cool as them. Scarlett had said no.

We need to talk. Meet me at my house. Midnight, I scribble while Ms. Dvo?ák talks about the dead white guys we’ll be studying in Music History. I’ll be sneaking out.

Eh. I erase the last part. He doesn’t need to know that. Besides, it’ll be kind of obvious. I fold the notebook paper and glance over my shoulder. He’s two rows over and one row back, staring intently at his textbook. How do I get his attention while not creating a spectacle of myself?

I cough lightly.

“You okay?” Scarlett hands me a water bottle, but Chase doesn’t move.

I wave her off. I tap my pencil on my desk. Ms. Dvo?ák pauses in midsentence. I lay my pencil down. Still nothing from the boy in black. Isn’t it kind of clichéd of him to wear all black? Is he trying to announce that he’s a bad guy? He has a record and everyone knows it. He could wear white every day, and half the school would still mark him down to star as all the villains in the school play.

I wiggle in my seat, trying to make it squeak.

“Ms. Jones, do you need to use the restroom?” Ms. Dvo?ák asks. “Then, please, enough with the background noises, all right?”

I could die of embarrassment. “Yes, ma’am.”

My gaze drifts over to Chase again, only this time I’m not terribly covert about it because Ms. Dvo?ák notices.

“Ah,” she says. She clucks her tongue sympathetically. Rapping her knuckles on the table, she calls out, “Mr. Donnelly.”

His head pops up. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Please go sit in the hall. You are disturbing the class.” Her plump, friendly face has grown cold.

What? I straighten up and lift a hand to motion that I’m all right. A few boys in the back snort and chuckle.

“Mr. Donnelly. Did you hear me?”

Everyone is staring at him now. Someone throws a crumpled piece of paper at him. He doesn’t flinch, but there’s a red flush creeping up his neck. Silently, he gathers his books and rises.

The whispers grow, like a wave, pushing at his back. One of the football players loudly proclaims that this day is going to be killer. The whole classroom erupts into laughter. Even Ms. Dvo?ák’s lips twitch.