The Fixer (The Fixer #1)(42)

Hardwicke was a small school. There were fewer than a hundred kids in my entire grade. I couldn’t turn around without seeing Henry. Vivvie’s empty seat in English class the next morning was just another reminder.

I dredged my way from English to physics and from physics to Speaking of Words, trying not to think about the big questions.

Who did the second number on the disposable cell belong to?

Why hadn’t Ivy gone straight to the president with our suspicions?

“Tess.” The Speaking of Words teacher zeroed in on me within moments of the bell’s ringing. “Do you have something prepared for us?”

It was Friday. I’d been at Hardwicke for two weeks. It was probably too much to hope that the teachers would continue skipping over me indefinitely.

“Almost,” I lied through my teeth. Mr. Wesley—who was sixty if he was a day—didn’t call me on it. He just gave me a long, assessing look, then asked for a volunteer.

The assignment was an eight-to ten-minute “persuasive speech” on a controversial topic. Icelandic, never-turns-down-a-dare Di volunteered to go first, followed by a boy whose name I didn’t know, followed by Henry. The last speech of the day came from John Thomas Wilcox. He’d rigged a projector to throw pictures onto the whiteboard as he talked. His topic was stem cell research. I wasn’t paying much attention until he flashed a picture of my grandfather up on the board.

“Alzheimer’s disease is progressive, debilitating, and ultimately fatal.”

I stopped breathing and had to force myself to start again.

The picture was maybe five years old. I couldn’t tell where it was from, because John Thomas had cropped the photo close up on the face. Hazel eyes. Lips set in a firm line. My grandfather’s skin was tan and weatherworn. No one but me would have seen the softness in his expression: the warmth in his eyes, the humor dancing around the edges of that nonsmile.

“Let me tell you about this man,” John Thomas said. As he continued, each word sliced into me, like a dull knife forcibly carving up flesh.

We’d been told to personalize our arguments, to appeal to emotions, as well as reason. From an outside perspective, that was exactly what John Thomas was doing. He was using a real human example to make his audience care.

This man was degenerating. This man was losing his memory. This man was going to continue losing cognitive capacity and parts of himself until he died.

John Thomas took us through it in excruciating detail. And the entire time, he was staring straight at me. “Imagine the pain of knowing that someone you loved was going to degenerate to the point where they would lose the ability to walk, to talk, to communicate in any meaningful way.” John Thomas’s expression was so solemn, so impassioned, but his eyes—his eyes gleamed. “Now imagine the months—or maybe even years—leading up to that. Imagine someone you loved forgetting you, not even recognizing you, blaming you . . .”

At first, I thought the room was shaking. Then I realized that I was. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from my grandfather’s picture. I’d known, objectively, that his condition was going to get worse. I’d known that—

My fingers dug into the sides of my desk.

“Stem cell research won’t provide a cure for Alzheimer’s,” John Thomas was saying. “But it might allow for treatments that stave off the inevitable brain cell death. And if it can buy precious days, months, even years with a loved one . . .” He changed the picture on the screen.

Gramps, with his arms around me.

“I’d say it’s worth it. Wouldn’t you?” John Thomas mimicked compassion perfectly as he nodded toward me—as if I’d known he was doing this, as if he’d done this for me instead of to me.

My ears rang. I barely heard Mr. Wesley dismissing the class. I bowed my head as I gathered my things, my jaw clenched so hard it hurt. I pushed my way out of the classroom. I made it to my locker, opened it, and leaned forward, shutting out the noise. Degeneration. Inevitable. Fatal. I couldn’t block out those words.

“My father told me about your grandfather.” Without warning, John Thomas was there beside me, his expression morose. He crowded me, bringing his face down to mine. “I hope you don’t mind that I did a little internet sleuthing for some photos. The visuals really make the presentation.” I tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go. He leaned into me, his lips so close to my ear that I could feel his breath on my face as he whispered, “My condolences.”

I could hear the smile in his voice.

Something inside me snapped. My hand balled itself into a fist, but just as I started to swing, there was, without warning, nothing to swing at. John Thomas wasn’t where he’d been standing a second before.

It took me a second to register the fact that he was on the floor, and another second after that to realize that the person who’d helped him onto the floor was Henry Marquette.

“My apologies,” Henry said. The expression on his face was oh so proper and oh so polite, considering he’d just knocked the other boy’s legs out from beneath him. “I didn’t see you standing there, John Thomas.” He reached down and offered John Thomas a hand. “Let me help you up.”

He held on to John Thomas’s hand a little longer than necessary—and, I was guessing from the expression on John Thomas’s face, a little harder than necessary.