“But what if he doesn’t?  What if he comes after you again?”

“I don’t think he will.”  Tatum’s voice drops to a whisper, and I lean my head back against the booth to try to hear what she says.  It doesn’t matter, because I can’t hear her no matter how hard I try.  Whatever she thinks will stop Wyatt, I won’t know unless she tells me herself.  Her friends shrill voice screeches out, “TATUM!”, causing me to jump and almost spill steaming hot coffee all over my lap.

“Shh!” Tatum scolds.  “Keep it down will you?”

“Aren’t you worried about getting in trouble?”

“No, because I’m trusting you, Em.  And if you can keep quiet, it will be fine.  I’m not worried.”

Tatum is putting herself unnecessarily in danger and that has me fired up all over again.  She can come to me.  We can go to the police together.  I need to convince her of that.  Right now though, I need to get out of here before I do something stupid like confront her publicly and expose our somewhat clandestine tryst to her peers.  I grab my coffee and quietly slip out of the booth and out the door.  She’ll never know I was here.

“Morning, Tatum,” I call when she walks into my classroom five minutes before the bell.  “Early for once, I see.”

“Good morning,” she grumbles, without looking at me.  “Mr. Stephenson insisted I try a bit harder, or he’s going to give me another week of this crap.  So here I am.  What can I help you with?”  She stops a few steps from my desk, and I’m struggling to keep my face impassive.  I want to grill her about this morning.  She’s up to something, and I need to know what it is so I can stop her.

“If you can manage to sit quietly for the class period that will be enough help for me.  Thanks.”  I’m slapped with guilt as her face drops briefly before she schools it into the snotty mask she wears whenever I see her on school grounds.

“I’d like nothing better,” she grits out through clenched teeth before taking a seat on the stool in the corner.  I don’t have time to respond as the warning bell rings and students start filing in.  I start class promptly, trying to keep my mind and eyes from wandering over to Tatum.  After I’ve reviewed today’s lesson, I assign the homework and take a seat at my desk, finally allowing myself check out what she’s up to.  She has her phone under her nose, furiously texting.

“Tatum!” I bark, grabbing her attention and the attention of the entire room.  She hops off her stool and stands in front of my desk.  “Phone.  Now.” I hold out my palm and flinch when she slaps it into my hand with a resounding smack.  “I’ve told you to keep it away.  You can have it back at the end of the day.”  I’m thankful when she doesn’t put up a fight, but also guilty.  I lock the device in my top drawer and watch as she climbs back onto the stool, crosses her arms, and stares blankly at the wall.  She holds her head and shoulders high, but I notice the way her chin trembles no matter how tight she clenches her jaw.  Maybe she needs a little tough love to get her to open up.

Every time her phone buzzes in my drawer, she looks like she’s being electrocuted.  I’ve counted 8 times by the end of second period, and I have a hunch it’s not about to stop.  As she approaches my desk when the students have left, I know what she’s about to say before she says it, so I cut her off.

“You can go now.  I’ll see you during Calculus.  You can have your phone back at the end of class.”

“Please Jac—Mr. Ryan.  I shouldn’t have been texting but something really important came up.”

“I’ve warned you twice before, and you’re setting a bad example.”

“I know, and I’m sorry,” she pleads.  “But I really, really need it back.”

“Tatum,” I sigh.  “It’s either me or Mr. Stephenson, but you’re not getting it back today.  I’m sorry.  Be pissed at me, but this is how it is.”

“Oh don’t worry, I am.”  She spins on her heel and storms out the door without so much as a backwards glance or a few choice curse words.

I beat back the urge to chase after her as my third period students begin trickling in.  This is going to be a long fucking day.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Tatum

My chest feels like it’s full of bricks.  The rest of the day drags on, each second ticking by in its own eternity.  Seconds pass like minutes, minutes like hours.  Wyatt has been texting my phone nonstop, even after my attempt to bitch him out.  If Mr. Ryan decides to snoop through my inbox, I won’t be getting my phone back today.  He’ll be too busy killing Wyatt to make it to sixth period.  I should have tucked the damn thing into my bag instead of handing it over.  I’m just so tired.

I’ve had more drama in my life this past week than I’ve had in over a year.  If I was smart, I would have known Mr. Ryan was serious about holding my phone hostage.  Naïve little me thought I could weasel my way out of it.  Fuck, was I wrong.

Emerson and I went out to lunch at the diner to take my mind off the looming disaster, formerly known as calculus.  She chattered on about her date with Grant, how amazing it was, and now the two are officially an item.  Facebook official.

I’m so happy for her.

Really.

But my newfound feelings stirred something deep inside of me.  Something that until now has been quietly sleeping, hibernating, biding its time.  Something that has me wondering when it will be my turn.  To have someone want me.  To love me.  To need me.  Desire.  Love.  In my relatively short life I can’t remember a time of ever feeling genuinely loved.  Or having someone to love.

Regardless, I am happy for Emerson.  I just need to keep my green-faced gremlin under control.

The second fifth period ends, I practically sprint to Mr. Ryan’s room.  I weave in and out of students like some NASCAR pro, dodging backpacks, legs, people making out.  I don’t even have the heart to tell them to get a room, I’m so intent on being the first one to class.

Skidding to a halt, I attempt to regain composure before bursting into his room.  Wouldn’t want to scare anyone by barreling through the door, hair a wild mane, heaving in oxygen like my life depended on it.  Slowing my breathing to calm my racing heart, I pull open the heavy wood door and waltz inside.

The room is empty.

You have got to be kidding me.  He is seriously going to make me wait until the end the day.  No clue as to if he’s scanned through my messages or not.  Damn literal men.

I’ll have to sit through his entire lecture trying to determine if my privacy has been breached.  To figure out if I’ll have more on my hands than a reprimand for texting during class.  If he goes through my inbox, I’m screwed.  He’ll see how much Wyatt has been trying to talk to me and the bitchy, antagonizing responses I’ve sent back when I probably should have ignored him.  This is not going to be a happy class, and Mr. Ryan is not going to be happy with me.

My skid out from under me when Keith Torres flings open the door and slams into my back.  It wasn’t the smartest idea to have an internal argument standing in front of the door.  I’m jostled forward onto a desk, flopping over the seat with Keith leaned over my back.

“Oof,” I cry out, trying to ignore the compromising position we’re in.  That is, until another voice brings it front and center to my attention.

“What is going on here?  Get off her!”

Keith’s weight shifts, the pressure releases, and my lungs fill with air.  Well, this is fucking embarrassing.  Slowly, I right myself, turning around to find Mr. Ryan staring daggers at poor Keith, his face colored with deep red splotches.  He’s pissed.

“Are you okay?” Mr. Ryan asks me, his concern-filled eyes searching mine for signs of distress.

“I’m fine.  It was an accident.”  Anger simmers within my blood when Mr. Ryan doesn’t look convinced.  I’m not some weak, helpless victim.  I can take care of myself seeing as I’ve been doing it my entire life.  The last thing I need is Mr. White Knight coming to my rescue all the damn time.  I start stomping off in the direction of my usual chair, done with this conversation.