“Hold up, Tatum.  Keith needs to apologize.”  Mr. Ryan pauses, his eyes sweeping intently across Keith’s face.   “This an accident?”

Keith’s face turns a sick shade of pale.  He’s not the type to go around harassing girls.  He’s the type to worship them.  He wouldn’t know a friend-zone from an end-zone and spends most of his time with his nose stuck in a book.  I feel truly sorry for his predicament.  I’m just glad the whole class wasn’t here to witness it.

“Yes,” Keith whispers.

“Apologize or I’ll have you hauled out of here for sexual harassment,” Mr. Ryan snaps.

“I’m so sorry, Tatum,” Keith stammers, staring holes into the floor.  “I swear, I didn’t mean to-to fall on you.”

Hoping to save him from any further embarrassment, I quickly reconcile.  He offers a small, albeit embarrassed smile before taking his seat.  Exasperated by the entire exchange, I walk to my chair for the second time when Mr. Ryan stops me…a second time.

“I want you to sit up front today,” he says, motioning to a desk with a jerk of his head.  My eyes are drawn to the way his soft brown hair falls over his forehead rather than meet his eyes.

“Why?  I always sit here,” I respond to his ridiculous request.

“I think you’ll be much more focused in the front row.  Where I can keep an eye on you.”

“Are you joking?”

“No.  Now move or get out of my classroom.”

Holy crap, Mr. Ryan is a jerk!

I bite my cheek hard to hold in my retort and move into the desk he indicated.  The last thing I need is to push him into kicking me out of class.  As if I haven’t seen enough of Mr. Stephenson this semester already—a whole one day into the second week.

After removing my notebook and pen, I rest my chin in my hand, casting an innocent glance upward.  Mr. Ryan is perched in front of his desk, leaning casually against the front.  One black Oxford shoe crossed over the other.  His posture looks relaxed, except for one thing—he’s glaring at me.  Hard.  The hollows of his smoothly shaven cheeks are stained pink.  His normally chocolate eyes almost black.

What the hell is he so pissed about?  The extent of the text messages have been Wyatt harassing me to see him, wondering who my sudden new attack dog is, and half-assed loose apologies.  After ignoring him for 24 hours, I sent a few replies this morning.  Mostly fuck you’s and empty threats to call the police.

I can’t imagine Mr. Ryan is this upset over what’s currently in my phone’s inbox.  Something else must be grinding his gears.  By the way he’s staring me down, it’s hard to convince myself I’m not culpable.

I don’t miss the few stares directed my way as the rest of my peers take their seats.  The majority of them probably haven’t seen me ever sit in the front of the room for the past four years.  But if I want to get to the bottom of Mr. Crabby Pants’ attitude, then I need to play the part of a good little girl.  Then I can get my phone and haul ass out of here in order to avoid any more awkward encounters.

I may be able to admit to myself my attraction to him, but I’m done.  The lines have been etched into stone; there’s no more blurring them.  I’m not going to attempt to push the boundaries any more.

Compared to most days—okay, the one other calculus class I’ve actually attended this semester—Mr. Ryan’s lesson is stiff, cold, and boring.  He drones through each point, reviewing Friday’s homework, and giving brief examples of what we’ll work on today, all while his eyes continually snap down to meet mine.  He looks like he has Tourette’s; his eyes are so twitchy.

It’s harder than I thought to keep from exchanging glares and rolling my eyes.  Every time his eyes meet mine, I feel a flash of pain in my gut.  I don’t know why he’s mad at me, but he is.  And I don’t like it.  After the weekend we experienced together, I almost feel betrayed.

“Does anybody have any questions before you get started?” Mr. Ryan asks after he’s finished his lesson.

I can’t help myself.  The question rolls off my tongue before I have the ability to choke the words back down.

“What crawled up your ass today?”  I watch as a muscle jumps in his jaw where he’s clenching his teeth.  His eyes flash hard to mine as a round of soft giggles echo throughout the room.

Mr. Ryan swallows thickly.  “I’ll see you after class, Miss Krause.  Anybody else?”  His eyes wander briefly around the room before he continues, “Alright then, please get started.  I’m here if you have any questions.”

While the rest of the room begins on their homework, I let myself watch as Mr. Ryan seats himself at his desk.  I can’t focus on math while I know there’s this impeding conversation, which doesn’t appear to be a happy one.  And I don’t know for certain what it’s about.

My mind strains to work through the possible scenarios that I almost miss when Mr. Ryan mouths, “get to work,” before turning his attention to his computer screen, dismissing my deliberate stare.

By the time the bell rings, I’ve only a handful of problems left, and I’m pleased with myself.  But that quickly fades when I remember the little chat I’m about to have as I attempt to get my phone back.  I remain seated as the rest of the class files out, but as soon as the room’s empty, I stand.  I open my mouth in an attempt to speak when Mr. Ryan breezes past me towards the door.  Oh hell, he’s trying to blow me off!  I chase after him.

“Give me my damn phone back so I can go,” I bite out before he has a chance to leave.

I’m surprised when, instead of leaving, he closes the classroom door and locks the handle.

I’m frozen as I take him in; his rigid posture, his hand clenching the door knob in a white knuckled grip, the heavy rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes.

Almost inaudibly he says, “What the hell are you thinking?”

“What?” I ask, unsure what he’s talking about.  I thought this was about my texts from Wyatt.

Jacoby abruptly spins around, stalking towards me like a predator until he’s inches from my face.  I scramble back, tripping over my own feet, until my legs knock into a desk, and my balance falters.  “What in the hell were you thinking?” he spits out.

“Uh-I-um,” I struggle for a response, trying to remain upright.  I’m frozen by the anger radiating from his body.

“I thought you were a smart girl.  You didn’t want to go to the police, and I still don’t know why.  But I trusted you had a good reason.  I thought we had made some connection after what you went through.  Hell, I thought we had a connection the first time we met!  I thought you trusted me, too, Miss Krause—“

“Don’t start with that ‘Miss Krause’ shit,” I retort out of anger.

“Shut up!” he shouts, making me do just that.  “Are you not listening to a word I’m saying?  I thought you trusted me.  I’ve been there for you.  We had a few unpleasant moments, but I thought I made it clear that I care about what happens to you!”

The color rises in his cheeks as his eyes flit back and forth between mine, searching for…what?  I’m so confused.

“I do trust you, but honestly, I don’t know what this is about.  If you can just give me back my phone, I’ll leave you alone.  For good,” I add, because it seems where this is headed.  I don’t need to sit around and wait for the inevitable.

He shakes his head, the dark brown silky strands drifting across his forehead.  I’m mesmerized by the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he struggles to slow his breath.  “I tried so hard to ignore the incessant vibrations your phone was giving off all morning.  Eight times by the time you left my class second period.  By lunch, you had seventeen messages.  Damnit, I tried but my curiosity was too much.  I knew it was that punk bothering you, even after I’d told him off.”  He pauses, gauging my reaction.  I knew Wyatt wouldn’t just back off.  What did he say to make Jacoby so mad?