Ahead of me, Sawyer stepped into the hallway and closed a door behind him. When he saw me, he froze with his hand on the doorknob, his face flushing bright pink.
I looked up at the nameplate on the door and saw why he felt caught. MS. MALONE, SCHOOL COUNSELOR.
But Sawyer was always quick to recover. The next second he didn’t look self-conscious anymore. His hands were on my shoulders. “Wow, what’s the matter?”
I flung myself into his arms.
9
AS SOON AS HIS ARMS encircled me, I was trying to pull away again. Nobody but us was in the hall right now. I could hear Ms. Chen’s morning announcements echoing through an open door. But a teacher was likely to peek out at us any second, see us embracing, and send us straight to the principal’s office. Plus, surveillance cameras frowned from the corners of the ceiling, keeping everyone safe from school shooters and public displays of affection.
Sawyer didn’t let go of me. He held my head to his chest, saying, “Shhh. Tell me what’s wrong, and we’ll fix it.”
I laughed and then coughed at the idea of Sawyer, with all his real problems, being able to solve any of my ridiculous ones. After a gargantuan sniffle, I said shakily, “I forgot to write my paper for Mr. Frank.”
He held me at arm’s length and looked into my eyes. “That’s a major grade.” Before I could cry again, he ordered me, “Stop. You mean you forgot to make your paper perfect, or you forgot to write it at all? How many words do you have?”
“None.” I was about to lose it.
“Stop,” he said again. “But you have your thesis statement and your notes and your outline, right? We did that in class.”
I nodded.
“That’s your blueprint. All you need to do is fill in the blanks. You have hours to get that done. We don’t go to Mr. Frank’s class until second-to-last period. You can write it on your computer and e-mail it to him while he’s taking roll.”
“But Sawyer,” I wailed, “I have class until then. I’m doing class during class.”
“You’ve got study hall,” he pointed out, “and lunch.”
“I was going to talk to Ms. Chen about the homecoming dance during lunch,” I said.
He shook me gently. “Kaye. Listen to me. You’ve got to let go of that shit and prioritize. Save your grade today. Do homecoming tomorrow.” He released my arms and rubbed where he’d squeezed me. “There’s lots of downtime during class, too. Even when teachers are talking, you can be working on your paper.”
“What if one of them calls on me and I get in trouble?”
“To save your GPA, it’s worth it,” he declared. “And if things really get hairy, take your computer to the bathroom.”
“This isn’t going to work,” I whispered.
He gave me an exasperated look. “Do you know how much homework I’ve done at the very last second in the bathroom? You can do this, Kaye. You just have to believe it. Isn’t your dad a famous writer?”
“He’s not famous,” I mumbled.
“But he works on deadline,” Sawyer pointed out. “Just because you didn’t obsess over this paper doesn’t mean it won’t be any good. Even if it does turn out to be shit, you’ll get a fifty just for turning it in, which is way better for your average than a zero.”
“Right.” With a grade of fifty rather than a zero, I’d get a B for this grading period and lose hope of making valedictorian. But there was always salutatorian. That might be good enough for admission to Columbia, with my alumni parents backing me.
But nothing would save me in the eyes of my mother.
“Whatever you’re thinking right now,” Sawyer said, “snap out of it. Let me tell you what needs to go through your head for the next five hours, until you turn this paper in.” He tapped one finger. “Dostoyevsky.”
“Dostoyevsky,” I repeated.
He tapped another finger. “Raskolnikov.”
“Raskolnikov,” I said.
“Alyona Ivanovna, Porfiry Petrovich, Sonia Marmeladov. Got that? Now, what’s going through your head? Hint: The answer should be Dostoyevsky.”
“I’m tardy for history,” I sobbed, “and I don’t have an excuse.”
Sawyer gave me his crazy face with one eyebrow up, clearly at the end of his patience. “I’ll write you in on the one Ms. Malone gave me.”
“That’s forgery!”
Shaking his head, he grabbed my hand and knocked on Ms. Malone’s door. When we heard “Come in,” he pulled me inside.
“Back so soon?” Ms. Malone asked from behind her desk. She saw me and said, “Oh, hi there.”
“Ms. Malone,” Sawyer said, “this is Kaye Gordon.”
Ms. Malone came around her desk to shake my hand. “We were just talking about you.” Too late she realized this was not the right thing to say. Her eyes darted to Sawyer, who was blushing intensely all over again.
His flushed cheeks were the only clue Sawyer was mortified, and he continued smoothly, “Kaye would like to make an appointment to talk with you about stress management techniques.”
“Yes, I see you’re having a problem there,” Ms. Malone agreed, scanning my tearstained and probably mascara-streaked face. “How about today?”
“Not today,” Sawyer said quickly, “or anytime before homecoming, because that will just stress her out more. How about the Monday after homecoming?”