Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“I gotta run,” Lucas said. “My class is at the other end of the building, and Dickson locks the door if you’re one second late. I already have detention twice this week.”
“See you later.”
Jocelyn had finished packing her books into her book bag when she felt a presence come up behind her, just before a heavy palm wrapped over her shoulder. Somehow, she knew who it was.
“Hello, Jocelyn.”
“Hi, Mr. Sawyer.” She turned to look up at him. His presence made her feel calmer. And yet nervous, too. How was that possible?
He lifted his chin down the hall. “Who was that?”
“Lucas.”
Mr. Sawyer was silent, yet the tension set in his jaw spoke volumes. He was waiting for more.
“He’s just a friend.”
The muscle in his cheek ticked.
“My . . . ummm, friend is sort of hanging around with him. He was looking for her.”
Mr. Sawyer’s face softened. “Keep your focus on your schoolwork. Not boys.”
Jocelyn nodded. “I do.”
He smiled. “Good. How are you today?”
Her insides grew warm. No one ever cared to ask how she was doing. “I’m okay.” The memory of how she’d felt alone in the classroom with him the other day hit, and she lowered her gaze to stare at his shirt. A crisp button-up, ironed, neat. It made her realize she should be trying harder, in her slightly rumpled secondhand clothes.
“Good. I have an assignment for you.”
She couldn’t help it—her eyes shot up, meeting his, wide with curiosity, excitement. But she immediately grew nervous that she might disappoint him. “Okay.” Her voice was tentative.
“I’d like you to write an essay for me on how your mother’s drinking makes you feel. Really . . .” He paused, gave it a moment’s thought. “Pour all your heart and emotion into it. Strike to the bone. Understand? I want all of your emotion. Don’t leave anything unsaid.” His hand touched her shoulder again, and a jolt shot through her body. She liked it, hoped he’d never move.
But a moment later, it was gone. Cool air filled the space between them. A slam of a nearby locker brought her back to real life.
“Yes, sir,” she murmured. “I won’t leave anything unsaid.”
“Good. Now get to class. Keep under the radar. Don’t look for trouble.”
That night, Jocelyn set aside everything—even eating dinner—to write. And write she did. Every time she paused, she remembered the way Mr. Sawyer had looked at her, the way her skin lit up when he touched her—thinking about it, goose bumps sprang up all over her body. She forced her focus back to the task at hand and let emotions pour from her. Words flew from her keyboard like nothing she’d experienced before.
The following day, she waited until after school, then went to Mr. Sawyer’s classroom. She knocked quietly on his door, and he opened it immediately, like he’d been waiting for her to arrive.
His dark eyes studied her. “Yes?” he asked curtly.
“I have it.” She held up the sheaf of papers, neatly stapled together. “The assignment.”
“Good.” He opened the door, allowed her entrance. Jocelyn took a few steps in and paused, feeling a thrill run up her spine when she heard the loud click as he engaged the lock on the door behind her.
Her stomach swam, but not with nerves this time—with excitement, even if she didn’t fully understand why. She did know this meant they couldn’t be interrupted. That she, alone, would receive his attention until he dismissed her.
Mr. Sawyer stepped in front of her—right up in her space. Like sunshine, he made her warm, and she wanted to bask in the glow.
She lifted her paper. He looked at it but didn’t take it from her hands. Instead, he turned on his heel, went back to his desk, perched on the edge, and studied her. She blushed under the intense scrutiny. And suddenly, she remembered how much truth she’d put in the paper she’d written. How much of herself—her cringeworthy, true self—she’d written into each page. What would he think of her after he read them?
Her mouth opened—she was going to tell him that, actually, she should edit it one last time, or that she’d realized she forgot something or—
“Please kneel, Jocelyn.”
Her body froze. Kneel? She laughed nervously. “You’re joking, right?”
But there wasn’t a trace of humor in her teacher’s face. Mr. Sawyer pushed off the desk, rising to full height, which now seemed taller than she’d ever noticed. “I will not repeat myself, Miss Burton. When you’re in this classroom, receiving my help, you’ll do as I say. Is that understood?”
“Uhh . . . yeah.”
“The word is yes, not yeah.”
“Oh. Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir.”
He smiled, and Jocelyn’s eyes locked with Mr. Sawyer’s once again. A shiver ran up her spine—not the creepy-crawly kind, but the kind that comes from a surge of excitement pulsing through your body. She liked the way he looked at her. She liked having his sole focus, as being the object of attention was an honor rarely bestowed on her.