Free Jane Jones by Caissie St. Onge Page B

added, “With me?” I realized I sounded like an idiot, and Timothy’s bemusedexpression might have infuriated me if I hadn’t absolutely deserved it. He put his hand lightly on the small of my back as we started up the stairs. It was just for a second, but the residual thrum of energy where his fingers had been lingered. I struggled to find some composure. “What about at lunch?”
    “Yes, I was actually hoping we could talk somewhere a bit more private than the cafeteria.” Before I could even start to tell myself that my earlier fears were true and that he was, in fact, ashamed to be seen with me, he added: “I’m not sure if you realize this, but Astrid is horrible.”
    Caught off guard, I laughed through my nose inelegantly.
    “I’m pretty sure if she sees us in the cafeteria together,” Timothy said, “she’ll do whatever she can to be obnoxious and disruptive. What about second period?”
    “Um, I have English. AP. AP English.” Like I needed to be that specific, making sure he knew that I wasn’t going to be in just any English class, but Advanced Placement English class. I’m sure the more I spoke, the more he was dazzled by exactly how advanced my English skills were. Or not.
    “I have government. Why don’t we skip our classes and meet on the football field under the bleachers?”
    “Oh. I’ve never cut class before. Except for yesterday, kind of. But I haven’t even found out if I’m in trouble for that yet. What will happen if I do it again?”
    “Well,” Timothy said, “the worst-case scenario is that you’ll fall into a pattern of delinquency and have to repeat the tenth grade. Can you imagine anything worse than repeating the tenth grade? Egads!” He chuckled at his inside joke as he deposited me in front of my locker and continued walking toward his own. I watched him move lithely through the sea of students milling in the hall, and because I couldn’t take my eyes off him, I clearly saw when he turned and silently mouthed to me, “See you then.”

seven
    As I walked into my first-period American history class, my mind was still racing with the idea that I could actually just cut a class and meet up with Timothy if I wanted to. Grateful that our chairs were arranged neatly in rows rather than in any kind of group, I snagged the last remaining seat on the non-windowed side of the classroom in the fourth row as the warning bell rang. In my peripheral vision, I noticed some motion from the sunny side of the room. Between my perpetually fingerprinty glasses and having to squint because of the intense morning light, I couldn’t exactly see who the frantically gesturing figure was, but logic told me that it had to be Eli Matthews, beckoning me to sit closer to him. What a goon. Still, it was kind of nice that he had saved a seat for me. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had saved a seat for me, or if anyone ever had at all. Either way, I couldn’t risk sitting by the window for an entire hour, not with that sunstreaming in. I pretended to sort through my binder on the desktop.
    Everyone was sitting in their seats fairly quietly when the final bell rang. Though Ms. Smithburg was not at her desk in the front of the classroom, it was reasonable to expect that she would come through the door momentarily. However, as the clock ticked off five minutes, the students gradually became more and more restless, eventually speaking to each other at full volume, wondering if Ms. Smithburg was out for the day, and if we would have a substitute or if we should just go to the cafeteria. Though I didn’t join the conversation, I was wondering what was going on as much as anyone. When Ms. Smithburg finally did sweep in at 8:06 a.m., you could almost sense everyone’s disappointment at not getting out of class. I could also feel my anxiety level tick up just a notch.
    Ms. Smithburg sat down in her chair without removing her long wool overcoat or setting down her chic leather briefcase. As