Page 31 of Left on Read

My chest turns into warm, melty goo. Feelings are so gross sometimes, I just can’t take it.

People are starting to fill the halls, and the collective noise is loud enough that I can’t hear myself think. We start to walk down the crowded path to our classroom. “What was she saying?” I ask Hayes. Hopefully, he’ll ignore the reality of my having an entire meltdown just because a stranger touched me. And he’ll ignore the meltdown Ididn’thave becausehetouched me.

We arrive at the classroom door. It’s five minutes past the hour, later than I’ve ever been for a class in my life. Everyone else is already there, and their eyes all meet mine as we walk in. Strangely, most faces light up. Relax. That’s strange. I’ve never had the power to do that before. I’m still not sure how I’m doing it now.

Ten minutes until everyone gets to leave scot-free again.

Hayes and I take our seats, and he whispers in my ear. “She was saying thank you.”

I turn around in a way that I hope is discrete. Make eye contact with the girl who managed to make my entire nervous systemoverreact to a friendly, fleeting touch. She smiles. Seems harmless, really.

“For what?” I whisper.

“For offering to help them pass this class.” He’s grinning again, and for a second, I think he’s making fun of me, but then he continues. “For being the one person who cares.”

I stare up at the ancient chalkboard that still has green writing all over it from the last class. (They’re talking about the War of 1812, apparently.)

“I think you’re kind of a hero,” Hayes murmurs.

OfficialEndeavourHigh:The missing traffic cones have been recovered. Should the perpetrators try to steal them again, please know they are now equipped with tracking software.

Idon’t want to be anyone’s hero. People should be able to casually tap their heroes on the shoulder without them having an emotional breakdown. I’m not hero material.

But, despite that, that sentence becomes another one I unnecessarily obsess over. Play over and over again in my mind. I can’t figure out what he meant, even as hard as I try. In the end, it bothers me enough to actually ask him.

“What do you mean, I’m their hero?” I ask on the next class day, instead of any kind of greeting.Good morningmight have been nice.Hiwould’ve worked. I didn’t see him in the parking lot this morning. He must’ve gotten here super early, because I’mreallyearly. (Definitely not because I wanted to catch him in the parking lot, though. That’s a ludicrous idea.)

“Morning, Novella.” He doesn’t smile. His eyes are downcast and kind of sad, and I don’t know why that makes my chest hurt.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, throwing my stuff down and sitting inmy seat. At first, I sit like a normal person. Then, some part of me kind of wants to drift closer to him, so I turn, sitting sideways and letting my legs slide underneath his chair.

He twiddles a fraying thread from the rip in the knee of my jeans in between his forefinger and thumb. I pretend this is completely normal and not at alloverfamiliar.I’m scared that if I say anything, he’ll stop.

Why don’t I want him to stop?

“Sorry,” he mumbles, his hand falling away. “I know you don’t like people touching you. I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” I protest, because he did indeed stop. My hand reaches out for his, my fingers wrapping around his wrist. Now, I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s possible I’ve never known what I’m doing. “I mean, I don’t likestrangerstouching me. You …” I try to make some sense of this, of why it doesn’t bother me that he’s so close. That he could be closer. “You … can.”

“Okay.” And finally, he smiles. He turns his left hand over, shifting my fingers from around his wrist to settle against his palm.

“So, what’s wrong?” People are starting to filter in, paying us no attention. Even if we are sitting arguably closer than is appropriate for classmates and project partners.

“It’s nothing,” he mumbles, looking up at people walking past us with that almost fake grin while he tickles the inside of my wrist under the table.

These are the kinds of conversations I don’t like. He says onething, but he means something else. I don’t know which meaning to respond to. My instinct is always to take everything at face value, but that makes me gullible.

“But you’d tell me if something was really wrong, right?” I ask, squeezing his hand, even as Dr. Lowry ambles into the room.

“Yeah.” He winks again. I’m so unprepared for that. “I would.”

Lowry reminds us that midterm papers are due soon. That’s the only announcement. She sits down in her chair, pulls out her beloved iPad, and leaves us to our own devices.

“So.” Hayes turns his body toward mine, so he mirrors my position. My legs under his chair, his legs under mine. He opens a notebook that looks like it’s seen better days. “How’d you come up with this, anyway?” He picks up the printed midterm outline I gave him a week or so ago.

“Her, if you can believe it.” I point my pencil to where Lowry sits in front of us. I would hope that was discrete enough, but she hasn’t looked up in, like, ten minutes. She must get lost in time and space too. I wonder what she’s working on.

“What?” Hayes leans in, his brow crunched up in confusion. “How?”