Page 62 of Left on Read

“But … everyone was willing to go to bat for me? Just like that?” I look down at my hands and start picking at my cuticles again.

“I barely even had to ask.” He covers his hands with mine so I’ll stop peeling away my own skin. “Becausetheybarely had to askyoufor help.”

“What about Mrs. Jacobs?” I ask.

“Well,” he starts, pushing my bangs behind my ears. “You have one English teacher scared enough to want you out of her class forever and another who would probably fight an eighteenth-century duel for you if it was legal.”

“It wasn’t legal in the eighteenth century, either.” I giggle.

He rolls his eyes, and then his hand stills on my cheek, stray waves threaded through his fingers. I wrap my fingers around his wrist. Just to keep him there.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

My mind races through the past few months, all those times I expected him to be harsh when he was kind. When I’d expect sarcasm and he gave me sincerity. When I expected a brush-off and he gave me his undivided attention.

He runs his thumb back and forth over my eyebrow. My lowered lashes brush against his palm.

“I massively fucked up once. I caused a scene at your expense just because I didn’t know how to handle my own shit. Least I could do was cause a scene foryourbenefit this time.”

His hands fall from my face, and they wrap underneath my knees. He hauls me closer, until I’m almost sitting in his lap. He leans in, and my lips brush against his. It’s the faintest pressure and the most heightened sense of awareness.

“Wait.” I pull away, just far enough to breathe. “You always take care of me. When I have a migraine or a meltdown or …” I think of how to describe the situation we’re currently in. “Or when I cause anacademic incident.“

He laughs, a hiss of a chuckle that I feel on my lower lip.

“But I want to take care of you too. Coming up with a paper topic is just the start, okay? I can do more. I know you’re … distant with your family, and when you’re here, you have this cool persona like nothing bothers you and it doesn’t matter. But things do matter, Hayes. You, for instance. You matter to me. And I want you to tell me things.”

Hayes leans forward barely an inch. Just enough to sigh intomy mouth and put his hand on the back of my neck. Those sparkling shards of my heart burst into flames. Fire is a chemical reaction, he’d say. It makes irrevocable change. Shards to ashes to … something brand new.

“Does the sanctity of this classroom mean nothing to you?” Mrs. Jacobs says from the doorway. Oh my God. This is the most embarrassing moment of my life.

We spring apart like repelling magnets. My chair slides across the floor so fast that it nearly leaves my butt behind. I almost hit the linoleum.

“There’s no sanctity left in this classroom,” I tell her.

She quirks an eyebrow, and I realize how that sounds. I think I hear Hayes choke on his own spit.

“Not because of …us. Because of her.” I gesture to the front of the room, like that desk is contaminated forever by Lowry’s horrible energy. It wouldn’t surprise me if she haunted the room like the ghost of a pissed off Victorian child.

Mrs. Jacobs nods.

“Nova.” She’s a gun and my name is a bullet. It’s a center-mass hit, and she hasn’t even fired yet. “You should’ve come to me with this. You have come to me for everything over the years. I have watched you cry and celebrate and figure out so much about yourself and the world, and I am so proud of you. You’re smart and talented and generous.

“But you have to ask for help sometimes. Of all the things in the world, your English class is arguably the thing I’mbestprepared tohelp with. And instead of asking me for that help, you picked up the weight of the world and walked around for weeks with it on your shoulders.”

She’s mad at me, but I try not to think like that. If I do, it’ll crush me, and I can’t withstand any more crushing pressure. I try to just listen.

“I’m sorry,” I admit, finally meeting her eyes.

“Trying to salvage everyone’s understanding of American literature by managing their projects yourself was basically the last thing you should’ve done in this situation, but you did a bang-up job. You’re going to be an incredible teacher someday, Nova. You just have to promise me you’ll learn how to ask for help before then.”

“I will.” It’s a promise, and she knows it. Hayes squeezes my hand. I don’t even remember when he grabbed hold of it again.

Mrs. Jacobs turns and moves toward the door. I want to ask her what’s going to happen to Lowry, and to our grades, and to our class. But it doesn’t seem like the time for that now. She turns back to look over her shoulder at the last second, one hand on the doorframe.

“You should’ve come to me after the first Jane Austen movie. You know we can’t trust an English teacher who prefers the wrong version of P-and-P.”

Those heel-clacks lead her out of the building, and then it’s just me and Hayes again. He stands up, still holding my hand. I follow.My mind is racing, all the guilt and the strange pride and the fierce gratitude and the possibilities of what this could all mean.