Page 3 of Wicked Mistletoe

“Right, right.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “Our curriculum must bore you to tears.”

You have no idea, buddy. I force a polite smile, fingers drumming nervously on my thighs.

“I see the courses you registered for are all AP. How did you find your first day of classes?”

“They were… okay.” A lie. In truth, they were mind-numbingly easy, and I was bored out of my skull. But I’m not about to mention that. Last time I whined about easy classes, I ended up skipping a few semesters and becoming a high school senior at sixteen. I’m definitely not in a rush to go to college and be even more of an outcast.

Mr. Logan nods to himself, then leans back, steepling his fingers. “How would you feel about a little mental workout?”

I perk up, excitement shooting through me despite my best efforts to play it cool. A challenge? Hell yeah. “Depends. What’s the catch?” I answer cautiously. There’s always a catch, isn’t there?

“I have this student. He’s promising and has a lot of potential, but he’s not exactly motivated when it comes to school.” He pauses, letting his words hang in the air.

I remain quiet, my gaze dropping to my hand as I doodle little circles on the desk, waiting for him to get to the point.

“I want you to tutor him.”

I stop doodling. My eyes snap up. “Tutor a senior? That—that—” That’s insane! I want to shout.

“Think about it as a service to humanity. Just like how your father serves the community, this could be your own little contribution.”

I blink, trying to connect the dots between my dad’s detective work and this tutoring gig.What does my dad’s job have to do with anything? Is this some kind of weird guilt trip?

I push the thought aside before I can fixate on it, my gaze flicking over Mr. Logan’s face, searching for any sign that this might be a joke. But no—his expression is dead serious. “Wait… did the student agree to this?”

“He’ll have no choice if he wants to graduate.” He waves a hand like it’s no big deal, but I can feel my stomach flip. My knees start bouncing again, a nervous tic I can’t control.

Great. So I’ll be teaching a resentful senior who probably wants to stuff me in a locker. Fan-freaking-tastic.

“I–I don’t think it’s such a good idea, Mr. Logan. If the student doesn’t want to be tutored, there’s not much I can do. I don’t want to waste my time.” Or get beaten up…

Mr. Logan leans forward. “Tell you, what. Why don’t you meet him first? I’ll arrange for him to come to the library, and you can see for yourself what you’re dealing with. If you decide he’s beyond help, then that’s that. He won’t be graduating this year.”

I frown, finger absentmindedly returning to trace those same little circles on the desk again. Great. If I don’t tutor this guy and he fails, I’ll probably drown in guilt for life. I’m only sixteen, for crying out loud!—has everyone forgotten that? But sure, let’s pile on the pressure. Why not?

“Okay,” I murmur, even though deep down I know I’ve already signed myself up. No matter how this meeting plays out, I’m going to end up tutoring him. Damn my overactive conscience.

“That’s the spirit, Emilia!” Mr. Logan beams, clearly pleased with himself. “I’ll have someone bring Rafael to the library. So go ahead and wait for him there.”

As I stand, the bell rings, signaling the end of lunch period, and I freeze. Economics. Crap. I’m supposed to be in class right now. But Mr. Logan seems to read my indecision perfectly and waves a dismissive hand like it’s no big deal. “It’s fine. You’re excused from the class.”

Really? Shouldn’t he be a little more concerned that I’m missingmyclasses just to babysit some guy who’s probably failing half of his? Not that I’ll actually fall behind—I’ve alreadygone through the entire semester’s material. Butstill. Talk about misplaced priorities.

With a sigh, I shove my hands back into my pockets and wade through the sea of students heading to their next classes on my way to the library.

The library is a ghost town when I arrive, save for the elderly librarian behind the front desk who shoots me a quick, nosy glance over her horn-rimmed glasses, probably wondering what I’m doing here. And of course, the Christmas decorations are still up here too. Seriously? Why do people insist on dragging out the holiday spirit? It’s a new year, people. Does ‘new year, new me’ mean nothing anymore? Apparently not.

As I walk to the back of the room, I catch sight of the snow falling outside and groan.Damn it. That means Dad will be late again tonight.For some reason, criminals all get some twisted thrill from bad weather. Snow hits, and suddenly they’re everywhere, crawling out of the woodwork like roaches. And, of course, Dad’s always right there, chasing after them.

Dropping into a seat with a clear view of the door, I mentally prepare for this Rafael guy to show up.Rafael. I roll his name around in my head for a moment, then shake it off as I wait.

And wait.

And wait some more.

My leg starts bouncing, fingers tapping the table, and before I know it, I’m up wandering around the bookshelves like a restless ghost.

What the hell is going on?Did he just bail on this whole tutoring thing?Rafael, Rafael, Rafael.His name sounds like trouble already.

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