Page 28 of The Sun
Jenny grumbled as she pulled her book from her backpack. “How is this teaching?”
Thomas snickered, and Miss Weaver simply cocked a warning brow at Jenny who then made a show of huffing and flinging her hair around until she finally opened the book.
Ten minutes into class, determined clomps echoed down the hallway, not from high heels or Principal Davis’ dress shoes, but from boots. The back of my neck prickled with sweat as the door opened and his shadow appeared a fleeting moment before his body.
There went all the air again, sucked out of the room. Elias might as well be an oxygen-deprived vacuum.
“Do you have a tardy slip, Mr. Black?” Miss Weaver asked in an effort to sound stern, but really, the red splotches over her exposed chest did little to give her credibility.
Elias’ presence even flustered the teacher. If a twenty-something-year-old professional couldn’t control herself any better than that, I shouldn’t feel too bad for the palpitations in my chest.
“No,” he said.
“Why were you late?”
“Because my truck’s a piece of shit.” He crossed the room. The entire class turned to look at him. The guys snorted, and the good girls acted appalled. But for me, that same tingle I got at age six—when I heard him swear for the first time—shot down my spine.
“Mr. Black!” Miss Weaver gasped. “That language is unacceptable in the classroom.”
He fell into his seat, stretching his tattooed arm over the desk and curling his fingers around its edge. “It slipped.”
“Don’t let your language slip again, or you’ll be going to Mr. Davis’ office.
Elias’ jaw ticced like he bit back words.
While the rest of the class went back to their reading, I struggled to focus on Mr. Gatsby and Miss Buchanan. A few words into chapter one, my gaze drifted away from the pages and across the room.
Elias glanced up, his stare meeting mine as he leaned back in his seat without the slightest hint of a smile.
Panicked, I turned back to the book, rested my head in my hand, and focused on the print. Heat flushed my cheeks while I chastised myself for giving a crap about him.
He was a daydream that should never have been within reach.
When I flipped the page to Gatsby, who was just about to encounter Miss Buchanan for the first time, the pink stones in the moon ring glimmered in the sunlight streaming through the classroom windows, and I inhaled.
It was going to take a while to let go of missing someone for three years.
8
Elias
The door slammed closed behind me, and I stepped into the house that was about five degrees cooler than the blazing heat outside. The ancient, single window unit did little to cool the place.
Judah looked away from the TV. “What’s up your ass?”
“Shut up.” I glanced at the kitchen counter covered in dishes and open Captain Crunch boxes, then dropped my backpack to the floor and sank onto the couch. “Clean that shit up,” I said.
“Jesus. Are you on your man period or something?” He snorted. “Is your mangina cramping?”
“Don’t make me beat your ass.” I swiped a hand through my hair. “Where’s your brother?”
“Over at Doodle’s house.”
Doodle was a dealer. A shitty-ass dealer that lived in one of those metallic Airstream RVs from the 70s. His quote-unquote job was tie-dye artist, and his claim to fame was smoking a joint with Jimmy Hendrix backstage at Woodstock—which, if it were true, I couldn’t deny was pretty, fucking epic.
“That guy’s weird.” Judah flipped the channel, stopping on some commercial with a Chihuahua in a sombrero prancing down a sidewalk. Judah cackled and turned up the volume.
“Yo quiero Taco Bell.”
