Page 9 of Save Me

I pull my journal out from under my history book and open it. Every bullet point for today has already been ticked off. The only thing that’s still glittering mockingly at me ispick up reference from Mr. Sutton.

I grit my teeth and stare at the letters. I wish I could erase them—that and the memory of him and Lydia.

For the first time since the lesson started, I dare to peek over Lydia’s head to the front. Mr. Sutton’s standing at the whiteboard. He’s wearing a checkered shirt and a dark gray cardigan, and the glasses he always has on in class. He has neat designer stubble, and I can see the dimples in his cheeks that the whole class swoons over.

Laughter rings out around me—he’s cracked a joke.

One of the reasons I always used to like him so much.

Now I can’t even look at him.

I don’t get it—Mr. Sutton got into Oxford, did his degree, started work at one of the poshest schools in the country straight after graduating, and then the first thing he goes and does is get involved with a student? Why, for God’s sake?

His eyes meet mine and immediately, his smile slips slightly. In front of me, Lydia stiffens. Her shoulders and neck go rigid, as if she’s putting every ounce of strength she has into not turning around.

I lower my gaze so hastily to my planner that my hair flies across my face like a dark cloud. I spend the rest of the lesson hunched in that position.

When the bell finally rings, it feels like days have passed, not ninety minutes. I take as much time as I can. I gather up my stuffin slow motion and put it carefully away in my backpack. Then I do up the zip so slowly that I hear each individual tooth lock into place.

I don’t stand up until everyone’s footsteps and voices are gradually fading. Mr. Sutton seems miles away as he stuffs his papers into a folder. He looks tense, every scrap of humor that was on his face just now has vanished.

The only person still in the room with us is Lydia Beaufort. She’s hanging around by the door, looking from me to Mr. Sutton and back again, her jaw tense.

My heart is pounding in my throat as I shoulder my backpack and walk to the front. I stop a good distance away from Mr. Sutton’s desk and clear my throat. He looks at me. His golden-brown eyes are full of regret. His guilty conscience is tangible. His movements are jerky and robotic.

“Lydia, would you give us a minute?” he asks, not looking at her.

“But…”

“Please,” he adds gently, his eyes drifting over to her for a second.

She nods, lips pressed together, and turns away. She shuts the classroom door quietly behind her.

Mr. Sutton turns back to me. He opens his mouth to say something, but I cut him off.

“I just wanted to pick up my UCAS reference,” I say hastily.

He blinks, confused, and it takes him a moment to react. “I…Of course.” He flips frantically through the folder that he just put his class notes away in. He doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for, so he leans over, picks up his brown leather bag from the floor, and heaves it onto the desk. He opens it and digs around for awhile. His hands are shaking, and I can see his cheeks starting to flush pink.

“Here’s your copy,” he mumbles as he finally pulls out a clear plastic folder with a sheet of paper inside it. “I was intending to talk it through with you first, but after…” He clears his throat. “I’ve already uploaded it because I didn’t know if you’d still be collecting it.”

I take it with stiff fingers. “Thanks.”

He coughs again. The situation is getting worse by the second. “I wanted to tell you that I…”

“Don’t.” My voice is a hoarse croak. “Please…don’t.”

“Ruby…” Suddenly I recognize a second emotion alongside the regret in Mr. Sutton’s eyes: fear. He’s afraid of me. Or rather of what I might do with the knowledge I have of him and Lydia. “I only wanted to…”

“No,” I say, and this time my voice is firmer. I lift my hands to ward it off. “I have no intention of telling anyone about it. Really, I don’t. I…I just want to forget the whole thing.”

He opens his mouth and shuts it again. His expression is equal parts surprise and doubt.

“It’s none of my business,” I continue. “Or anyone else’s.”

Between us there’s a pause, during which Mr. Sutton eyes me so intently that I don’t know where to look. It’s as though he’s trying to read my eyes to find out whether I’m serious. In the end, he says quietly: “You know that that means I’ll still be your teacher.”

Of course I do. And the idea of spending several hours a week in the same room as Lydia and Mr. Sutton is anything but appealing. But the alternative is going to the head, and my encounter with James Beaufort gave me a very clear foretaste of what that would mean for me.

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