Page 11 of Tomorrow Belongs to Us
At times I ask her to stay behind and collect all the papers. It’s because I trust her, because she does what I ask quickly and efficiently. But I hear the snickers. The other girls don’t like it. There’s nothing to it. No reason they should be nasty, but I’m wary because these things can be construed differently.
“You’re in danger of falling behind.” She needs to know, because I don’t know if anyone tells her, whether her parents even care. “You’re a bright girl, Megan, and if you want a scholarship to go to college you can't afford to drop your grades. It’s not just math. I’ve spoken to your other teachers and your grades are slipping across the board.”
She looks at me in alarm. “You spoke to the other teachers?”
“Because you fell asleep in class during the last lesson.” A student doesn’t suddenly drop grades over a short space of time over a lack of sleep or partying too hard.
Her head lowers and she stares at her shoes. “I'm aware of it, sir, and I'm trying to get back on top.” I notice her lower lip trembling. She seems fragile, as if that hard veneer she’s always had is starting to crumble. This isn’t the Megan Summers I know. “I’d like to help you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re bright, and you can go places. You have a determination about you that’s impossible to ignore. Tell me how I can help? Would extra homework help?”
“No, sir. I already have a lot of things going on, but I've got this. I really have.” She seems desperate to leave.
“A lot of things?”
She glances at the door. “I have to go.”
“I can revisit certain topics again, if there’s anything you don’t understand,” I offer. “Anything that would solidify your learning. I only want to help you, Megan.”
Her cheeks turn crimson. “Thank you, sir, but I know what I have to do. I've got all the textbooks and I will get back on track, I promise.”
Chapter 6
MEGAN
Sifting through the debris of my feelings for Lance Turner is like walking on the bottom of a river and messing up the sediment on the riverbed.
It's upset the buried past and brought up things that were better left untouched. Ever since he burst back into my life, I've become reeled into the obsessions that I was addicted to in my teenage years.
I blame Arla. It was her fault in that Math lesson all those years ago when she knocked the pencil shavings all over her notes. If I hadn’t gotten angry, Mr. Turner wouldn’t have heard the commotion and he wouldn’t have gotten annoyed, and he wouldn’t have told me off for making so much noise even though I wasn't the noisemaker.
Arla was.
I wouldn’t have had to stay behind, or collect the homework papers at the end of the lesson for him, after everyone else had left. And Mr. Turner wouldn’t have apologized to me. I wouldn't have noticed the blue of his eyes, or the scar along his jaw. He wouldn’t have taken an interest in my grades, nor cared that they’d slipped so much.
We might never have met at the library all those times, or gone out to have donuts; something a teacher and student would never have sneaked out of town for.
The lines between him being my teacher and becoming my friend wouldn’t have blurred.
But more than that, I would never have turned to him in my hour of need.
I would never have gone to him that fateful night.
I blame Arla for all of it, so, I call her. “I saw Lance Turner.”
“Who hasn’t?” Arla shrieks. “You couldn’t avoid the man if you tried. He’s everywhere.”
“I mean I ran into him, in person.” The phone line falls silent as I sink down lower on the couch.
“You ran into him?”
“I was carrying groceries when the handle of my bag broke and my things fell out—”
“Your boobs?”
“Mygroceries.” I roll my eyes. What planet is Arla on? “I dropped my bag and my groceries fell out and he got out of the car to help me.”
