Page 43 of Shattered Ice
On paper he drowns, but when he speaks he burns. The mismatch is its own violence.
As I scroll, my anger at him for being difficult begins to curdle into something else. A hot, unfamiliar rage that isn’t aimed at him at all. It’s aimed at a world—at a father—that would look at a brilliant, struggling kid and see only a disappointment. A flaw in the brand. The name Charles Hale tastes like rust in my mouth.If he saw my search history,I think suddenly,would he laugh, or make sure I never typed his name again?
“Clara.”
My name cuts through the hush. I blink up, momentarily dazed. Genny is standing across from me, and Talia is with her, a stack of books balanced on her hip.
“That looks intense,” Talia says, her voice gentle as she nods toward my screen. “Are you okay?”
I quickly minimize the windows, my cheeks flushing hot. “I’m fine. Just… research for a paper.”
Genny’s eyes narrow. She glances at my still-closed textbooks, then back at my face. She pulls out the chair across from me and sits. Talia lingers, her expression full of a quiet concern that is almost my undoing.
“Well, I should go grab my books before the library closes,” Talia says, giving Genny a knowing look. “I’ll text you guys later.” She gives my shoulder a light, reassuring squeeze as she leaves.
Genny waits until Talia is out of earshot, then leans forward, her gaze sharp. “You’re spiraling.”
“I’m researching,” I reply, a little too fast, digging deeper even though every keystroke feels like a trespass.
“You’re spiraling through research.” She gestures to my untouched books. “You’re distracted.” She adds quietly, her gaze softening slightly, “And you don’t normally let a man sit that close to you without stabbing him with your pen.”
A pulse beats hot in my throat, traitorous and fast. That lands hard.
She leans forward, her voice dropping. “You’re not rattled, Clara. You’re wrecked. There’s a difference.”
“I am not—”
“You are,” she cuts in, her voice calm but not unkind. “Girls who insist they’re ‘fine’ don’t spend an hour Googling learning disabilities after getting stared at like a full-course meal.”
My mouth opens, closes, then opens again. She’s not wrong. She watches me in silence, patient, just seeing me.
“I think…” I start, the words feeling heavy and dangerous. “I think there’s something else going on with him, Gen. With his schoolwork.”
Genny just waits, letting me find the words.
“His work… it has all the markers,” I finally whisper, the confession feeling like a betrayal. “He transposes numbers. He avoids reading aloud. His written work is a disaster, but his verbal comprehension is off the charts. I think… I think he might have dyslexia.”
A cold shiver traces its way down my spine at the audacity of the thought, at the danger of knowing it.What if he knew I’d spotted it? He’d shove the evidence under my nose, daring me to call him broken.
Genny doesn’t look surprised. She just nods slowly, a sad, knowing look in her eyes. “Of course he does,” she says softly.
I stare at her. “What do you mean, ‘of course’?”
“Clara, in our world,” she says, the distinction between her world and mine never sharper, “boys like Adrian Hale aren’t allowed to have problems like that. They’re just labeled ‘difficult’ or ‘unmotivated.’ A father like Charles Hale would rather have a rebellious son who is a discipline problem than a ‘weak’ one who needs academic help. Admitting to something like that would be admitting the product is flawed.”
Her words slam into me, a window into the cage that built him, lined with his father’s razor-wire pride.
“I’m just… trying to help him.”
“I know.” Her tone softens, the lack of judgment finally breaking me. “Andthat’sthe problem. It stopped being about your scholarship the moment you started trying to figure him out.”
Maybe I am wrecked. And maybe I want to be.
Later, after she’s gone, her words echo in the quiet. It’s true. This isn’t just about my scholarship anymore. It’s about the boywho was told he was careless when his brain was just wired differently. It’s about the man who built a fortress of arrogance to hide a secret he’s probably carried, ashamed and alone, his entire life. To know a secret like his is a kind of possession.
I look at the notes I prepared for our next session. They’re not just tutoring materials anymore. They feel like a key. In my mind, the simple numbers blur and sharpen into blades—not worksheets, but a skeleton key sharp enough to cut the lock on his cage.
The terrifying truth hisses up my spine: I don’t care about the grade anymore.
