Page 27 of I Hope This Doesn't Find
I quickly take her off loudspeaker and bring the phone up to my ear, but everybody’s already heard. Ms. Johnson is staring my way, her lips disappearing into a fine line. The students sitting at the other desk dissolve into giggles.
“. . . I’m, like, so over high school,” Clare says. I hear honking on her end, the white rush of movement, then a muffled curse. “Stop cutting in front of me, you asshat—I’m driving, by the way.”
“Oh,” I say. Then, as if I’ve been possessed by the spirit of a driving instructor, I add, “It’s not safe for you to be calling, then. Eyes on the road.”
“You calledme,” she says.
“Right. Sorry. Um—” I can feel myself growing flustered. It doesn’t help that Julius hasn’t lifted his eyes from me this whole time. “We were only wondering if you would be interested in doing an interview for—”
“Nope.”
I have no idea how to respond. “Um, that’s fine, then. Thanks for your time and—”
The line clicks.
“Bye,” I mutter to nobody, setting the phone back down.
“That’s it?” Julius says. He shifts forward, his left shoulder bumping against mine with the rising motion. “That was terrible. You weren’t even trying to be persuasive.”
I glare at him. “You heard her. She wasn’t interested.”
“All I heard was you telling her to drive safely, then apologizing for no good reason, as per usual,” he drawls. “Sheshould have apologized; she was the one with an attitude.”
“You act as if you could produce better results.”
“I can.” He holds his hand out for the phone, but as I pass it over, my gaze falls on his knuckles. They’re split open and raw red. My first impression is that it must be from scrubbing the shed yesterday, but that can’t be right. He’d been wearing those ridiculous gloves for the very purpose of protecting his skin.
And this looks more unnatural, more deliberate, as if he’d slammed his fist into something hard . . .
Like Danny’s face.
He’s dialing the next number when he glances up. Catches me staring.
“Your hand,” I begin, because there’s no point hiding it. “Did you—”
“Did I what?”
What I’d been meaning to say was,Did you hit Danny yesterday? Was that where you went after we cleaned the shed?But before the words can leave my tongue, I note the coldness in his eyes, the closed-off way he’s holding himself, and I realize how utterly ridiculous that question is. It must have been a strange coincidence, that’s all. Julius Gong is far more likely to high-five Danny than hit him.
“What happened?” I ask instead.
“None of your business.” His voice is aloof.
Okay, it definitely couldn’t have been him.I’m mortified I had even considered the idea. “I was just asking out of politeness—”
“Well, then, you don’t have to pretend to care.”
I bristle, certain I’m about to start breathing fire. Why does everything have to be so difficult when it comes to him? But it’s not just anger twisting its way around my stomach like a serpent. Embarrassingly enough, it’s hurt too. There had been the briefest moment yesterday afternoon, when he offered me his blazer, where I thought . . . I don’t know. Maybe he didn’tdetestme. Maybe he had the capacity to be nice, like a normal human being. Another absurd, impossible idea.
“Yes?” A male voice floats up from the phone. “Who is this?”
“Hello, I’m Julius Gong. Is this Logan?” He’s firm but polite, each word clear and crisp but not too loud. He makes me want to kick something. “We have a great media opportunity here and as the most accomplished Woodvale alumnus, you were the very first person we thought of . . .”
“Liar,” I mouth at him.
He doesn’t even blink before continuing, “Your list of athletic accomplishments is truly impressive—”
But the man cuts him off midsentence. “Yeah, listen, I’m flattered, but thisreallyisn’t a good time right now. I’m, um, with company.”
