Page 26 of I Hope This Doesn't Find
“Huh?” I startle, and hastily turn my gaze back to Ms. Johnson’s disapproving face. “I’m so sorry, could you . . . say that again?”
Before Emailgate, she would have smiled at me, or peered at me with concern. Now she just heaves an irritable sigh and beckons for Julius to come over. “Since I’m going to have to repeat myself, I might as well tell you both at once.”
Julius positions himself to my far right, leaving four wide feet of distance between us. It feels particularly pointed today, like he’s trying to prove something to me, or to himself.
“Principal Miller has asked me to assign a task to you two,” Ms. Johnson says. “We have a four-page spread for the notable alumni section of the yearbook, but not enough content to go in there . . .”
“Why don’t you name another one of the curtains in the cafeteria after a notable alumnus and hold a grand naming ceremony again?” Julius asks innocently.
I have to stifle a snort.
Ms. Johnson misses the sarcasm. “That’s a good idea, Julius, but as of now all our curtains are already named. We thought it would be a better idea for you to conduct an interview with one of our very own alumni. See what they’ve been up to since they left Woodvale. Celebrate their successes. What do you think?”
I open my mouth. “I—”
“I’m glad we all agree,” Ms. Johnson says, and whips out a long list of names. “You can find the contact details here. I’d suggest you call them instead of email—you’re much more likely to get responses that way. The final draft for the interview is due the Friday after next. Any questions?”
I try again. “Just one—”
“Great,” she says briskly, smiling at only Julius, then struts back to her desk.
A silence falls over us. We both stand there, rigid, listening to the low whirring of the printer in the background, the muted tapping of the keyboard. Neither of us wants to do this.
“Wow, shereallydoesn’t like you,” Julius says after a beat. He can’t even hide the surprise in his voice.
“I know,” I grumble. It’s the obvious truth, but my skin still stings from it. I grab the list to hide my burning face and flip through the pages. “Let’s aim to finish this before the end of lunch,” I tell him, making my way to the empty table at the back of the classroom. My fingers itch with the need todosomething, to prove myself to Ms. Johnson, to get into her good graces again. Maybe if we handle the interview well, she’ll like me again. Or at least stop hating me.
Julius takes the seat next to me. But again, he makes sure to leave a significant amount of space between us so there’s zero chance of him touching me by accident.
For some reason, I’m more irritated than glad.
“You’re not going to be able to see like that,” I point out.
“What?”
“The contact information.”
“I can see it just fine from here,” he insists.
“Really?” I hold the list up. “What does the first name say?”
He squints at it, which really goes to show how far away he is. My irritation thickens. “Sarah . . . Newman?”
“It’s Clare Davis,” I say flatly as I punch her number into my phone. I’m praying she’ll pick up on the first ring, say she’s available for the interview, and then we’ll be done. “None of those letters were accurate. Thenumberof letters wasn’t even accurate. Why are you all the way over there if you can’t see? Are you afraid I’ll bite you or something?”
He rolls his eyes with what feels like exaggerated disdain. “In what world amIafraid of you?”
“Then come closer.”
“Fine.” He drags his chair forward until he’s right next to me, his shoulder almost pressed to mine, the heat of his skin seeping through my shirt. Until I’m aware of nothing except him, his nearness, his physical presence. And suddenly I find myself regretting my own request. It’s hard to think straight like this. I can’t even move without brushing against him. But asking him to go back would be admitting defeat—worse, it would be admitting he affects me. So I pretend to ignore him and focus on the call.
My phone heats up in my hand as the dial tone sounds through the speaker. Once, twice, three times . . .
On the fifth ring, Clare picks up. “Hello?” Her voice is curt, skeptical, like she’s 90 percent certain I’m a scammer about to sell her insurance for solar panels she doesn’t own.
I try not to fidget in my seat. I wish I wasn’t the kind of person who is always so sensitive to other people’s shifting moods and tones, who startles when someone raises their voice even a little, who cowers when someone else gets annoyed. “Hi,” I say, with as much warmth as I can project into the line. “This is Sadie Wen. I’m, um, calling on behalf of the yearbook committee at Woodvale—”
“Woodvale?”She lets out a snort so loud I almost drop the phone. “Nah, I graduated that flaming garbage dump ages ago—”
