Page 27 of Wild Card 13

No dramatic speech.

No fireworks.

Just Lucy standing there in my hoodie with pink cheeks and snow caught in her hair looking at me like maybe she wanted this as badly as I did.

My stomach immediately did something stupid remembering it. I scrubbed a hand over my face.

Jesus Christ.

I had officially become one of those guys. The kind who smiled at his phone for no reason. Disgusting behavior.

The classroom door finally opened.

I straightened immediately.

Peterson stepped out carrying a stack of papers against his chest and stopped when he saw me sitting there.

He sighed heavily. “Burns.”

“Petey.”

“Do not call me that.”

“Sorry, Mr. Peterson.”

“You are physically incapable of sounding sincere.”

“That’s not true.”

“It absolutely is.”

He adjusted the papers against his chest and looked down at me over his glasses. “Why are you still here?”

I blinked at him. “You told me grades would be finalized after school.”

“That was not an invitation to loiter outside my classroom like a raccoon.”

“I’m invested in my academic future.”

“You bounced a tennis ball against the wall for twenty straight minutes.”

“It was stress management.”

Peterson sighed the way teachers did when they were professionally exhausted by somebody specifically. “I genuinely do not understand how you function in society,” he muttered.

“Natural talent.”

“At what?”

“That remains unclear.”

A reluctant smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth before disappearing again.

Progress.

He looked back down at the stack of tests in his hands. “You know if you failed this, Coach isn’t letting you dress tomorrow.”

My stomach tightened instantly.