Page 26 of Crashing Tides

There’s an urgent tap at my back. I don’t move, terrified that Dr Ward will assume I’m volunteering.

“No one?” she purrs. “It’s not that difficult. Who can remember?”

Not me, I think. Don’t look at me.

The tap is more frantic, a series of jabs. My shoulder tingles where Duncan has touched me.

I do not inhale. Do not lift my eyes from my notes.

“April,” hums Dr Ward, turning to my left. “What do you remember from the assigned text?”

“Um,” April stammers, shooting Jane a panicked look.

With Dr Ward distracted, I turn to look over my shoulder.

Duncan waves a slip of paper in my face. I snatch it, cheeks burning, and quickly stuff it into my notebook before anyone can see.

I don’t look at it, and he doesn’t say a word the rest of class.

This becomes a ritual. Whenever I freeze up in History, there’s a quick tap at my back. Whenever I turn around, Duncan thrusts a piece of paper at me and says nothing.

I never open it.

He’s just trying to help, I tell myself.

But another part of me is absolutely convinced that he thinks I’m a fucking idiot, and that’s not something I can abide by. If I unfurl those slips of paper, I’m going to have to confront this.

I know he’s not flirting or trying to carry on a conversation. He only interacts with me when Dr Ward acts like she’s about to randomly call on someone.

“I wish he’d just talk to me,” I groan to Jane one afternoon in the library, where we’re seated at a massive oak table with textbooks and papers scattered around us, taking up far more room than two people are entitled to. “Why does he keep passing notes?”

“I think he likes you,” says Jane, shrugging. Her long, dark hair is pushed over one shoulder, stark against her red sweater and pale skin. We’re finally in the thick of autumn, and Jane has a sweater for every day of the week. This one is a knit turtleneck that looks like it might’ve once belonged to some ancient mariner, it’s so thick and warm. “And he’s afraid of Dr Ward.”

“I think he wants me to cheat.”

“You cheat all the time,” Jane hums, unimpressed. “Seriously. I catch you looking at my notes whenever she asks you a question.”

I sigh. “I have test anxiety, OK?”

“And classroom anxiety, and social anxiety, and food anxiety…” Jane shakes her head.

As much as it pains me to admit it, she’s right. “I should probably jog more. That usually helps.”

“You work out like four hours a day,” she scoffs.

I don’t turn down an opportunity to flex my arm.

“OK, yeah, total beefcake.” She rolls her eyes, but she’s laughing. “But you’re a disaster.”

I deflate. “I’m trying,” I grumble, turning back to my notes. “I’m grieving, remember?”

She doesn’t say anything. When I finally raise my gaze to her, she’s staring out the window, contemplating something. Dark clouds have gathered in the sky, threatening rain. I watch orange and gold leaves drift by and think, This is my first autumn without Mom.

I turned twenty-three yesterday. For the first time in my life, she didn’t wish me a happy birthday, because she’s fucking dead. A whole bunch of family members and even Mom’s old friend, Kevin, called and sent text messages, but it isn’t the same.

My chest aches. My eyes are still red from silently crying last night.

Then Jane asks, “Wanna go to the beach?”