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Braxton turns to escort me to my first classroom, when his phone begins to buzz.
He looks from his screen to me and says, “Arthur is ready to meet you in the Spring Room for lunch.”
My stomach churns. That can’t be good news. “But what if I’m not hungry?” I ask.
“I’m not sure that’s the point.”
I study Braxton’s face, trying to glean what’s really going on, but the curtain is drawn.
While I’m sure there are hundreds, maybe even hundreds of thousands, of people who would kill for a private audience with Arthur Blackstone, it’s not like I have an app to pitch or a product to hawk, so I don’t count myself among them.
“Come on,” Braxton says. “Quickly.” He starts to lead me toward the Spring Room, but it’s not far, and I figure I’m capable of going alone.
“I got it,” I tell him, needing to appear more confident than I feel. “Really, I’m good.”
Braxton looks at me with concern. “It’s going to be okay,” he says. “I’m sure it’s not what you think.”
“I’m not sure what I think,” I mumble to myself, and make my way down the hall.
