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I turn away. “Can someone tell me what thatmeans?”
“That my parents were loaded and I’ll beloaded.”
I shift a hip onto my desk. “Not quite, Mr.Armitage.”
I’m not good withkids.
Maybe because I’m a geneticist. I’m more interested in what’s under the surface.Wayunder the surface. How we walk, talk, interact… it’s all too coarse for me. I’m an engineer at the molecular level because what’s beneath the surface is damnfascinating.
Plus, at the risk of overstating my importance, I’m trying to cure cancer—literally. Every second I spend babysitting teenagers is time I could’ve spent working toward something legitimately important to millions ofpeople.
Movement catches my eye, and I look toward the back of theclass.
Two kids are signing to oneanother.
“Mr. Byrne,” Iinterrupt.
I’m all for sign language, both for accessibility and because it’s just cool. To my knowledge, neither of these kids have a hearing or speech impairment, which means they’re using it to avoid beingoverheard.
One turns to me, but not before gesturing to his friend, whosnickers.
I look between them. Then I sign back,You’rerude.
The grin falls from the first boy’sface.
I tap one pointer finger on top of the other.Hurryup.
He clears his throat. “It means if your great-grandfather looked like a dumbass, you and your siblings probably willtoo.”
“Thank you, Mr.Byrne.”
The bell rings to signal lunch and the students throw their belongings in their bags and stream out the door as if my classroom is onfire.
Of course the smartest kid in my class is also the biggest pain in theass.
And he’s Rena’sbrother.
I should be deciding how I’m going to keep my promise to watch out for him, but as I weave through the halls toward the administration office for a review meeting with the principal during my free period, my mind drifts back to theparty.
Thatkiss.
I replayed it in my mind dozens of times lyingawake.
A dozen more on my way to drop off the rented tux thismorning.
I swear I can smell her onit.
None of it matters. She’s going out with a guy tomorrownight.
I know everything about him. More than I need to, in fact. I figured out where he lives, where heworks.
I should be grateful she’s willing to play this out to the level of actually sitting across from someone for an evening—not just five minutes and a cardboard cutout of a French café—in order to help me sell thisapp.
But all I can think about is what they’ll talkabout.
When I reach the office, the admin assistant motions me toward the empty conferenceroom.
I take a seat in the glass room and open my emails on my phone. For the past month, I’ve been waiting on one from the review committee for a new paper, hitting refresh like my kids with FOMO waiting for a status update on the lake party they missed inTahoe.
