Emerson Castell loves facts.
Enjoying the how and why of everything, she never fails to let her obsession seep into every aspect of her life, including her relationships - or lack thereof.
Leo Caruso is no stranger to a busy social life, but after...
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I had yet to serve my detention.
The school principal, Mrs. Sanderson, knew me on a first name basis. Not that I had gotten into trouble before—that didn't seem possible so soon—but because she was a loyal buyer at my grandmother's stand at the local farmer's market.
As part of some obligation, she felt the need to ensure, as she had called it, "the smoothest transition possible for me at Eastridge Academy." So during lunch, I made my way over to her office.
"Come in," she called, looking up from her desk. She was a tall and slim woman with dark skin and a generally friendly aura. The frown on her face quickly morphed into a warm smile when she saw me standing in the doorway.
"Leo," she began, folding her delicate hands on her desk. "How are you?"
"Not bad," I answered. She gestured for me to sit down across from her. Her office smelled like air freshener and was pristinely neat, down to the sixteen identical black pens in the cup on her desk. "There is something I'd like to talk about." I took the detention slip from my backpack and slid it across the desk. "How do I put this correctly... I have reason to believe Mr. Abrams strongly dislikes me for no reason."
In the moment, she was reading the reason on the detention. I expected her to slide it back and tell me I deserved the consequences, but she ended up laughing.
Actually threw her head back and laughed.
"You're just a little new to this school," she said, taking the slip back in her hands, ripping it in two, and tossing it into the recycling bin by her desk. "Have a good day, Leo."
"Uh, you too, Principal Sanderson," I told her awkwardly and walked the long way to my next class, which ironically was AP Calc. I adjusted the Yankees cap on my head and sucked in a breath as I opened the door to the completely full classroom.
"You're late," Mr. Abrams stated as I walked to my seat. I was surprised he didn't say any more. He was probably saving up his supply of unnecessary comments for next unit's test.
"I have graded your first test," he announced, staring at all thirty of us through thick-rimmed glasses. "And you all did terribly."
A chorus of what's and oh no's sounded through the room. The only person who remained calm was Emerson, who sat on the opposite side of the room from me by the window. I didn't say anything either, but Santiago looked like he was turning green.
"You all did terribly except for two people," he added, walking down the aisle. He scanned each and every one of us while holding the thick stack of tests in one hand. The first one in the pile had more red marks than penciled-in numbers. "You'll know who you are."
It was funny how most of the class turned to Emerson. She seared holes into her desk with her eyes, but for a split second she met my gaze, almost like she was trying to send me a message. Mr. Abrams walked around the room and handed back the papers, slamming some of them down on certain students' desks and making the legs rattle. I kicked my legs into the bottom of the desk in front of me and relaxed in my seat, waiting until he reached me.
