Four doesn't say anything about the kiss at school the next day, which makes me suspect that I might have dreamed it. But even though I never wanted it, or asked for it, it fills every waking thought like an itch that just won't go away. Several times over the course of the morning, I have to ask to get a drink, but I usually find myself leaning against the wall, telling myself to pull it together.
I don't know what to say to Four anymore. The silences between us today are often uncomfortable. Several times I have lifted my head to find him watching me, his expression unreadable.
I don't know why that doesn't bother me. It should.
I am unusually distracted, and when Four leans over me to look at a math problem or ask me something, I find it hard to breathe right.
During lunch, I don't want to sit with everyone else. Zeke is absent again and Christina has an uncanny knack for knowing when something's wrong. Instead I wander the hallways, looking for nothing and everything.
"Girl, what is with you today?" Christina demands of me during English, my last class of the day, which I despise, partly because Four isn't in it. I also see no point in learning the parts of a sentence, and the teacher, Mrs. Matthews, watches me like a hawk.
I do not think I like Mrs. Matthews.
"Um... I'll tell you later," I mutter. There's no way I'm going to discuss my love life with Christina while Molly sits next to us.
"Beatrice, did you hear me?"
The cold, sharp voice snaps me out of my reverie.
"I asked you to read page fifteen of The Grapes of Wrath. You may see me after class." Peter and Molly snicker.
With shaking hands, I do as she says.
In the,echoing silence I shiver each time that you say
M-E-R-C-Y
After the bell rings, Mrs. Matthews beckons me over to her desk.
"Beatrice-" DON'T call me that, I think -" you have been unusually preoccupied today. Would you care to explain why?"
Because Four kissed me last night and I think I might be falling for him. But I don't say that. What I do say is, " no".
Mrs. Matthews purses her lips. "Beatrice, you are a very bright young girl. I believe you can accomplish great things, if only you would let me help you."
Her voice is icy, sharp, almost like a knife. I do not trust her, not one little bit.
"No," I say. "I can decide for myself. I don't want your help. I'm going to leave now."
Then I shoulder my bookbag and leave without being excused.
M-E-R-C-Y
The cold voice haunts me all the way home.