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“Well, that has nothing to do with factorials, and I’m pretty sure it’s inappropriate for you to ask me about my personal life,” Mr. Connelly replied.

The class laughed.

“Seriously, Mr. Connelly,” Derek said. “You never share anything with us. I thought you were supposed to be a cool teacher.”

“Cool teacher, huh? I guess I totally fooled you with my kicks,” Mr. Connelly said.

More laughter.

“Oh, just tell us!” a girl pleaded.

“Why do you care about my life?” he asked. He was stalling. Just answer the question!

“Because we find you fascinating,” Kara said. “Now answer the questions. Why do you like teaching teenagers, and do you have a girlfriend?”

Mr. Connelly scanned the room. I guess he figured no one would pay any more attention if he didn’t answer the questions first.

“I haven’t decided if I like teaching teens yet,” he said. “I’m only a few years in.”

A few chuckles.

I held my breath for the second answer. I don’t know why. I knew he didn’t have a girlfriend.

Mr. Connelly glanced at me for the briefest second. But it was long enough for me to see him make a decision. “Yes. I’m dating someone.”

Some of the girls squealed. Others groaned. I made no noise; I just listened for the fracturing of my heart. How? How was that possible?

“Where did you meet her?” Trisha asked.

Mr. Connelly smirked. “It was a set-up.”

God, my stomach hurt! All of a sudden, it hurt like hell. I guess my heart fragments punctured it or something.

“How long have you been dating?”

“It’s brand new,” Mr. Connelly replied.

“Are you gonna marry her?” came a question from the far side of the room. The girls giggled.

“Moving on,” Mr. Connelly said.

I stopped gripping the sides of my desk. I hadn’t realized I was doing it. I guess it was a reaction to my aching stomach.

I kept my head lowered for the rest of the period. I didn’t hear a thing about factorials. I just doodled in my notebook, writing the same word over and over. Sometimes in bubble letters. Sometimes in block letters. Sometimes in cursive. Sometimes in all caps. By the end of class, I had a nicely decorated page filled with the same word.

“Stupid.”

I thought it was over—the bullying. I made it three weeks without any incidents apart from the occasional hate note slid through the slats of my locker, and figured the bullies had moved on to someone else because I was boring. And because I had a new lock. But then on Monday I opened my locker to flour. Lots and lots of flour dumped all over my books and binders, coating my hands and dusting the front of my shirt and tops of my shoes as I pulled out a notebook. I heard snickers across the hall and ignored them. I couldn’t hide my irritation, though. I kind of liked the outfit I was wearing, and now it looked ridiculous.

“Want me to say something?”

I jumped then whirled around. Oliver was standing behind me with his fists clenched. I shook my head.

“Don’t bother. And anyway, it could make things worse,” I replied. “Thanks, though.”

He nodded. “Want me to walk with you to class?”

I grinned. I kind of liked the idea of having a bodyguard, but I really didn’t want Oliver to go to the trouble. I didn’t want him fighting my battles or turning into me: an outcast. Well, semi-outcast. I had Nicole and Riley. At least during lunch.

“I’m a big girl, Ollie. I’ll be okay.”

He nodded again and left in the opposite direction. I hurried to calculus to beat the tardy bell. No time to wash my hands first.

I walked into the room and took my seat, ignoring the laughter behind me. What I couldn’t ignore was the gossip. I heard “Cadence,” “crack,” and “gun.” I really wanted to turn around and set the record straight. First off, I wasn’t high on crack. It was cocaine. Totally different thing. Crack was like the poor man’s cocaine. A cheap version of the white powder that jacked you up quickly but brought you down just as fast. I was high on really expensive cocaine, or so I was told. And it was a high that lasted a while. Second, I wasn’t holding the weapon. And it wasn’t a real gun. It was a tranquilizer gun. Because the people I was with were total morons.

The bell rang, and class began with a review of last night’s homework. I settled into a sort of numbness, listening halfheartedly to something about derivatives and linear approximation. I rested my chin in my hands, staring off to a point past the white board. Or maybe it was a point inside the white board. I’m not sure. I just know that Mr. Connelly’s voice was soothing, and it transported me to a silly daydream. Gracie was in it, and we were ten years old, passing notes back and forth during vacation Bible school. They were about our teacher, Mr. Arnold, and we were making fun of his receding hairline. He confiscated the notes, and we were in major trouble.

I grinned, thinking about the lecture I received from Dad about manners and respecting your elders. Mr. Connelly smiled back, jolting me out of the dream. The bell rang, and I was once again fully immersed in my reality.

“Cadence? Will you hang back a minute?” Mr. Connelly asked as students shuffled out of the room.

I nodded and stayed in my seat. I wasn’t sure why Mr. Connelly held me back. After he bought me lunch several weeks back, he all but ignored me everywhere at school. I realized my silly fantasy about him was just that: a silly fantasy. He wasn’t interested in me, and I’ve no idea why I got it in my head that he was. I kept thinking about that look from Highway 28. Actually, I was consumed with that look. I know I didn’t make it up, but he had a girlfriend. Case closed.

Once the room cleared, Mr. Connelly closed the door and pulled the shade over the window. I thought I heard the faint click of the lock. He walked back to his desk and reached into a drawer, pulling out a wet wipe. He walked over to me and kneeled beside my desk.

“May I?” he asked.

I gave him my hand automatically, and he took it, wiping gently, tracing the lines of my palms.

“I see a very promising future,” he said, staring into my hand.

“You read palms?”

“Oh, yes,” he replied.

“And when did you start reading palms?”

“Just now.” He smiled up at me. And there it was. The look that suggested he saw something in me that I didn’t. Something magnetic that compelled him to touch me at school when he knew he shouldn’t. There. I knew I didn’t imagine it!

I smiled back.

 He looked down at my hand once more. “I see a happy woman.”

“Why is she happy?” I asked.

“Because she’s no longer attending Crestview High,” he replied.

I laughed, and Mr. Connelly continued cleaning my hand until there was no trace of flour left. I let him repeat the process on my other hand. I knew my face flushed scarlet, and I thought it would catch on fire for what he did next.

He folded the wet wipe to a clean side and brought it to my cheek. I had forgotten that I rested my face in my hands during the middle of class. I closed my eyes on reflex, something I did when I was little and Mom would wash my face. I stayed frozen like a statue while Mr. Connelly swiped my other cheek, dragging the wet wipe slowly and softly along my jaw, from the tip of my chin all the way to my earlobe.

I shuddered involuntarily and instinctively grabbed his hand.

“I’m ticklish,” I breathed, clutching his hand on my face.

“I’m sorry,” he replied.

I opened my eyes to see him studying me. I couldn’t stand the intimacy of the moment and searched frantically for something to say.

“What’s your girlfriend’s name?” I asked.

“What girlfriend?”

I furrowed my brows, and he grinned.

“Why did you tell the class you had a girlfriend?” I asked.

“Because that’s what they wanted to hear,” he replied. His stare was piercing, and I tried to think of something less intimate to discuss.

“Why do you have wet wipes in your desk?” I asked.

“You know you’ll be okay,” he replied, ignoring my question.

My breathing came faster, and I couldn’t hide the rapid rise and fall of my chest. I wished it were winter and I was wrapped in a heavy coat, but even then, I feared he would be able to see my chest pound—my delicious, terrifying panic.

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

I squeezed his hand, and he opened it, cupping my cheek with the used wet wipe. I should have laughed at how silly it felt, but I knew it was only because he was trying to caress my skin, and the wipe was in the way.

“You’ll be late for class, Cadence,” he said, and as if his voice were the signal, the bell rang, shattering the enchanting moment. He stood up and walked to the trash can, tossing the wipe before turning to face me once more.

“I have wet wipes in my desk because I never know when I’ll need them,” he said.

“Oh.”

“I can make them stop,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“The . . . bullying.”

I grabbed my books and stood up.

“No. There’s nothing you can do,” I said, walking to the door. “They’ll grow tired of it eventually.”

“It’s not right,” Mr. Connelly said. “I can do something about it.”

“No, Mr. Connelly,” I said. “Please don’t. You’ll only make it worse.”

He looked angry, but not with me. He looked angry because he knew I was right. There wasn’t really anything he could do. He remembered high school. He knew the rules, fair or unfair.

“Let me give you a late pass,” he said, walking to his desk and scrawling his signature on a pink slip of paper. I took it, unlocked the door, and slunk out without a word.

I stared at my hands in every class for the rest of the day replaying Mr. Connelly’s ministrations. He had to know it was inappropriate. Why would he touch me like that? And why did I let him? I could have said no. I could have walked away. But I didn’t want to. I wanted him to clean my hands, to say kind things to me, to make me laugh. I realized that Mr. Connelly was one of the only nice men in my life right now. Did he sense that? And was he taking advantage of it?

***

“I’ve got a proposition for you.”

I watched a tall girl with long black hair plop her lunch tray carelessly on the table across from me. A few of her steamed vegetables flew out of their container, landing in front of me with a wet plunk. I looked down at my own vegetables and decided I wasn’t hungry.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I’m Avery,” she replied, opening her chocolate milk. She grinned and took a swig, then got right down to business. “Okay, so I’ve been watching you the past few weeks.”

“Creepy.”

“Totally, but just hear me out. I’ve been watching you, and I know you don’t have any friends. I know what’s going on with you.”

“You do?” I shifted nervously in my seat.

“Mmhmm. You made a huge mistake and got in major trouble with your parents, and now they won’t let you do a thing, right? They won’t let you out of their sight. Am I right?”

“Um . . .”

“You can’t drive. You can’t go anywhere except school and church. I’ve seen you at church, by the way. People keep asking when you’re coming back to youth group.”

“Never,” I replied.

Avery laughed.

“Why don’t I know you?” I asked. “I mean, if you go to my church and all.”

“My family moved here a year ago, and while you were picking up trash on the highways, I was attending youth group at your church and learning all about your deviant behavior.”

“Hmm. So I guess you already know my name, and that’s why you didn’t bother to ask?”

“Oh, I know exactly who you are. You’re Cadence Miller, the girl who got high, robbed a convenience store, and went to juvie for ten months,” Avery said. “You’re the girl who avoided real prison by the skin of her teeth. Lucky.”

It was true. I was a few months shy of my seventeenth birthday when I was sentenced, the age teenagers are tried as adults in Georgia.