The class settles in as the professor strides through the open door with his books beneath one arm.
“Good morning, class,” he says, and all chatter immediately ceases. “Welcome to the beginning of your semester project.”
He ignores the ensuing chorus of groans and goes on to tell us about it.
“Literature is often as inspired by the places they were written—or written about—as they were the authors who wrote them,” the professor says, his voice growing dreamy as his mind wanders a moment. “So, this semester I’m having you all do a little bit of travel outside the school walls.”
That statement perks us all up a little. I’ve only been here a couple weeks, but I’ve already gotten the impression that this sort of chance to get away from Bleakwood doesn’t happen too often.
“Each of you, and your assigned partners,” here he eyes us all a little closely, surely emphasizing the fact that this isn’t supposed to end up as an excuse to slack off with friends, “will be visiting several locations in order to experience first-hand the atmosphere that inspired a certain piece of classic literature.” He holds up one hand, the flicker of a thousand past repeated questions plain on his face. “And before you ask, yes … the book will be assigned as well.”
Even this doesn’t dampen the mood too much, though Rafael does lean a little closer to whisper, “Ah, and here I was thinking I’d get to pick The Colossus and take a little holiday down to Greece.”
Even though I have no idea what book he’s talking about, I allow a small smile to pull my lips thin. “Yeah? And who are you taking with you? Don’t worry,” I add in a hasty whisper while the professor’s back is turned to us a moment, “I’d be a fool to think it’s me.”
“If I wanted a plutonic vacation, you’re right … I’d bring Fox. But if it was up to me?” His eyes dart across the room, and for just one second alight on Beck. It’s so brief that it almost doesn’t happen.
Almost.
“Please,” I hiss back. “You can have him.”
Rafael just tries to hide his own secret smile, but I know the longing look on his face. If only Beck was gay, it says.
If only Beck wasn’t an ass. That’s what he should be thinking.
Part of me wants to box Rafael on the ears for even thinking it, but the other part of me remembers that I too was mooning over Beck just this morning. Damned teenage hormones.
At least that gives me something to blame other than myself, anyway.
“I have here all your names in a hat,” the professor continues, finally turning around to lift up a newsboy-style cap. “One by one, you will come up and draw a name. If you get yourself, you’ll draw again. Take a seat by your partner, and that will be your new seat for the semester.”
Shit. I shoot a worried glance at Rafael. He barely looks worried. He’s lounging back in his seat, his foot tapping against the leg of his desk while he stares blankly at the whiteboard.
The professor starts calling people to the front of the class. I hook my fingers around the edge of my desk, my fingers gripping the wood tighter than they should. One by one, boys walk up, draw a name, and then announce their partner before going to sit next to them. I listen as hard as I can, hoping against hope no one calls me.
I know this is stupid. I’ve worked on group projects before. It’s not the end of the world if I end up with someone random. Maybe it’d even be good for me. Force me to wean myself off Rafael. Even an outsider could see I’ve grown to rely on him too much.
That train of thought doesn’t stop my stomach from dropping when a boy in the front row pulls Rafael’s name.
Rafael glances sideways at me with what I understand, for him, is a soft expression. I’m trembling now as his partner comes to sit himself in the desk next to Rafael’s and the next few boys call out their partners.
I have to force my hands to steady. No big deal. This is going to be good for me.
No one calls my name, and soon, it’s my turn to walk to the front of class. I stand when the professor motions me up and gather my books before heading up to the desk.
The professor holds the hat out to me. Slowly, I reach over and dip my fingertips into the scraps of paper inside.
“We don’t have all day,” he sighs at me.
I nod and grasp one of the slips, pulling it out to read the name written there.
No. Please … no.
“Say it out loud, please.” The professor sounds more and more irritated.
But it’s hard for me to focus on talking. My vision goes blurry as fear and nausea grip my stomach. I clear my throat and try as hard as I can to speak without my voice shaking. I glance up, meet my partner’s gaze, and then look back down just as quickly.
“Beck.”