by Sophie Davis
In his arms, the world felt a little brighter. A little less grim. I wanted to stay in this moment forever. Except, we were in a coffeeshop, not our own little world. When Shirley returned with our drinks, mine was topped with a mound of whipped cream and chocolate shavings.
You’re never too young to watch your weight, my mother’s voice trilled inside my head. Smiling to myself, I reached for the mug and tried the mystery concoction.
“Shirley, you know me well,” I said, the buttercream hot chocolate warming my insides. “This is amazing.”
“I thought you might like it.” She set a small plate of bite-sized cookies on the table. “These are compliments of the baker. You two enjoy, let me know if you need anything else.” Shirley gave us one last broad smile, then turned her attention to the couple who’d just snagged a nearby table.
“So, do you have a lot of homework? Or do we have time to just chill?” Blake asked, toying with my hair. Resting his forehead against mine, Blake’s emerald eyes pinned me in place. His kiss was soft, sweet, and so short that only someone actively watching us would have seen. He ran his fingertip from my temple to my cheekbone.
Goosebumps appeared on my arms. “We should probably start our homework…,” I breathed.
A dark curl strayed onto his tan forehead. I pushed it back, admiring the flawless lines of his face. Before desire could shadow reason altogether, I pulled away.
“Want me to help you with chemistry?” I asked, reaching for my school bag. “I scored pretty high on my last practice test.”
“I bet you did…,” Blake began in a teasing tone.
Shaking my head, I gave him a glare that held no real heat. “Play time is over, buddy. Unless you want our future dates to be virtual? I’ll be on lockdown if my dad even suspects that I’m not one hundred percent focused on school.”
“Ooh, I’d finally get to see your bedroom,” Blake joked, retrieving his own laptop and school books.
Laughing, I shook my head. “I do actually have something I need to finish before the weekend.” My smile was coy. “Unless you’d rather take your friends to the Catskills on Saturday? I’m sure they’d love a romantic getaway to the mountains.”
Blake feigned horror, his eyes rounding to the size of coasters. “Don’t even joke. You know Mason is allergic to shellfish; the lobster dinner would kill him.”
With a grin, Blake set his laptop on the table and opened a calculus book in his lap. My gaze lingered on his handsome face a beat longer, then I opened my laptop. My AP Lit teacher had sent each of us a different poem to be analyzed in a discussion paper, and I hadn’t even had a chance to look at it yet.
My inbox was a nightmare, so I searched for the message using the teacher’s name. When the results came up, I stifled a gasp. My fingers froze on the keyboard.
“Everything okay?” Blake asked, his brow furrowed.
No, everything is not okay! I wanted to scream. I was not okay.
Even though I opened up to Blake more than anyone else on the planet, some issues were still off limits.
For now. Eventually, he will have to know.
Donning the smile usually reserved for my parents, I turned to Blake. “Of course,” I said easily. “Sorry. Just got my latest AP Lit grade, I didn’t expect it.”
The best lies are rooted in truth, I thought, staring at my computer screen. The email titled AP Literature Paper #2 Grade was the cause of my outburst.
Blake studied me, as though he knew something was off but couldn’t quite figure it out. After a long pause, he finally patted my leg. “I’m sure you did well.”
“Let’s hope,” I replied.
Blake returned to integrals and limits. I blinked at my laptop, just to be sure I wasn’t hallucinating. In my peripheral vision, Blake chewed on his pencil as he concentrated on a math problem.
Do it now, while he’s distracted. Inhaling deeply, I clicked on the email.
Lark Kingsley, AP Literature Paper #2
Grade: A-
AP Score: 4
Comments: Ms. Kingsley, you showed exceptional understanding for the metaphors present in the sample. Additionally, your grammar, spelling, and punctuation have grown immensely this year. Your analysis was both thorough and insightful. You are the only student in memory to draw parallels between the possum’s place in the animal hierarchy and classism in America. Pinkard never discussed the meaning of this particular poem, but I too have always believed he was really talking about the deep divide in our society. Perhaps you would consider allowing me to share your paper with the other students?
Additional Notes: Thank you for submitting your paper before the deadline, it demonstrates a responsibility that is lacking in your generation.
Regards,
Mr. Martinez
Gracen Academy
The praise was effusive from Mr. Martinez, who had a reputation for being a hard-ass. Any other day, I would’ve been bouncing in my seat at a rave review from Martinez. Instead, lead settled in my gut. My thoughts raced so quickly they blurred together.
I didn’t write the paper. I didn’t upload the paper to Gracen’s student portal. I definitely didn’t think about the possum enough to conclude it was a metaphor for classism. I’d barely read the poem.
Someone wrote my paper for me? But who? And why?
“How’d you do?” Blake’s voice drew me out of my panicked thoughts. At some point, the world around me had ceased to exist. My ears had gone deaf to the conversations happening around us. My eyes only saw my laptop screen, as though I’d fallen into a vacuum. Even my body…it felt sort of numb. Blake’s hand was between my shoulder blades, gently massaging the knots in my muscles, but I barely felt it. It was the first time his touch had failed to evoke a thrill.
You need to get it together. Pretend like everything is okay.
Inhaling deeply, I turned to offer Blake a coy smile. “Not too shabby.” Angling the screen toward him, I added, “I’d be happy with a four on the real exam.” Remembering that Blake thought he’d bombed his Chemistry practice test, I quickly backpedaled my boasting. “This wasn’t a timed exam or anything, and obviously the real one will be. Honestly, I can’t even tell you how long it took me write this.”
Refusing to meet his gaze, I continued rambling. “And this was just one poem. The real exam has more sections. Even getting a high score on the poetry section won’t guarantee I’ll get credit for the AP.”
Thankfully, Blake misread the source of anxiety. “Hey, stop. You earned that grade. Just because you’re clearly better at dissecting poetry than I am at covalent bonds, doesn’t mean you need to feel bad. I’m proud of you. This is awesome.” He tugged a piece of my hair. “You have a magnificent brain under all this beautiful blonde. Be happy.”
With a wave of relief washing over me, I leaned into Blake. “Don’t you tell me how to feel. They’re my emotions, and I’ll have them as I see fit, thank you very much.”
His laughter was like balm for the anxiety coursing through my veins.
Blake gave me a mocking salute. “Yes, ma’am. “
Both fighting smiles, we turned back to our respective schoolwork. But something he’d said stuck in my mind: You earned that grade.
I didn’t.
Several of my friends paid other students to do their work. They bought grades as easily as they bought everything else. Not me. Not ever. With an entire life that I didn’t earn, grades were one of the only things I received on my own merits. Suddenly, that was no longer true. Someone took that from me, and I intended to find out who.
Though I wasn’t a computer genius by any stretch of the imagination, I also wasn’t helpless. The portal kept a record of our logins, so I started there. Or, rather, I tried to start there.
My password was no longer valid. After staring at the screen for several long moments, I chose the password recovery option. A message flashed on the screen to let me know a temporary code was sent to my phone.
Tapping my foot, I watched my
phone’s home screen and willed the information to arrive faster. Two minutes later, the phone vibrated with a text notification. I glanced in Blake’s direction. He was running a hand through those dark curls, eyes fixed on his textbook, and hadn’t noticed my distraction.
You got lucky with that one.
After entering the information from the text, I was in. On the page for AP Literature, I scanned my user history. My throat felt dry when I swallowed, and I fought to keep my expression neutral. The night before, at 2:38 a.m., the AP Lit essay was submitted to Mr. Martinez.
Closing my eyes, I counted to ten—a trick I’d picked up from watching Dad deal with difficult work situations. When I opened them, my reflection shone on the darkened laptop screen. The blue irises staring back at me were so bright, they verged on unnatural. Fitting, since everything suddenly felt unnatural.
The air felt too thick, my chest too tight, my head too heavy. This mystery was one helping too many on my overflowing plate. Maybe I was weak, but I just couldn’t carry any more burdens.
Maybe someone is just trying to help lighten your load. Have you considered that? Maybe you have your own guardian angel?
“I’m ready for a study break,” Blake declared, tossing his pencil in the book on his lap.
When I turned to face him, my expression was composed. “Me, too,” I agreed with a bright smile.
I leaned closer to Blake, until we were only inches apart. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and then he kissed me. Ignoring the mystery of my Lit paper, I lost myself in the moment.
Nothing else matters, not when you’re with Blake.
Five
Raven
The Ethiopian Restaurant was a twenty-minute walk from the apartment. Asher was a talkative guy, never allowing a lapse in conversation or awkward pause. My end of the exchange was mostly “uh-huh” and “that’s cool”.
My social skills were typically better, but my mind was preoccupied with the journal I’d found in my car’s trunk. The Corolla was used, so the leatherbound book must’ve been left by its previous owner. Despite my resolve to not invade the journal owner’s privacy, my fingers itched to do just that. My friend Catie was obsessive with her diary, and she’d been pushing me to record my new venture into the world in a log of my own. Would the mystery journal be full of someone’s adventures? Maybe the pages were filled with stories of traversing the globe with only a backpack. Or perhaps it held sordid tales of scandal instead. The longer I thought about it, the wilder my imagination became. I wanted to know what deep, dark secrets this person wrote about.
“What do you think?” Asher was asking.
Blinking behind my oversized sunglasses, I racked my subconscious for a clue about what he’d been saying while I was daydreaming about another person’s life.
“Tax law sounds boring, I know,” Asher added.
“If it were me, I’d want to do international law,” I said decisively. “Work for Amnesty International. Or maybe try war crimes at The Hague.”
This admission surprised me for several reasons. Firstly, I’d never considered going into law, so I’d never thought about what type of law interested me. I also wasn’t exactly politically inclined. The Hague was in the Netherlands, that much I knew for sure, though I’d never be able to point out the country on a world map.
“I’ve thought about that,” Asher replied, smiling as he glanced over. The expression quickly faltered. “My dad does international and environmental law. Not the good kind, though.”
“Is there a bad kind?”
For the first time on our walk, Asher was quiet.
Nice job, Raven, I thought. Insert foot in month.
“Yeah,” he finally mumbled, “there is.”
“Environmental law would be cool,” I said quickly. “Alternative energy sources, preserving the world for future generations, all that good stuff.”
A young couple whizzed by on their bicycles to our left, the boy shouting to the girl over his shoulder.
“Why do people roll only one pant leg up when they ride a bike?” I asked Asher, pointing to the guy.
Asher laughed, a deep, rich sound that reverberated through his entire body. I wondered what it would be like to lie on his chest, my ear pressed to his heart, while he laughed like that.
“What’s so funny?” I asked, giggling to cover my confusion.
“I figured a do-gooder environmentalist like you would know,” Asher joked.
“I never said I was a do-gooder,” I protested, suddenly defensive.
Asher cleared his throat awkwardly. “The chain. People roll their pants so the chain doesn’t rub.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t sure what else to say.
“Here we are.”
We were standing on the corner of U Street and 10th. A blue awning with “Dembe’s” printed in white block letters hung overhead. Asher grabbed the door handle and motioned for me to go first. A bell tinkled as I crossed the threshold, signaling our arrival. The hostess stood behind a wooden podium playing with her iPhone. Her milky-white cheeks puffed with annoyance at our interruption.
“Two?” she asked, sounding bored.
“Yep,” Asher replied. “Can we sit by the window?” He turned to me. “People watching is great here.”
The hostess grabbed two menus from the podium and motioned for us to follow her. Asher placed his hand on the small of my back and applied the lightest of pressure as he guided me ahead of him. A chill ran down my spine. I liked how reassuring his touch was. He probably meant nothing by it, but I felt calm and safe for the first time since coming to the city. Too bad my back was slick with sweat from our walk in the evening heat. Hopefully, he couldn’t feel it through the thick cotton of my polo.
The table was made of cheap, green plastic. Two matching chairs sat on either side, with surprisingly comfortable cushions. A fake white rose was plunked in a small bud vase next to the silver napkin dispenser. Oddly, the round bottom of the vase was full of water.
“I’ll get your waiter.” The hostess placed our menus on the table and resumed texting as she walked away.
“What’s good?” I asked Asher.
Only a handful of the menu items had English descriptions beneath the entrée names.
“Depends,” Asher shrugged. “Do you have a meat preference?”
“No beef tongues. Otherwise, I’m game for anything.”
“Beef tongue is actually very good. Have you ever tried it?”
“Once,” I admitted.
“Not a fan?”
“I couldn’t get past the tongue part. That texture is disgusting.”
“Fair enough.” Asher chuckled and returned his attention to the menu. “How do you feel about lamb?”
I shrugged. “I could do lamb.”
Our waiter appeared with two large glasses of ice water. After setting them in front of us, he pulled napkin-wrapped utensils from the small black apron around his waist and added those to the tabletop as well. “Something besides water?” the waiter asked.
Asher glanced up, inviting me to answer first.
“No, thank you,” I replied.
“D.C. Brau,” Asher said.
The waiter nodded, but didn’t card Asher for the beer. I considered amending my drink order to a glass of wine. Of course, knowing my luck, the waiter would ask for my ID.
“Do you need more time with the menu?” the waiter asked.
Again, Asher looked to me for the answer. I shrugged in response.
“Do you trust me?” Asher asked.
The question caught me off guard. I’d known him for an hour. Trust wasn’t something I gave out lightly; too many people in my life had let me down. Yet, he put me at ease. It was a start.
I met Asher’s gaze and smiled. “Go for it.”
Asher grinned. “We’ll do the lamb wot and the doro wot fitfit,” he said.
We handed our menus to the waiter, who took a second to write our order on an old-style guest check pad before tuckin
g them underneath one arm.
“Did you get settled in?” Asher asked once the server disappeared.
“I guess,” I replied with a shrug. “I didn’t bring much, so there wasn’t much to put away.”
“You’re from Pennsylvania?” It was a question, but one that he clearly thought he knew the answer to.
I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. “What makes you think that?”
“You have PA plates on your car.”
Admonishing myself for the reaction, I sipped my water to hide my chagrin.
“Sorry, the car is new,” I said, setting the cup down. “Well, new to me. I bought it just before heading down here.”
“Guess I know where to go when I need to mooch a ride,” he joked.
“Only if you promise to be my tour guide,” I countered.
“It would be my pleasure.” Asher grinned and butterflies invaded my stomach.
The food wasn’t bad. Better than I remembered Ethiopian cuisine being, anyway. Even the grey pancakes tasted better when shared with Asher.
On the walk home, we stopped by Frozen Dreams, a pay-by-the-pound frozen yogurt shop. Asher insisted on paying for my dessert—vanilla yogurt loaded down with chocolate chips, waffle cone bits, and gummy bears. Thankfully, he had a sweet tooth, too, and his sundae rivaled mine.
“You don’t talk about yourself much,” Asher noted as we sat in the high-backed bar stools at my kitchen counter.
Stuffed, I swirled the melting remains with the plastic spoon. “I’m not all that interesting,” I replied with a shrug.
I wasn’t being self-deprecating. Truly, my life wasn’t very exciting. Moving to D.C. was the biggest adventure I’d ever been on.
“I seriously doubt that,” Asher said, laughing. “That head of yours is probably full of secrets.” He tugged a strand of my short, dark hair.
Instead of responding, I focused on the sugary soup my fro-yo had become. The remaining gummy bears bobbed their heads above the surface like tiny drowning men waiting to be rescued.
