Spark. Brigid Kemmerer
his grades up. Being active took the edge off, let him run down energy that looked for things to burn in other ways.
Taylor leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees and giving him a clear view down her shirt, too. “Me and the other girls are going to think up something special for the seniors this year.” She looked at him from under her lashes. “Any ideas?”
Usually, he could do this banter stuff all day. But he was already exhausted from plotting to destroy Becca’s father, and he didn’t feel like playing. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
She frowned a little, then flipped her hair. “Heather’s parents are going away this weekend, and we’re thinking of having a little party after the tryouts. They’ve got that hot tub, and it’s just getting cold enough to use the fire pit. . . .”
Fire. The thought was more alluring than anything she was showing off. “Count me in,” he said.
Now she smiled, but it looked a little feral, the way a cat might smile at a trapped mouse. “Maybe you could—” She broke off and glanced sideways, her voice sharpening to a point. “Do you mind?”
Gabriel glanced right. That sophomore jerked her eyes back to her paper, her cheeks flushed. “Sorry.”
“Ohmigod,” Taylor whispered, leaning in conspiratorially. “She was totally staring at me. What a freaking lesbo.”
Sharp heels clicked into the classroom, a tall woman in a business suit bustling through the door to drop a briefcase on the desk. Dark hair was pulled into an honest-to-god bun, and it wasn’t doing her face any favors.
“Sorry, class,” she said. “I’m Ms. Anderson, and I’ll be filling in for Mr. Riley. This school is a maze—” Her eyes fell on Taylor, who was practically straddling the desk. “Maybe we could all take our seats?”
Taylor heaved a sigh and climbed off the desk, making a show of sliding into her chair.
Gabriel slouched in his own. At least they’d watch a movie or get a free period or something.
“Since Mr. Riley’s mother is ill,” Ms. Anderson said, “this might be a long-term solution, so if you’re looking forward to a free period . . .”
Now Gabriel heaved a sigh.
“I think we’ll start with a pop quiz,” said Ms. Anderson. “So I can get a feel for where you all are—”
Gabriel froze.
“We just had a test last week,” whined Andy Cunningham, rocking back in his chair.
They had. Gabriel hadn’t taken it. He’d traded places with Nick.
“Ms. Anderson?” Taylor raised her hand, her voice dripping with sugar. “I know you’re new here and all, but Mr. Riley doesn’t give pop quizzes.”
“That may be the case, but it’s a nice way for me to see where you all stand. These quizzes won’t go against you,” she said. “It’s just for my purposes, so I can see what your strengths are.”
Gabriel wiped his palms on his jeans.
He should go to the bathroom and not come back.
Yeah, that would be subtle.
Ms. Anderson stood at the front of each row and started passing out sheets of Xeroxed paper. Two pages, double sided.
Gabriel took a deep breath. He could do this.
He didn’t even have a pencil. He shoved his hand into his backpack. Gum. Car keys. A yellow highlighter. His spare lighter—he was tempted to take that to the quiz sitting on his desk.
He glanced up at the sophomore. He’d been sitting next to her for six weeks and had no idea what her name was. She didn’t help things by remaining completely nondescript. Mouse brown hair in a loose braid down her back, simple gray turtleneck, and no-brand jeans. Her features were soft and young and makeup-free behind a pair of glasses.
“Hey, Brainiac,” he said. “Can you hook me up with a pencil?”
She didn’t look up.
“Hey,” he said again.
Were her cheeks turning pink? Whatever, she didn’t look up.
His irritation flared. “Hey,” he said. “Got a pencil, Four-Eyes? What are you, deaf?”
Her head snapped around. “No. And my name isn’t ‘Four-Eyes’ or ‘Brainiac.’ ” But she flipped her pencil at him, then bent to get another one from her backpack.
He rolled his eyes and looked at the paper.
Question 1. Change 5π/12 radians to degrees.
He had to wipe his hands on his jeans again. He’d go back to that one.
Question 2. Given that sin x = ¼ and x is in Quadrant II, find the exact values of sin2x and cos2x.
WTF. He looked at this every day, and it was still like reading Chinese.
He heard something snap.
His pencil. He’d broken another one in half.
Brainiac whipped her head around. What was her problem?
He glared back at his paper. The sub had said it didn’t count. But he couldn’t exactly hand in a blank test.
He had no idea what they’d do if he failed. What if they asked him to take another one? If they figured out Nick was taking his tests for him, they’d kick him off every team for sure.
They’d tell Michael.
Snap.
Now he had a quarter of a pencil. Other students were looking at him.
Gabriel took a deep breath. He could do this.
He could do this.
He could.
He put the pencil nub against the paper and tried to work through each problem.
It was the longest thirty minutes of his life. He didn’t even get to the last three.
“Okay, I think that’s enough time,” said Ms. Anderson.
Thank god. He didn’t feel this worn out after long runs around the soccer field.
“Now exchange papers with the person beside you for grading.”
He snapped his head up.
The sophomore was already holding out her paper, not even looking at him. He took it but didn’t relinquish his own. The tests sat side by side, one neat and perfectly ordered, one a complete fucking mess.
Brainiac sighed and reached out to grab his test, snatching it back to her desk.
Gabriel chewed on the end of the pencil nub. It hurt his lip. He could pick a fight. Get sent to the office. Alan Hulster sat to his left, and that guy was a tool. Gabriel wouldn’t even mind laying into him.
“Hey.”
He glanced to his right. That sophomore was staring at him, her brow furrowed. She licked her lips. “These are all wrong,” she whispered.
Like he needed her to tell him that. He looked back at her test. Ms. Anderson was reading off the answers, one by one, and of course Brainiac had gotten every one right.
Her name was written in perfect script at the top. Layne Forrest.
Why the hell couldn’t he remember a name like Layne Forrest?
He should punch Hulster now, before papers were handed forward.
“Hey,” Layne whispered again.
He glanced over. “What?”
She flinched a little, then whispered, “You got a ninety-two on the test last week. I saw.”
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