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At least he was stuck with someone who had substance. “That sounds perfect,” Anthony said just before the bell rang. “Give me a call and we’ll figure out how to do this.”

Mindy had a spring in her step as she gathered up her things and left the room. Anthony lingered.

“That sucked,” Omar said, coming over to join him.

“Yeah,” Anthony murmured. “I’m going to stick around and ask Mr. Finnegan if he’ll let us team up.”

“Good luck,” Omar grumbled while looking elsewhere.

Anthony followed his gaze just in time to see Ricky run into the door frame with his shoulder, which was enough to spin him around. He saw them staring, smiled, and waved, before looking mortified and rushing from the room.

“See you at lunch?” Anthony asked.

“Yeah.”

They bumped elbows without much enthusiasm before parting ways. The classroom was mostly empty now, so Anthony approached Mr. Finnegan, who was seated at his desk while writing something down.

“Excuse me, sir,” Anthony said, cranking his manners up to eleven. “Do you have a moment, please?”

“Certainly,” Mr. Finnegan said, taking off a pair of reading glasses and setting them next to a notebook. “What can I do for you… Shane, isn’t it?”

“Anthony,” he said with a friendly expression to show it was okay. “I wanted to ask if it would be possible to switch partners.”

“Oh. Any particular reason?”

If only he’d thought to come up with one, but he hadn’t, which only left the honest truth. “When my best friend and I signed up for this class, we were hoping that we’d get to sit together. I promise we’ll pay attention and work hard. We won’t goof off, I swear.”

“I see.” Mr. Finnegan stood, putting them on the same height. “If it makes you feel better, the seat assignments are only temporary. I’m not the best with names, and this will help me learn who everyone is. By the end of September, we can loosen those restrictions.”

An entire month? Ugh. “Would it still be possible to work with Omar on future assignments?”

“Is that the young man with the camcorder?” Mr. Finnegan asked.

“Yeah.”

“Is he interested in photography?”

“He has a good eye,” Anthony said vaguely, worried his answer would influence the outcome.

“And you seem to have an ear for music. Is that a passion of yours?”

“Not really. I can’t play anything. Or sing.”

“That’s okay. You could still make a career writing about it.”

Anthony’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean like forRolling Stonemagazine?”

Mr. Finnegan’s eyes twinkled. “Or even the media section ofThe Kansas City Star. You can combine journalism with just about any interest you have. But here’s the thing: While out in the field, you’ll have to talk to people that you don’t know. And when you’re in the office, you might not be particularly fond of certain coworkers. Mastering interpersonal skills is just as important as learning to write a good article. I understand how inspiring it can be to team up with someone you like on a subject you both love. There’s room for that here too. But for now, I need you to step outside your comfort zone. Okay?”

Anthony’s treacherous head nodded of its own accord. “Yeah. Uh… Gotta get to my next class. Thanks.”

The battle was lost, although the war didn’t sound so bad. Especially if it led to the sort of career Mr. Finnegan had mentioned. When imagining his future, Anthony often pictured himself in a recording studio, safely behind the glass window where the mixing took place. The location had more appeal than the work itself. He’d be separate from the musicians, the distance ensuring that nobody got too close, because if they did, well… They might notice what he tried so hard to keep hidden. He’d never considered working for a magazine or newspaper. That might be even better. “Oh, he’s not strange,” people would say. “He’s a writer. An artist!”

Anthony glanced around the hallway suddenly, worried the subject on his mind could be sensed somehow. That stupid little word. How could three letters fill him with such dread and terror? He wasn’t completely helpless though. Anthony exerted the mental effort it took to shove the topic as deep into his subconscious as it would go. Then he reached for his earbuds and turned the volume up loud enough to guarantee he couldn’t hear it whispering back there, conjuring up fantasies he knew would never come true. No matter how much he really wanted them to.

CHAPTER 2

September 7th, 1992