Page 8 of Reasons We Break

Sweat gathers on her back. She shouldn’t have wasted so much time rereading Dr. Maxfield’s email today, or gossiping with TJ. Now she’s only got three hundred seconds to hand in this assignment. Most people would just submit as is. But Simran can’t. She needs the perfect score. The thought of her grades being tarnished, Dr. Maxfield finding out and rescinding her offer as she realizes Simran isn’t as smart as she thought, is almost too much to—

“Hey.”

The voice comes from behind her. She jumps, barely managing to catch her mug before it tips into the aisle. Once she’s righted it on her lap, she turns. The Punjabi guy in the row behind her is leaning forward, blinking his green eyes slowly. He’s got a scruffy beard, and a short black turban.

He whispers, “Your program isn’t working because you’re using the letter e instead of the numbere. You see how it’s not italicized?”

Simran glances back at her screen. He’s—he’sright. She hasn’t been using the symbol the program would understand. “How do you—”

“Took a class with Garcia last semester.” He shrugs. “Same problem.”

Simran swaps in the right symbol. Her code goes from red to green, generating her output instantly. How did she not see something so simple?

She submits her assignment with a hundred and eighty seconds to spare. Dr. Chen starts class right then, and Simran twists in her seat. The boy is now studying his laptop.

She swallows her pride to whisper, “Thanks.”

“No problem, Simran,” he replies without looking up, voice quiet. Simran turns back around, cringing internally. Of course it had to beJassa Singhhelping her. She likes him fine, but she beat him for the academic award last semester, so he’s probably wondering how she accomplished that when she apparently needs him to do her homework for her. He’s not even a math major; he’spremed. Embarrassing.

Simran sinks farther into her seat, sipping from her tea mug. Dr. Chen’s on his fifth slide. She ignores it and checks her email. The unread ones this time.

Her inbox is full of meeting minutes and class reminders and one passive-aggressive email about how whoever broke the lab’s ten-thousand-dollar computer should come forward. The unread Hillway email catches her eye. Paul’s sent out the new schedule with his usual message:You all know the drill. Let me know of any conflicts with your new mentees and I’ll re-match you in a jiffy!

Simran clicks on the attachment. Half-heartedly scans it.

And drops her mug into the aisle with a loud, class-stoppingclang.

RAJAN’S NEW PROBATIONofficer is creeping him out.

Her smile hasn’t wavered since he walked in, even when he propped his muddy shoes on her desk and took a candy from her jar without asking. She doesn’t evenlooklike a probation officer; in that ankle-length, baby-blue dress and long blond hair tied in a low ponytail, she could be in a preschooler show with stuffed animals, singing songs about sharing. Instead, she’s threatening him.

The most unnerving part is that she’s smiling so widely while doing it. Like they’re picnicking, instead of discussing how he can be dragged back to court, and then jail, if he breaches any of his probation conditions. Of which there are many. She’s reading the list in her Eastern European accent, and he gets the sense she’s learning it along with him. His case was passed off to her when he returned to Kelowna.

Report as directed to your youth probation officer.

Do not have or use weapons.

Do not use any drugs or alcohol.

Do not operate a motor vehicle.

Rajan reclines his chair onto the rear legs, looking out the window at the downtown skyline. Part of him can’t believe he’s back here. The town he left at the end of high school.

Have no contact with the people the court has specified.

Attend community service as the court has specified.

Be on good behaviour and keep up the peace—

Rajan removes the toothpick from his mouth. “A lot of conditions,” he drawls, interrupting her and basically violating the last condition in the process. “I have some follow-up questions. Like, who’re you again?”

She beams, unfazed though he’s asked this question twice already. “Katarzyna Mackewicz. But call me Kat.” She extends her hand for him to shake. Rajan looks back to the window.

“Next question. Why’d you have to bring alcohol into this? I wasn’t even drunk when I was arrested.”

“I did not set these conditions. The judge did.” Kat lowers her hand and flips through her notes package, presumably still digesting all the messed-up details of his history. Bored, Rajan flicks his toothpick in the trash (he always keeps a supply on him) and reaches for another piece of Kat’s candy instead. The jar is next to a framed photo of a younger Kat with a small boy. He shares her creepy smile. Must be a relation.

“I have some questions, too,” Kat says. “Any drug use lately?”