Page 20 of The Surprise Play

He scoffs and shakes his head. “I’ve barely been scraping by. In fact, I wouldn’t be shocked if the teachers have been going easy on me just so I won’t get benched.”

I ignore that last comment and try to focus on the positive. “But youarepassing.”

“Not anymore,” he grumbles, his heated tone fizzling out. “I just wanted to graduate, Brainiac. That’s all I wanted.”

My eyebrows wrinkle in confusion. I got the impression that he didn’t actually care too much. He’s getting drafted. He’ll be rich. Who needs a degree, right?

But that must have just been bravado.

A wave of sympathy courses through me, and I try to make him feel better. “Look, I’m sorry the professor wouldn’t even grade your paper for you, but maybe there’s another class you can take over the summer.”

He looks up from the icy concrete to glare at me like I’ve lost my mind.

I swallow and stupidly keep going. “Maybe we could talk to Ms. Bigsby. It’s early enough in the semester that we could find one more class for you to take. That’ll get you over the credit line, right?”

“You want me to takemoreclasses? Are you fucking insane?”

His tone is so cutting, and itchy, scratchy ants start to crawl across my skin. I resist the urge to scratch my stomach.

Just go. Turn and walk away.

But I don’t. I keep standing there, staring up at thebig man and quietly asking, “You said the football season was wrapping up, so you’ll have more time, right?”

Now he’s gaping at me like I’ve lost every one of my marbles.

“How were your classes yesterday? I mean, you’ve gotten your syllabi for those ones, and you’ll get some more today, so you’ll be able to figure out how much you can manage and then?—”

“I didn’t go to my classes yesterday,” he mutters, scuffing the concrete with his big sneaker.

“What? Why?”

“Because I didn’t see the point having just failed Pilscher’s class!”

I blink, surprised that he’s being so scathing about Professor Pilscher. I had him last year, and he was amazing! Sure, he’s old-school, but I really liked that about him. He was fair and kind and… he made nineteenth-century literature so much fun.

“That guy is such an asshole,” Wily grumbles.

I frown, hating the way he’s insulting one of my favorite professors.

Crossing his arms, he shakes his head, looking so angsty that I’m not even sure what to say.

Biting my lip, I try to form the right words and end up with a lame “You really shouldn’t be skipping class. That’s not going to help your cause, you know?”

“Whatever.” He scoffs. “Like you even care anyway.”

I open my mouth to protest that of course I care. I’m a very caring person.

Not enough to help the poor guy out when he needed it.

Guilt slices through me, but I defend my actions withsome sound logic. I wasn’t about to do his work for him. That wouldn’t have helped him at all.

“This is such a fucking waste of time,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair and throwing me another hot glare.

“I…” With a soft huff, I give in and say what I think he wants to hear. “I’m sorry I didn’t do things the way you wanted, but?—”

“Yeah, I’m sure you are.” He rolls his eyes. “Just forget it, Elizabeth Satchwell.” He flicks his hand up. “Go on and enjoy your damn day. Attend your fucking classes and pass with straight A’s.”

“Just as long as you attend your classes too,” I shoot back.