Indisputable (17 page)

Tatum

My chest feels like it’s full of bricks.  The
rest of the day drags on, each second ticking by in its own eternity. 
Seconds pass like minutes, minutes like hours.  Wyatt has been texting my
phone nonstop, even after my attempt to bitch him out.  If Mr. Ryan decides
to snoop through my inbox, I won’t be getting my phone back today.  He’ll
be too busy killing Wyatt to make it to sixth period.  I should have
tucked the damn thing into my bag instead of handing it over.  I’m just so
tired. 

I’ve had more drama in my life this past week than
I’ve had in over a year.  If I was smart, I would have known Mr. Ryan was
serious about holding my phone hostage.  Naïve little me thought I could
weasel my way out of it.  Fuck, was I wrong. 

Emerson and I went out to lunch at the diner to take
my mind off the looming disaster, formerly known as calculus.  She
chattered on about her date with Grant, how amazing it was, and now the two are
officially an item.  Facebook official.

I’m so happy for her.

Really.

But my newfound feelings stirred something deep inside
of me.  Something that until now has been quietly sleeping, hibernating,
biding its time.  Something that has me wondering when it will be my
turn.  To have someone want me.  To love me.  To need me. 
Desire.  Love.  In my relatively short life I can’t remember a time
of ever feeling genuinely loved.  Or having someone to
love.       

Regardless, I am happy for Emerson.  I just need
to keep my green-faced gremlin under control.

The second fifth period ends, I practically sprint to
Mr. Ryan’s room.  I weave in and out of students like some NASCAR pro,
dodging backpacks, legs, people making out.  I don’t even have the heart
to tell them to get a room, I’m so intent on being the first one to
class. 

Skidding to a halt, I attempt to regain composure
before bursting into his room.  Wouldn’t want to scare anyone by barreling
through the door, hair a wild mane, heaving in oxygen like my life depended on
it.  Slowing my breathing to calm my racing heart, I pull open the heavy
wood door and waltz inside.

The room is empty.

You have got to be kidding me.  He is seriously
going to make me wait until the end the day.  No clue as to if he’s
scanned through my messages or not.  Damn literal men.

I’ll have to sit through his entire lecture trying to
determine if my privacy has been breached.  To figure out if I’ll have
more on my hands than a reprimand for texting during class.  If he goes
through my inbox, I’m screwed.  He’ll see how much Wyatt has been trying
to talk to me and the bitchy, antagonizing responses I’ve sent back when I
probably should have ignored him.  This is not going to be a happy class,
and Mr. Ryan is not going to be happy with me.

My skid out from under me when Keith Torres flings
open the door and slams into my back.  It wasn’t the smartest idea to have
an internal argument standing in front of the door.  I’m jostled forward
onto a desk, flopping over the seat with Keith leaned over my back. 

“Oof,” I cry out, trying to ignore the compromising
position we’re in.  That is, until another voice brings it front and
center to my attention.

“What is going on here?  Get off her!”

Keith’s weight shifts, the pressure releases, and my
lungs fill with air.  Well, this is fucking embarrassing.  Slowly, I
right myself, turning around to find Mr. Ryan staring daggers at poor Keith,
his face colored with deep red splotches.  He’s pissed. 

“Are you okay?” Mr. Ryan asks me, his concern-filled
eyes searching mine for signs of distress.

“I’m fine.  It was an accident.”  Anger
simmers within my blood when Mr. Ryan doesn’t look convinced.  I’m not
some weak, helpless victim.  I can take care of myself seeing as I’ve been
doing it my entire life.  The last thing I need is Mr. White Knight coming
to my rescue all the damn time.  I start stomping off in the direction of
my usual chair, done with this conversation.

“Hold up, Tatum.  Keith needs to
apologize.”  Mr. Ryan pauses, his eyes sweeping intently across Keith’s
face.   “This an accident?”

Keith’s face turns a sick shade of pale.  He’s
not the type to go around harassing girls.  He’s the type to worship
them.  He wouldn’t know a friend-zone from an end-zone and spends most of
his time with his nose stuck in a book.  I feel truly sorry for his
predicament.  I’m just glad the whole class wasn’t here to witness it.

“Yes,” Keith whispers.

“Apologize or I’ll have you hauled out of here for
sexual harassment,” Mr. Ryan snaps.

“I’m so sorry, Tatum,” Keith stammers, staring holes
into the floor.  “I swear, I didn’t mean to-to fall on you.” 

Hoping to save him from any further embarrassment, I
quickly reconcile.  He offers a small, albeit embarrassed smile before
taking his seat.  Exasperated by the entire exchange, I walk to my chair
for the second time when Mr. Ryan stops me…a second time. 

“I want you to sit up front today,” he says, motioning
to a desk with a jerk of his head.  My eyes are drawn to the way his soft
brown hair falls over his forehead rather than meet his eyes. 

“Why?  I always sit here,” I respond to his
ridiculous request.

“I think you’ll be much more focused in the front
row.  Where I can keep an eye on you.”

“Are you joking?”

“No.  Now move or get out of my classroom.”

Holy crap, Mr. Ryan is a jerk!

I bite my cheek hard to hold in my retort and move
into the desk he indicated.  The last thing I need is to push him into
kicking me out of class.  As if I haven’t seen enough of Mr. Stephenson this
semester already—a whole one day into the second week. 

After removing my notebook and pen, I rest my chin in
my hand, casting an innocent glance upward.  Mr. Ryan is perched in front
of his desk, leaning casually against the front.  One black Oxford shoe
crossed over the other.  His posture looks relaxed, except for one
thing—he’s glaring at me.  Hard.  The hollows of his smoothly shaven
cheeks are stained pink.  His normally chocolate eyes almost black. 

What the hell is he so pissed about?  The extent
of the text messages have been Wyatt harassing me to see him, wondering who my
sudden new attack dog is, and half-assed loose apologies.  After ignoring
him for 24 hours, I sent a few replies this morning.  Mostly fuck you’s
and empty threats to call the police. 

I can’t imagine Mr. Ryan is this upset over what’s
currently in my phone’s inbox.  Something else must be grinding his
gears.  By the way he’s staring me down, it’s hard to convince myself I’m
not culpable.

I don’t miss the few stares directed my way as the
rest of my peers take their seats.  The majority of them probably haven’t
seen me ever sit in the front of the room for the past four years.  But if
I want to get to the bottom of Mr. Crabby Pants’ attitude, then I need to play
the part of a good little girl.  Then I can get my phone and haul ass out
of here in order to avoid any more awkward encounters. 

I may be able to admit to myself my attraction to him,
but I’m done.  The lines have been etched into stone; there’s no more
blurring them.  I’m not going to attempt to push the boundaries any
more.  

Compared to most days—okay, the one other calculus
class I’ve actually attended this semester—Mr. Ryan’s lesson is stiff, cold,
and boring.  He drones through each point, reviewing Friday’s homework,
and giving brief examples of what we’ll work on today, all while his eyes
continually snap down to meet mine.  He looks like he has Tourette’s; his
eyes are so twitchy. 

It’s harder than I thought to keep from exchanging
glares and rolling my eyes.  Every time his eyes meet mine, I feel a flash
of pain in my gut.  I don’t know why he’s mad at me, but he is.  And
I don’t like it.  After the weekend we experienced together, I almost feel
betrayed. 

“Does anybody have any questions before you get
started?” Mr. Ryan asks after he’s finished his lesson. 

I can’t help myself.  The question rolls off my
tongue before I have the ability to choke the words back down.

“What crawled up your ass today?”  I watch as a
muscle jumps in his jaw where he’s clenching his teeth.  His eyes flash
hard to mine as a round of soft giggles echo throughout the room.

Mr. Ryan swallows thickly.  “I’ll see you after
class, Miss Krause.  Anybody else?”  His eyes wander briefly around
the room before he continues, “Alright then, please get started.  I’m here
if you have any questions.”

While the rest of the room begins on their homework, I
let myself watch as Mr. Ryan seats himself at his desk.  I can’t focus on
math while I know there’s this impeding conversation, which doesn’t appear to
be a happy one.  And I don’t know for certain what it’s about. 

My mind strains to work through the possible scenarios
that I almost miss when Mr. Ryan mouths, “
get to work,”
before turning
his attention to his computer screen, dismissing my deliberate stare. 

By the time the bell rings, I’ve only a handful of
problems left, and I’m pleased with myself.  But that quickly fades when I
remember the little chat I’m about to have as I attempt to get my phone
back.  I remain seated as the rest of the class files out, but as soon as
the room’s empty, I stand.  I open my mouth in an attempt to speak when
Mr. Ryan breezes past me towards the door.  Oh hell, he’s trying to blow
me off!  I chase after him.

“Give me my damn phone back so I can go,” I bite out
before he has a chance to leave. 

I’m surprised when, instead of leaving, he closes the
classroom door and locks the handle. 

I’m frozen as I take him in; his rigid posture, his
hand clenching the door knob in a white knuckled grip, the heavy rise and fall
of his shoulders as he breathes. 

Almost inaudibly he says, “What the hell are you
thinking?”

“What?” I ask, unsure what he’s talking about.  I
thought this was about my texts from Wyatt. 

Jacoby abruptly spins around, stalking towards me like
a predator until he’s inches from my face.  I scramble back, tripping over
my own feet, until my legs knock into a desk, and my balance falters. 
“What in the hell were you thinking?” he spits out. 

“Uh-I-um,” I struggle for a response, trying to remain
upright.  I’m frozen by the anger radiating from his body.

“I thought you were a smart girl.  You didn’t
want to go to the police, and I still don’t know why.  But I trusted you
had a good reason.  I thought we had made some connection after what you
went through.  Hell, I thought we had a connection the first time we
met!  I thought you trusted me, too, Miss Krause—“

“Don’t start with that ‘Miss Krause’ shit,” I retort
out of anger.

“Shut up!” he shouts, making me do just that. 
“Are you not listening to a word I’m saying?  I thought you trusted
me.  I’ve been there for you.  We had a few unpleasant moments, but I
thought I made it clear that I care about what happens to you!” 

The color rises in his cheeks as his eyes flit back
and forth between mine, searching for…what?  I’m so confused. 

“I do trust you, but honestly, I don’t know what this
is about.  If you can just give me back my phone, I’ll leave you
alone.  For good,” I add, because it seems where this is headed.  I
don’t need to sit around and wait for the inevitable.

He shakes his head, the dark brown silky strands
drifting across his forehead.  I’m mesmerized by the rapid rise and fall
of his chest as he struggles to slow his breath.  “I tried so hard to
ignore the incessant vibrations your phone was giving off all morning. 
Eight times by the time you left my class second period.  By lunch, you
had seventeen messages.  Damnit, I tried but my curiosity was too
much.  I knew it was that punk bothering you, even after I’d told him
off.”  He pauses, gauging my reaction.  I knew Wyatt wouldn’t just
back off.  What did he say to make Jacoby so mad? 

“But when I sat down at my lunch period and pulled out
your phone, do you know what surprised me?  Do you?” he asks softly,
expecting an answer I’m not sure how to give.

My lungs can hardly expand as I watch him run his hand
through his long hair, stopping to squeeze the back of his neck.  He looks
away from me, trying to collect himself, to reign in the emotions so clearly
ruling his thoughts and actions. 

I’m not afraid he’ll hurt me, but I’m afraid for
him.  And for us.  Honestly, I don’t know what has him so worked up,
but it’s terrifying to watch.  That something I did has gotten this
reaction from him.  I’m scared, and I think he might be too. 

This time, when he brings his eyes back to mine, my
heart feels like it crumbles right there in the space behind my ribs. 
Little pieces of the hardened shell reduced to dust by one look.  The hard
glare from earlier is gone, replaced by soft eyes holding more concern than has
ever been directed my way.  By anyone. 

“Not only am I pissed and hurt that you didn’t think
you could trust me, but you’re out there trying to defend yourself in a world
full of piece of shit people.  I don’t know how you could be so stupid as
to buy yourself a back alley gun, but you should have come to me first.”