Chapter Text
It’s the first day of upper sixth, and despite everything being completely under control, I’m a nervous wreck.
By now, I should be fully acclimated to attending Roundview College. My schedule’s similar to last year’s, with most of the same instructors. Classmates, too, probably.
But the schooling itself has never been the issue. In fact, I excel when it comes to academics. Still, the thought of returning for another year leaves me queasy, with clammy, shaking hands, desperate to stay home and never leave the comfort of my bed.
Of course, I would never, ever risk that, either. The threat of getting in trouble over skiving off feels far scarier than subjecting myself to it. I've never been good at confrontation, or disappointing people, or having someone upset with me in any way, really.
I just haven't managed to make any actual friends the first three terms. Early on, the others all seemed to know people from high school or fell easily into new groups, but that hasn't happened for me. I’m sure this year won't be any different. Breaking into one of the cliques now feels less likely than ever, and wasting energy trying would only make my failure even more disappointing.
At least I don't have to attend an induction assembly this year. Last year's was a total disaster—mostly for the staff—and the more my first day back feels like an ordinary day of class, the better.
My first session of the morning is politics, and the slow introductions and monotonous going-over of the syllabus are quite mind-numbing. I notice some familiar faces, but none who'd ever come over to say hello or chat with me. The seat next to mine at my desk remains notably empty.
I've fully tuned out the lesson and there are fewer than 10 minutes left of class when the door flies open and in hobbles one James Cook, with a crutch under each arm.
I know of him mostly by reputation. To say he’s a bit rough around the edges is an understatement. I'm reminded I saw his cock and arse on the very first day of college—the assembly gone so very wrong—though I've done my best to forget them.
I've heard him called a womaniser. A layabout. An addict. A brute. A criminal. He was also class president of ‘09.
And now, he’s scuffed and battered, with his chin scarred, left eye blackened, and forehead stitched. His right foot is in a brace, and his limp as he staggers into the classroom implies the damage goes far beyond what I can see.
“Sorry I'm late,” he apologises, his tone earnest. “Just getting here was a fuckin’ conundrum”
“Yes, I'm sure,” Kieran drawls, seemingly unamused by the disruption as James decides to take the free seat next to mine. I give him a hand, pulling the plastic chair out so he doesn't have to balance on his crutches, and he gives a nod of thanks as he eases into the seat. “Now that we're all here, let's go over your first major assignment, on page 3 of the syllabus…”
My stomach sinks when I read the words “partner project.” It twists further upon discovery that our partners will be assigned.
I can't be the only one who tenses up as Kieran starts reading aloud pairs of names, and yet the ensuing chatter and high fives imply the opposite.
“Erin Avery” he calls out my name in one of the final groupings, “and James Cook.”
Shit.
My gaze shoots over to James, and his catches mine.
“Looks like we're in this together, Avery,” he says, almost remorsefully, reaching over to my side of the desk to rap the bottom of his fist against it three times.
I'm not too shocked that he’s loath to work with me, though it does catch me off guard he can even pick me out of the class by name.
As Kieran finishes up naming project partners, James slips me a torn scrap of lined paper with a hastily scrawled mobile number on it.
For a moment, I just stare at it. Despite knowing precisely what it’s for, I freeze.
He’s still watching me expectantly as class is dismissed and the others file out of the classroom.
“Text me, so I've got yours, too, yeah?” he says, playfully waggling his phone.
It seems like an empty gesture, but I play along.
“Nice one,” he says once he's received my message—a very basic “Hello”—as he tucks the phone back into his pocket.
“Look, James…” I start, before instantly being cut off.
“Cook,” he insists. “Cookie Monster, if you're feeling cheeky. No one calls me 'James.’”
I am not feeling cheeky.
“Cook,” I correct myself, “I think you're being very generous right now, but everyone knows that partner projects aren't really partner projects. One person always winds up doing all the work, and the other gets to do nothing and get full credit for it.”
“I could do all the work,” he says, with a grin, which fades once he sees my reaction. I don't mean to sneer at him the way I do. It's involuntary. “What? I could get us… well, at least a passing mark.”
He looks offended.
“I'd rather not risk it,” I tell him, plainly.
“All right,” he says. “But I want to contribute. You free today? Common room after Period 5?”
“Again, I'd rather not,” I say.
The common room frightens me. It's not somewhere you don't go on purpose when you don't really know anyone.
“Your place then?” he asks, with a wide smile. He knows he's pushing it.
I can't say why I agree, but I do, texting him my home address. I usually hate attention, but today, I might be feeling a little desperate. I’ll take what I can get. When he inevitably lets me down—maybe in several short hours—I'll handle it, like I always have.
Cook winces as he rises back to his feet and, very cautiously, exits the classroom, waving me adieu.
I realise I haven’t asked what happened to him. But I suppose it won't be too long until I get another opportunity.
And then I curse myself for getting tied up in a commitment with a kid like him on the very first day of school.