Sweetest in the Gale - Olivia Dade Page 0,15

my homeroom to see if I’d left it there—”

From almost the beginning of his career, he’d instinctively gravitated toward teaching ninth graders. Maybe because his calmness counterbalanced their sometimes-frenetic energy. Maybe because some of them were still grappling with the hormonal surges of puberty, and while he demanded a certain level of kindness and respect in his classroom, he didn’t tend to take moodiness personally. Maybe because he loved literature, but he also loved watching students take vast leaps in their communication abilities—both written and oral—during their first year of high school.

Sometimes, students struggled with the transition from middle school. The sheer size of the school and the student body, the number of classes, the way they had to keep track of and take responsibility for their own assignments without much outside help, could be intimidating for some kids.

But they would learn, and he could help. He loved that too.

When Shantae finally wound down and took a breath, he smiled at her.

“I believe you,” he said, handing her another tissue.

Even after only a week of classes, he’d already noticed how diligently she took notes and how fully she concentrated on each assignment. He considered each of his students special in their own way, of course, but Shantae—hand high in the air to ask a question, eyes bright behind her glasses—had stood out from the beginning.

She released a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re human, and the first week of school is overwhelming. No need to apologize.” Waving her to a seat, he turned another student chair to face her. “If you can’t find it in the meantime, just redo the assignment and turn it in on Monday.”

Her shoulders visibly lowered. “I can still get full credit?”

“Yes.” With his chin, he indicated her overflowing backpack, bristling with half-crumpled papers. “But while you’re here, let’s talk about how you’re organizing all your notes and assignments. Do you have a separate notebook for each class?”

She nodded, her breath no longer hitching.

“Good.” If she’d said no, though, he had a few extras in a cupboard for situations just like this. “Then let’s figure out a way to organize them that makes sense for you and makes finding your assignments easier.”

Fifteen minutes later, Shantae offered him a grin bristling with braces and bounced toward the classroom door, her stray papers sorted into their respective notebooks and a system in place to help her remember where she’d put everything.

“Thanks again, Mr. Conover,” she called over her shoulder.

“My pleasure. Have a great weekend, Shantae,” he said as she disappeared into the hall.

They’d found the assignment, of course, balled up beneath her biology textbook. He’d skimmed the first paragraph discreetly, and was entirely unsurprised to find it both well-written and full of obvious effort.

His pen began fading as he scribbled himself a note. Talk to Shantae about lit mag and/or school newspaper. E-mail/call her parents to praise good work.

If she continued to struggle with organization, he could suggest a parent-teacher meeting to coordinate their efforts to support her. But he’d give her a few weeks to work out the kinks on her own first, as long as she didn’t seem completely overwhelmed.

Which reminded him: He needed to contact the guidance counselor about Cameron in third period, who’d been tardy every day but refused to discuss the matter with him, and whose parents didn’t respond to messages.

When he tried to write another note, though, his pen only made inkless scratches. After tossing it in the garbage can, he reached for another, only to find one already in front of his nose.

Candy was standing beside his desk, good arm stretched out to offer him one of her trademark red pens.

At the sight of her, steady and strong and waiting, something inside him bloomed. Wildflowers in what he’d considered an endless expanse of sere, cracked earth.

The growth prickled. Stung, despite the unexpected beauty.

“Thank you.” He took the pen, scrawled a reminder to himself about Cameron, and handed it back. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”

Her shoulder lifted in a small shrug. “Impromptu student help sessions are an occupational hazard. I wasn’t going home anytime soon, anyway.”

She took off her cat-eye glasses, letting them dangle from the chain around her neck. It was something she’d been doing more and more often when they were alone.

“I can’t do that,” she said abruptly.

Since she didn’t appear to be sitting anytime soon, he stood too. “Do what?”

“Communicate that way with students.” With a sigh, she scrubbed her face with her hands and leaned heavily against his desk.