RIOT HOUSE (Crooked Sinners #1) - Callie Hart Page 0,11

given name isn’t as common in other countries as it is in France. “Close. It’s Elodie. Like Melody, but without the M.” I smile when I correct him to let him know I’m not offended. He nods, wagging his finger at me. A girl sitting a bean bag three people over from me sighs deliriously when the guy spins around to face a white board on wheels and we all get to see just how tight his grey pants are across his pert ass.

“In lieu of any weird ‘stand up and tell us all about yourself’ nonsense, I’m afraid you’ll have to be nominated as volunteer for our game today, Elodie,” he says, scrawling my name onto the surface of the whiteboard in red marker. Surprisingly, he spells it correctly first time.

“She can’t be a volunteer if you nominate her,” Damiana gripes, casting a sour look over her shoulder at me. “How is that fair? Some of us have been waiting our turn for months, Fitz.”

“Oh, stop whining. I think we’re all tired of the ceaseless droning of your voice, child.”

Wow. I mean, I thought that it was wild, the way Wren spoke to Doctor Fitzpatrick, but honestly, the way he speaks to us is a little out there, too. The doc doesn’t come across like a typical professor; he seems like a normal, functioning human being instead of an academic robot, trying to hustle us through the curriculum as fast as he possibly can. It’s refreshing. Doesn’t hurt that he calls people like Damiana out on her shit when she’s being bitchy, either. I think I really like this guy.

Until he tells me to come stand in front of the class.

“Come on, Still…?”

“Water,” I supply.

“Come on, Stillwater. On your feet. Front and center. You’ve got a job to do.”

Mortified, I look at Carina, hoping for a miracle that’ll mean I can remain sitting with her. Her forehead creases, an apologetic look on her face. “Sorry, dude. I should have realized he’d do this. Best to just go up there and get it over with.”

Urgh. What a fucking nightmare. I get up from the sofa so slowly that it feels like I’m wading through glue. Once I’m at the front of the class, I turn around, donning a bright, cheery (fake) smile, and I face the class down. In fairness, this is a small class by anyone’s standards. There are probably only fifteen students lazing around like spoiled cats in Doctor Fitzpatrick’s den, which is a relief.

“What’s the game?” I ask through my teeth, trying to loosen up the smile a little—it can’t look real right now, it’s far too tense. I hate this kind of thing. I hate moving schools, and I hate meeting new people, and I hate learning all the new rules. I hate learning all the new games, too.

Doctor Fitzpatrick beams as he perches on the edge of the windowsill near Wren’s leather couch. He doesn’t seem to have a desk in here, either. “Anyone care to explain the rules to Elodie, class?” This is entertaining to him. He’s actually enjoying being here, teaching his students. In five different countries and in five different schools, I’ve never encountered another professor who enjoys his job.

A guy in the back, leaning against one of the book stacks, speaks up without raising his hand. “It’s a popularity contest,” he announces without looking up from the Rubik’s Cube he’s idly spinning in his hands. “You stand up there as directed by our venerated puppet master, and you give us a debate argument. The argument has to be related to books or the English language. If the class argues your debate topic in an entertaining way without Fitz getting bored, you score an automatic A on the next assignment he sets.”

Hold up now…

What??

The doc’s going to correct the guy and explain the game properly any second now. Surely. No? Doctor Fitzpatrick sits on the edge of the windowsill, smiling quite happily. He doesn’t even object to the fact that this kid just called him ‘our venerated puppet master.’

I don’t quite know what I’m supposed to do. I’d love to say I don’t really give a shit about my grades here at Wolf Hall, but the sad truth is that the monthly allowance my father loads onto my AMEX is directly related to my GPA. I know how it works all too well: I ace my tests and assignments, and I’ll have plenty of funds to survive on here. I ding my