Part V

                                    

                                          
WARNING: There will be mature topics from this point forth. Read with caution.
                          
English class is your least favorite class.
                          
The weeks since your mistake have been painful, to say the least. Being in the same room as Harry makes you feel like all the air has left your lungs. You don't find him watching you anymore. Instead, you find his gaze locked tightly on a paper or on Dr. Glasser. 
                          
"Do you want to hand back the papers, Harry?"
                          
Harry's head snaps up from where he's been examining a set of notes on his desk. His eyes are wide in alarm for only a split second and then he's nodding and rising from his seat. Any effort to avert your eyes is a huge failure. All you can do is watch him move about the room. He's finally dressed for the weather, in a big sweater that looks about the same age as him. It's stretched and discolored, but the way the air hits it as he walks pulls it taught around his frame.
                          
A jolt of adrenaline runs through you when you realize he's in front of you, slipping a paper face down onto your desk, breathing an air of peppermint around you. You glance up to look at him, but by the time you do he's already moved on to the next student. Before you know it, he's back in his seat, staring intently at his notes once more.
                          
You lower your gaze, fingers picking at the edge of your paper and flipping it over. Your eyes lift again and you watch as everyone flips through their papers, examining comments and corrections. You turn the page of your essay, and then the next page, but there's nothing written except for the small letter next to your name on the front.
                          
"I've heard there was a big improvement from the first paper," Dr. Glasser commends, sliding things into his messenger bag. "Let's keep that trend, shall we? I'll see you on Thursday."
                          
Everyone begins to pack up, including you. You watch as the professor leaves, and then Harry, with nothing in his hands. He's not even holding the journal that's usually a permanent accessory. Something flares up inside you, makes you zip up your bag with a hard pull. Anger?
                          
Your feet carry you quickly from the room, into a hallway flooded with students from your English class. You can see the crowd part like the Red Sea around a tall figure up ahead. It takes you a minute to sift through students and make your way toward him. By the time you're behind him, whatever anger you felt has dissolved and your heart is pounding like a jackhammer against your ribcage.
                          
"Hey," you greet bashfully, jogging the last few paces to catch up with him. Harry looks at you, jaw working a piece of gum. His gaze holds steady for a moment too long before he stares at his shoes with a crease between his eyebrows.
                          
"D'yeh need somethin'?" he asks gently, slowing his strides down the emptying hallway.
                          
"Yes, actually," you confirm. Your voice has gained some confidence now. You don't like this—him acting like you're some fragile blown glass ornament. You made a mistake, and you're over it. He doesn't have to treat you this way. "You gave me an A," you inform him, lifting your paper up in front of his face.
                          
Harry stares at the letter for a moment and his lips quirk so briefly that you might have imagined it. Then his eyes drift to your face. "Yeah. Did, didn' I?"
                          
"Why?"
                          
Harry looks perplexed now, as his footsteps slow even more. "Did yeh not want the A? Only wrote it in pencil. Could erase it and change the grade 'f yeh want-"
                          
"Harry," you press, narrowing your eyes at him. He raises a brow, up beneath a line of scraggly curls. "You don't need to give me grades just because you feel bad for me. I'm not a charity case."
                          
"Who said I feel bad fo' yeh?"
                          
"Well, this was the worst paper I've ever written," you observe, glancing over the pages.