I stop walking too, and follow her gaze. About twenty metres away, in front of a supermarket, stands Jude. He’s holding four bags in two hands, and they look heavy because I can see the muscles in his arms working. He’s talking to Ms Seymour, who’s also holding bags of groceries.
They’re too far away for me to hear their voices, but their conversation looks tense. Ms Seymour’s face is twisted into an expression I’ve never seen on her before.
Their conversation wraps up, and Ms Seymour walks off. Jude stays still for a few seconds, then, with a sigh, follows after his mum. His angry expression has disappeared. Instead, he looks empty. Like he’s dead inside.
Then, as if sensing me staring, he glances my way. His brows raise for half a second as if placing me, before his gaze slides to Lily. I consider nodding, to be polite, but before I can, he turns around and trudges after his mum.
Lily and I continue on our way in the opposite direction. “It’s so weird seeing teachers outside of school,” she says.
I make a noise of agreement. We arrive in the parking lot, and I slow down my steps. “I’m parked over there,” I say, pointing.
“Okay. I’m over that side.” She smiles at me. “It was fun hanging out with you.”
“Yeah. Same,” I reply lamely. “See you at school.”
She hugs me, and I’m too stunned to return it before she pulls away with a “bye” and goes.
I’ve never been so excited for Monday lunchtime. But first, I have to suffer through maths class.
“Morning,” I say to Jude as I fall into my assigned seat.
“Morning,” he says without lifting his head as he flips through the pages of his textbook. I bet he’s going to spend the whole double doing questions by himself instead of listening to the teacher. More than once, I’ve seen him roll his eyes at Mrs Johns. Sure, it’s probably true that it’d be more efficient to teach himself maths rather than listen to Mrs John’s explanations, which are constantly interrupted by technical difficulties and irrelevant anecdotes about her grandkids, but he doesn’t have to be so hoity-toity about it.
Still, because I’m nice, I say, “How was your weekend?”
“Fine. Yours? I saw you at the mall.”
“Yeah.”
“With Lily.”
“Yeah.”
He runs a critical eye over me. “I didn’t know you two were going out.”
“We-we’re not,” I stutter, feeling myself go red.
He raises a brow. “Right.”
“Seriously,” I add. “We’re not dating.”
“Okay. Calm yourself. It’s not like I was going to tell anyone.” He says it with such condescension that I’m reminded of why I don’t like him.
Then I remember his empty expression on Sunday and the argument he had with his mum, and I feel a twinge of guilt.
Halfway through class, I grow bored of questions and start sketching a hand. It has long, blunt fingers. I detail in a vein over the back of the hand and hatch in the shadows.
I take out my phone, hide it under the desk, and text my friends in the group chat:won’t be at lunch, gotta get help from my teacher :(
After putting my phone away, I resume drawing. Jude’s eyes flick over at my sketch. I’ve caught him glance at my drawings quite a few times since we were forced to sit next to each other in class, but he’s never said anything. He hasn’t even shot me a disapproving frown, which is surprising.
In my periphery, Jude’s gaze travels from the hand I’m drawing to mine, the one that’s currently holding the black ballpoint pen.
But I’m not drawing my own hand. I’m drawing F’s.
7
Jude: Hickey
