Professor Clemens strode in, calling out an enthusiastic greeting. He was white and much younger than their previous teacher and always wore dashing three-piece suits with thick glasses and a charming smile. On day one of school, everyone decided he was hot. On day two, they rearranged their opinion: They allhatedhim.
Clemens demanded perfection. Perfect work, perfect focus, perfect attitudes, perfect respect toward him. Anything less, he mocked. He singled out students with jibes that burned like acid, made people do their work on the whiteboard and ridiculed them the entire time, and cheerfully gave out Fs if anyone so much as spoke back.
It was the power, Andrew knew. Some people could get drunk on it.
“Good morning, students,” Clemens said, bright and energetic. He slid off his tweed jacket and rolled his shirtsleeves. “We have a lot to do today, so I’m glad to see everyone in their seats. That pop quiz last week wasfun, right? Warm congratulations to Mr. Emerson and Miss Obara for full marks. Mr. Murphy got threeout of twenty-five, which none of us are surprised about. Miss Sato didn’t show her work, so I’ll assume she cheated and mark accordingly.” His smile grew wider as students shrank. “Ah, Mr. Rye, who loves to nap in my class. Today’s question is for you.” He picked up a whiteboard marker and wrote fast across the board.
Does Thomas Rye Know How to Read?
A few nervous titters rippled through the class.
Andrew’s throat knotted so hard he couldn’t swallow. The only reason he didn’t get singled out was because Dove did his homework.
Thomas didn’t even notice he was today’s target. He stared at his desk, each breath low and ragged, still coming too fast.
Clemens tapped the marker on the board. “Judging from your mark of a big fat zero, I’d say the answer to this problem is: No. But we show our work in class, don’t we, Mr. Rye? Come to the front and redo question four.”
Thomas didn’t move.
Clemens had his back to the class, writing briskly across the whiteboard. “Pens out, everyone. Let’s play a game. Slowest to find the answer to this problem is next at the whiteboard.”
The class buckled down to work without a sound.
“Wake up, Mr. Rye, or you’ll be spending the whole class up front with me.”
Andrew leaned over and tried to pry Thomas’s fingers off his desk. “Hey. You have to slow your breathing.”
“I c-can’t.” His lips hardly moved. “I can’t… I can’t…”
Thomas was in pain. Nothing else mattered.
Andrew shoved out of his desk, his chair clattering. Half the class turned to stare.
Andrew framed Thomas’s face with his hands to focus his attention. “Look at me.”
“This is calculus, not drama, boys,” Clemens said in a mocking singsong voice.
Andrew whirled, his cheeks flaming and ago to hellstuck in his throat. “He needs some air.”
Clemens flicked Thomas a mocking once-over. “Sure. Why not. Why don’t we all just skip class today because we don’t feel like working? Who cares about grades? Who cares about college?”
Andrew yanked Thomas from his desk and towed him out of the room. He moved like a puppet, strings cut and tangled around Andrew’s fists.
Clemens opened the door for them. “You’re asking for a failing mark, both of you. Once you’ve finished your little break, head over to the principal’s office and let the secretary know you skipped for fun. Theatrics don’t work on me.”
The classroom door shut behind them.
In the hall, the world felt still and gray. The air tasted of dust motes and paper, of the muffled weight of being alone.
Thomas started to sink to the floor, but Andrew took fistfuls of his shirt and shoved him against the wall. Hard. Thomas flinched, but he was still hyperventilating.
“Stop it.” Andrew pressed against him and dug his fingers into Thomas’s collarbone.
“I’m dying.” Thomas’s mouth trembled.
“It’s a panic attack. I have a thousand of them a day, but youcan’t. You’re the strong one.”
Thomas’s whimper came low in his throat, raw and fissured. “I can’t keep doing this. Not every night. I can’t, I can’t—”
