He didn’t say anything at first—he just reached over, plucked my notebook out of my slack hands, and set it neatly on my desk like he’d done it a thousand times before. Then he looked at me.
Really looked.
“Frankie.” His voice was gravel-soft. Concern, guilt, and something subtly protective all wrapped together. “You good?”
The smile I tried for collapsed immediately. “No.”
He nodded, like he’d already known that. Like he’d been bracing for it. “You wanna sit by the window today?”
I nodded because words stuck in my throat.
We worked quietly, side by side. Bubba kept pretending to be absorbed in the derivative worksheet, but every time he caught me staring blindly at a problem, he nudged my arm with his elbow, real gentle, and whispered an answer under his breath.
He didn’t push.
He didn’t crowd.
He just stayed.
At one point, he murmured, “Archie texted me,” eyes fixed on his work. “Said it got weird.”
“That’s an understatement,” I muttered.
He cracked the faintest smile. “You want me to talk to him?”
“No.” Maybe. God, I didn’t know.
Bubba nodded like he actually understood the answer under the non-answer. “Okay.”
Class ended too soon. He walked with me to the door, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense like he wanted to shield me from every pair of eyes in the hallway.
“Text me,” he said as I left. “If you need anything.”
I wanted to hug him. But I didn’t trust myself not to cry if I did.
If hell had regional campuses,third period French was one of them.
Mathieu sat in his usual seat—two rows ahead. Rachel sat beside me, her posture vibrating with pent-up fury she was barely keeping leashed.
She took one look at my face and went absolutely still.
“What happened?” she whispered in French, sharp as a knife.
“Nothing,” I whispered back.
“Bullshit.”
Madame swept in then, beginning class with her usual bright Bonjour, mes élèves, which meant I was trapped.
Mathieu didn’t turn around once. But I could feel him thinking. Feel the tension in the room bending around him like static.
During group work, Madame paired the three of us together like she enjoyed human suffering.
The second we sat in a little triangle of desks, Rachel leaned forward. “He made you cry.”
“I didn’t cry.”
“Your mascara says otherwise.”
