Sawyer’s spine stiffened. “Mr. Hanson, I—”
“I want to help you.” He laid the test aside on his desk, peeled the backpack from Sawyer’s stiff fingers, and set that aside too.
“I think I can probably get my grade up if I just work a little harder.” She took a microstep backward. “I’ll do that. I mean, I know I can…if I just…work harder.”
Mr. Hanson’s hand fell from her elbow, his fingertips trailing just slightly over the bare skin of her forearm, giving her goose bumps. Mr. Hanson smiled. “You don’t need to be afraid of me. I help out a lot of my students.”
“Oh.” Sawyer’s mind was working, ticking. Everyone loves Mr. Hanson, Sawyer’s mind reasoned, he’s just being friendly. Stop being such a freak. She forced a laugh that was too loud, sounded tinny and too high-pitched in the empty room.
“Would you like me to help you? It’ll only take a minute.” Mr. Hanson picked up the teacher’s guide to Sawyer’s Spanish textbook and she immediately relaxed, suddenly feeling embarrassed.
See? He’s a teacher. Stop. Being. A. Freak.
Sawyer nodded slowly, trying to force some nonchalance into her stance, into her voice. She shifted her weight. “Sure. Thanks.”
Mr. Hanson pulled out his desk chair for Sawyer and ushered her into it. She sat primly, and he slid her test paper in front of her. He leaned close, one hand on her shoulder, the other caging her at his desk. “You see right here?” He pointed, and Sawyer nodded quickly.
“It should have been nosotros,” she answered slowly.
“Right.” He squeezed her shoulder. “See, that was probably just carelessness. Now, what about this one?” He pointed to something lower on the page and Sawyer bent to examine it, his fingers trailing down her spine and resting on her lower back. He began to make small circles with his thumb and Sawyer swallowed heavily, her heart beginning to thud. Every muscle in her body screamed that something was terribly wrong, but when she turned to look at Mr. Hanson, his face was open, his smile kind.
He’s helping me, Sawyer said to herself, swallowing hard. That’s all it is.
“I know you can get this. You’re a smart girl.” Mr. Hanson winked. “Not just a pretty face.”
Sawyer glanced at the clock and pushed away from the desk, standing. “I really should get going. Um, thank you. Uh, for helping me.”
“That’s all I want to do for you, Sawyer. Help.” He opened his arms for a hug, and the stupidity that Sawyer felt crashed over her in a tremendous wave.
She stepped into his embrace and felt his arms wrap around her, a quick, innocent squeeze.
See? Innocent. Stop being such a jumpy stupid freak.
But his hands locked behind her and his lips found her ear. His breath was hot and moist. “I’m always here to help,” he whispered.
He hugged her just a little bit tighter, and Sawyer stumbled forward, off balance. She pressed her face into the collar of his Lacoste polo shirt. She tried to right herself, to push herself apart from Mr. Hanson, but he was still in mid-hug.
Suddenly, all Sawyer wanted was to get away. It was illogical and rude, she thought, but she felt stifled and trapped and uncomfortable. Six minutes or six seconds could have passed—Sawyer couldn’t be sure—but Mr. Hanson’s scent, smoke and musky cologne and sweat, choked her and she gritted her teeth, biting her lip hard in the process. She tasted the blood in her mouth just as she felt Mr. Hanson’s fingers slip from the small of her back, trailing to the waistband of her jeans, then resting on her back pockets.
He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, she screamed in her head. He doesn’t know that he’s touching me.
A hundred thoughts zipped through her mind. Step back casually. Don’t mention it. Don’t embarrass him.
She tried to back away, her whole body stiffening, but he didn’t let her go. Finally she ground her palms against his chest, pressing against him.
“Mr. Hanson, I have to go. I have to go right now.”
“What are you talking about? You came to me.” His breath was raspy, muffled by her hair, and Sawyer paused, anxiety welling up inside her. She had come to him. He only wanted to help. Her head started to spin. He was trying to help…right?
He pressed against her once more, his belt buckle digging into her, and something inside of her snapped. Terror—and anger—shot through her.
“No!” She grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and brought her knee up, hard and fast, catching him off guard and between the legs. Mr. Hanson groaned and doubled over, grabbing her ponytail. Sawyer stumbled backward, wincing at the dried-leaf sound of strands of her hair breaking as Mr. Hanson pulled against her. She pushed away again, hand clawed, nails raking over his cheeks, leaving an angry red wake puckering his skin.