Tyler scratched on the desk with his pencil.
“So your . . . lifestyle. You’re saying you’re a regular van Gogh,” Kinley said. “Breaking rules as art.” Her eyes followed his pencil on the surface of the desk. She couldn’t tell what he was drawing. His arm was carefully angled in front of it.
Tyler grinned. “I’d say I’m more of a Pollock, really. I just throw shit at a wall and see what sticks. Oh, and I’m not opposed to copying others’ work.” He glanced purposely at Kinley’s notebook.
Kinley laughed. Actually laughed. Here she was, the Goody Two-shoes of the entire school, and she was getting along with Tyler Green, who, upon closer inspection, was sort of cute. If you could overlook the stupid rock band T-shirt and ripped jeans. He could actually look good, cleaned up. She imagined him in a crisp blue button-down with a proper haircut.
He’d be perfect.
She bit into her bottom lip. She’d never had a boyfriend. Hadn’t even had a boy show interest, unless you counted Marcus Canter in fourth grade, when he told her she was pretty before sneezing a bucketload of green phlegm all over her.
And it was weird, but . . . well, she kind of liked the attention. For something other than getting the highest test score.
“Kinley? Kinley Phillips? Care to join the class?”
Kinley’s head snapped up. “Yes?”
Dr. Stratford stood at the front of the room, the full intensity of his focus upon her. He was not a normal professor type: his mess of hair, a tangled mass of gray with tinges of brown dye, sat atop his head like someone had placed it there. Half his face drooped. And his eyes were strange and too light. They were also staring directly at Kinley.
Kinley’s head spun. When had he even arrived? How was it time for class already?
“I apologize, sir. What was the question?”
He cleared his throat loudly, and for the second time that day, she was reminded of Marcus Canter. “Roll call, Ms. Phillips. Now, should I mark you as present? Or absent, as you clearly don’t seem to be here for class?”
Kinley didn’t flinch. She looked him in the eye, ignoring the heat creeping up from her neckline. “Here, sir. I apologize.” She bent her head.
Dr. Stratford just snorted. “Teller, Ella?” he asked. A girl in the front row slowly raised her hand, as if not to attract too much attention.
Kinley scowled. Damn it. She shot a look at Tyler. He’d been distracting her when she should have been paying attention. That was what happened to girls who got caught up with boys like Tyler. Or boys in general.
It was too bad. She’d liked talking to him.
Professor Stratford finished calling roll, and then stepped behind the desk—a desk that normally belonged to Mr. Tanner, a teacher with thick glasses who pretty much everyone liked. He opened the desk and pulled out a huge tome that looked at least a billion years old.
“Today,” he said, “we’re going to talk about guilt. Specifically, Freud and his approach to guilt. Which I find to be a bit stupid and outdated—but then, so is Freud.”
Dr. Stratford, Kinley thought, was definitely a teacher who was passionate about his subject matter.
“Now, last class, we discussed the psychic apparatus. Can anyone remind us what this consists of??” He looked around at the class. “Kinley? Do you remember, or were you too busy being desperate with that boy there?”
Kinley stared, her heart beating strangely in her chest. Desperate? This was the first time she’d ever spoken to Tyler.
“No? Okay. Well, then. Let’s try Ivy in the corner there. Ivy, would you like to take a break from staring out the window?”
“I know,” Kinley interrupted, her voice a pitch too loud. “The psychic apparatus consists of—”
“Stop,” Dr. Stratford said, slamming his wrinkled hand on the desk. “Just stop. You had your chance. I wanted to know what you knew, not what you had time to google on your phone while I asked someone else.”
Kinley’s mouth dropped open. This was not how teachers spoke to her. Teachers loved her. She was a dream student. She was a pet.
Tyler leaned over and nudged her. “Don’t worry about it,” he whispered. “He’s an asshole. Everyone knows it.”
Kinley ignored him. She felt her face burn ever hotter. Her father would be so disappointed. He did everything right. He was a leader. He’d even written a book, and CNN had invited him in-studio to represent minority visions on modern culture. Her fingers reached for the ends of her braid—a nervous habit.
While Ivy struggled in the corner over the difference between id and ego, the door opened and a tall, sort of youngish-looking boy shuffled in and shut the door quietly behind him. Kinley couldn’t remember his name.
Stratford’s head jerked around, and he actually sniffed like he smelled blood. Hot, fresh blood.