Hannah Jayne - Truly, Madly, Deadly

The rest of the week passed uneventfully with no new notes and Sawyer burying herself under a mountain of college applications and midterm prep. So when the door of her Spanish class opened the following Friday afternoon, Sawyer was knee-deep in Spanish verb conjugation hell and didn’t look up.

“Flower-grams!”

Sawyer’s heart ached, remembering last year’s onslaught of fundraising carnations. She and Kevin had just started dating and he had showered her—a dozen per class—in pink and white beribboned flowers, each bearing a special message: I love you, You’re beautiful. Those flowers were pressed in a cardboard box marked “Sawyer’s Room” now, right next to the note she thought was her favorite—a fuzzy bunny rabbit drawn on binder paper with the words I’ll never hurt you printed across it. Sawyer swallowed back a lump, hid her moist eyes behind her book.

Maggie was the head of the flower fundraising forum, and she marched into the classroom now, beaming in a waft of carnation-scented air, her minions flanking her, arms laden with blooms.

“Mr. Hanson, members of the junior class. As you know, our flower-gram program not only raises school and personal spirit—”

“I think I feel my lunch being raised,” someone muttered.

Maggie shot daggers. “As I was saying, these flower-grams raise spirit and cash for our junior prom. So, if you’re one of the few who don’t receive a flower today, there are still three more days to get yours.” Maggie donned a dazzling, pageant-worthy grin and narrowed her eyes at Sawyer. “Or consider sending one to yourself. No one but you and I will know, and it’s for a good cause.”

Sawyer rolled her eyes and went back to the verb to play .

“Now, without further ado, your flower-grams.”

Maggie cleared her throat and started reading off names as her minions zigzagged through the classroom, depositing single stems, sentiment cards tied with ribbons and fluttering like leaves.

Maggie paused, seeming to choke on the next name. “Sawyer Dodd.” She said it with a curled lip, no attempt to mask the disdain in her voice. “Two flowers.”

Maggie’s minion deposited two flowers on Sawyer’s desk without making eye contact. Sawyer lowered her Spanish book. It seemed as though the room dropped into a curious—and accusatory—silence. If Sawyer’s boyfriend was dead, their stares seemed to say, who was sending her flowers?

Sawyer unfurled the first note with trembling fingers. Would her admirer reveal himself—clear up the mystery message?

“To Tom Sawyer—Goin’ up river. All my love, Huck Finn.”

Sawyer felt her blood start to pump again and she grinned. Chloe was Sawyer’s Huck Finn—and Sawyer had painted more than a few fences for her—and although the “up the river” joke wasn’t original or new, it never failed to bring a smile to her lips.

Confident now, Sawyer reached for the second note and smoothed it against her desktop.

Her smile dropped.

Dear Sawyer—

You’ve got a great smile, but I don’t get to see it enough. Maybe I could change that if you’d let me take you out.

—Cooper

Sawyer swung her head to the right, her glance just catching Cooper Grey’s flushed cheek as he picked up a pen, started doodling, and focused hard on his notebook.

Cooper was new to Hawthorne High—a transplant from Kentucky or Kansas with a soft, sexy drawl, a well-muscled body, and a shy smile that Sawyer had often seen from the corner of her eye. He and Sawyer sat next to each other but never really spoke.

Sawyer swallowed hard and reached for Cooper’s arm just as the bell rang. The aisle flooded with students pushing their way out the door.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Mr. Hanson shouted, flapping his hands like broken moths. “Tests. Come pick them up on the way out.”

Sawyer was deliberately slow putting her things away. Though Cooper seemed sweet, dating was the last thing on her mind. She wanted to let him down easily, privately, but once she turned around, the classroom had emptied, and he was gone.

Sawyer hiked her backpack over her shoulder and was stopped at the head of the class by Mr. Hanson, what she supposed was her Spanish test tubed in his hands. He thumped it against his palm once, then held it out to her.

“Your test.” It was almost a question, and Sawyer was suddenly unsure whether or not she wanted to reach for it. Mr. Hanson was handsome, with dark hair that backed away from his forehead and eyebrows that rose expectantly. Sawyer wasn’t sure why, but the raised eyebrows paired with Mr. Hanson’s narrowed, leather-brown eyes unnerved her. She steadied her backpack and felt her eyes dart to the back of the classroom to the door, to the rows of abandoned desks behind her. Finally, they flitted over the page in Mr. Hanson’s hand.

“This is mine?”

“You know, Sawyer, I’m worried about you.” Mr. Hanson handed her her test, and she swallowed hard.

“Forty-seven percent?”

He offered her a sympathetic smile, set his hand on her shoulder, and squeezed gently. The motion sent something warm through Sawyer, and she wondered if she could slip away without seeming rude.

But then she thought of Dr. Johnson.

Dr. Johnson was her father’s go-to shrink for all things teenage trauma–related. Getting a divorce? Drop your kid at the shrink. Kid’s boyfriend dies? Shrink. Grades dropping, kid not coping, possibly cutting? Shrink, shrink, shrink.

“I’m sorry about this.” She shook the test. “I’ll try harder. I know I’ll do better next time. But maybe I can do some extra credit or something? I really do want to boost my grade.”

“Extra credit?” Mr. Hanson’s eyebrows went up. “I suppose we could work something out.”

“Thank you. I just—I just really need to end up with at least a B in this class.”

Mr. Hanson moved his hand to her upper arm, his thumb rubbing a small circle on her bare skin. His touch sent a cold, electric shock through her—Sawyer thought of a wet, serpentine eel darting through rocks—and her skin pricked out with gooseflesh.

“Ooh,” Mr. Hanson said, rubbing both of Sawyer’s arms now. “You’re freezing.”

“No,” Sawyer said, stumbling backward. “I’m okay.” She swung her backpack from one shoulder, putting it between herself and Mr. Hanson. He took a step closer anyway.

“I should get going.”

“You know, Sawyer, your grade is dropping like a stone. That’s not like you.”

“I know, I—”

“I know you’ve had a really rough month.”

Sawyer nodded, a rush of tears forming behind her lashes. She was angry; she was terrified; she wasn’t even sure at what. But she would not cry, she told herself. She had already spent too many embarrassing hours bursting into tears at inopportune moments. She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists, nails digging half-moons into her palms.

“I’m not trying to be the bad guy. I know you’re probably really sad and confused.”

Mr. Hanson’s eyes were dark, an intense shade of brown. When he moved to touch Sawyer’s cheek, she tried to dodge him—in her mind, at least. Her body was rigid, her feet rooted to the floor.

“Probably even a little lonely.” Mr. Hanson smiled softly. “That’s normal. I lost someone too, so I understand.” He slipped the test from her stony fingers. “But a college might not be as understanding. They’re strangers. Those people won’t know what a smart, talented girl you are.”

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.”