Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 114419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114419 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 458(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
One day, after the class had been dismissed and all the students were packing up, Mr. Patches called my name and asked if I’d stay after for a few minutes. This confused but didn’t alarm me, and so I put my books in my backpack slowly as the rest of the students filed out, and Mr. Patches stood by the door, smiling and telling them to have a nice day as they left. He flipped the lock on the door and then approached me where I stood next to his desk, motioning for me to have a seat in the chair next to his. We both sat, and Mr. Patches turned to me and gave me a smile. “You’ve improved tremendously in this class,” he said, and once again, I felt that buzzing in my chest that made me feel happy and lighter in some way I couldn’t quite describe.
“Thank you, sir,” I answered. “I’ve been working hard.” And it was true. Without the anxiety of knowing Father might return from one of his trips any day, without having to make excuses and create outright lies for the bruises, cuts, and broken bones, I had been able to focus more fully on my studies. I knew I was still behind the other students, but for the first time, I thought perhaps it wasn’t that I was dull or stupid but that I’d been distracted by things the others weren’t and maybe it was a wonder I’d come as far as I had under the circumstances. The idea was liberating.
“Yes, I can tell you’ve been working very hard,” Mr. Patches said. “It shows.” He sat back in his chair and looked at me, and for the first time, I felt a prickle of unease. I pushed it aside, though. Mr. Patches was proud of me. That’s what he was saying. “You have so much potential,” he finished with a nod.
“Thank you, sir,” I said again, tongue tied, which wasn’t unusual for me.
But Mr. Patches smiled fondly, the way a father might smile at his son, if that father was fond of that son. “But,” he said, “while you’ve improved tremendously, you’re still slightly behind.” He put his hand up as though warding off my hurt feelings, though it wasn’t necessary. I was already well aware what he said was true. He leaned forward. “I have a plan, though. What would you say to some personal tutoring?”
Personal tutoring. My eyes shifted sideways, and I was suddenly nervous. My mother and I no longer had my father’s income, and while Mother was extremely creative and managed to maintain a lovely and comfortable home in the absence of his money, there would never be enough for extras like tutoring. “Well, I . . . um . . . ,” I mumbled.
Mr. Patches seemed to understand my discomfort, and he jumped in immediately and said, “There would be absolutely no charge. I occasionally provide this service for students I consider extra special.”
I smiled, that pleasant buzzing feeling returning, though not quite as strongly. Extra special. “Okay, yes,” I said.
“Oh! Doo-dah day!” Mr. Patches said on a wide smile, glancing at the door. Somehow, I knew in that moment I’d never like that phrase again. Outside the door, the hall was utterly quiet. Everyone on this floor had headed home for the day. “We can get started right away.” He paused for only a moment. “By the way, I know someone who worked with your father,” he said, and my blood turned icy, the room pulsing around me. Oh no. Oh no. He was going to call the police. They were going to come to our house, spray that stuff that made blood shine under their special lights. Sweat broke out on my upper lip. Mr. Patches tilted his head, watching me. “He mentioned that the son of a man he worked with—a man who disappeared—is in my class. He mentioned your name, asked if I knew you. Isn’t that a coincidence?” He peered at me more closely, and I swallowed. “I’m sorry to hear about your father.” He gave a grim twist of his mouth. “Sometimes fathers leave. They decide they just don’t like the life they’ve been living, and they pack up and just . . . go. Start new lives, I guess. Mine did too. That’s how I know what it’s like to be left behind.”
My shoulders dropped just a hair. He thought my father had abandoned his family, the way his had. He related to me. I let out a slow breath. “So,” he went on, “how’s tomorrow after school at your house?” Before I had a chance to say a word, he leaned forward, patting my knee. I dropped my gaze to his hand, which stayed on my knee, even after the patting had stopped. There was the feeling of something sinking in my stomach—something large and heavy. Mr. Patches’s fingers trembled slightly, and then he raised his eyes, looking into mine as his hand began to travel up my leg toward my thigh. I was frozen. I didn’t know what to do. That weight within me grew, stretching the lining of my stomach, making the contents move up my throat. Mr. Patches’s hand stopped at the juncture of my thigh and moved inward slightly, but then as quick as that, he lifted it, sitting back and smiling as though I’d imagined what had just happened. Or misinterpreted it.