Chapter 2
I have to rush after Benedict to catch up; he has a long stride. I wonder… nope, don’t go there Amelia. ”Chasing after me already? I knew you would come around,” he gloats.
”Actually, I’m just trying to catch the thief who took my bag,” I counter, tugging my backpack out of his grasp, a bit out of breath. He jerks the bag, pulling my body into his firm chest. His free hand catches the small of my back and I emit a sound that is supposed to be an ”oof” but comes out throatier than intended. I quickly push away from him.
”Now, now, Miss Roberts, what kind of respectable young gentleman would I be if I let the new girl carry her bag on her first day?” His voice carries a false seriousness that reminds me of a character from a period romance novel. Barf. How am I supposed to make it through an entire semester with this guy as my mentor? I decide to play into his hand for a moment. Only for a moment.
”Well now, Mr. Blake, a respectable young lady cannot be seen with a gentleman on a promenade after only our first meeting, so I will just have to take my things and go.” I smile sweetly, letting the sarcasm drip from my voice. Then I attempt to take my bag again, but he pulls back.
“Okay, okay, I get it. I’ll stop, but I cannot in good conscience let you carry this bag. It weighs a ton. What do you have in here? The whole library?” His face is a mask of seriousness.
“Yes,” I deadpan.
“Just yes?” he quizzes. I stare at him in response. As much as I would love to spend my time bantering with the future star of a romcom, I have to get to class, and so far, not much mentoring has happened. Even though I’m confident a guy who looks like this could mentor me on several things. Amelia Jane Roberts! Stop it right now. You do not have time for boys; you only have time for writing and, in the unlikely event you have a moment, more writing. Mr. Romcom takes my silence as an opportunity to continue his attempt at—I’m not actually sure what he is attempting, but his voice is annoyingly intriguing. “Okay, here is the deal. You are new, so of course I have to at least take a shot. But before you go to your first class, there are some things you should know.”
“Deciding to fulfill your mentor duties now?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Like I have a choice.” I almost ask, but he continues, “Classes here are set up similar to a university. You take 12 to 15 credits per semester depending on your ability level. The 12 is just there to appease the state requirements; everyone takes 15.” He pulls a paper from his pocket and begins to read. The smirk returns. “You have all AP classes, Miss Overachiever, so keep in mind that your caseload is especially tough. Calc 1, Mrs. Rollins; American Literature, Mr. Laurance;, Journalism III;, Mr. Bannerman, Anatomy I;, Dr. Jones, and finally…” confusion lingers on his face. “Golf? You play golf?”
Embarrassment floods me. Of course I don’t play golf! However, like most schools, physical education is required for graduation. I avoided P.E at all costs at Wilcocks. The thought of running in front of someone was enough for me to give up all my dreams of journalistic success and hide in my room forever. However, Briarwood requires me to complete the class my first semester, so I chose golf from the catalog. It seemed like a safe choice, walking, preferably in solitude, hitting a ball. How hard could it be? “Isn’t that the purpose of the class? So I can learn?” I question.
Benedict shakes off his look of surprise. It’s clear he wants to say something but is painfully refraining. “Sure, anyway, you don’t go to every class each day. You have Calc and Lit Mondays and Wednesdays. Anatomy and Journalism Tuesdays and Thursdays. Golf on Fridays. You have weekends off to study and do whatever. Lunch break between classes. I’ll meet you here between class changes to make sure you get everywhere today without an escape attempt.”
“Escape attempt?” Is this guy for real?
“You’d be surprised how overwhelmed new students get with the course load. You aren’t in Kansas anymore, Dorothy.”
“Well, as long as I have my own personal straw man to help.” I wisp out like a doe-eyed damsel. At this point, we’ve made it to the math department. I can tell from the large plaque on the wall dedicating the department to whom I assume is an old dead guy that gave the school an obscene amount of money.
“Just watch out for flying monkeys.” he leans in a little and whispers “By flying monkeys, I mean bitchy third years, who are pissed you’re messing up the curve.” Shivers run down my spine as he leans back “Student records don’t really stay private here. There’s a good chance you have already made enemies just by being a part of the recruitment program. Also, sit in the back, resist the urge to be the good little girl in the front row. Mrs. Rollins spits when she talks.” He holds a serious tone up until he says good little girl, and the teasing voice from earlier returns.
“What makes you think I’m a good little girl?” My mouth works faster than my filter and I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth. Suddenly those intense eyes bare into my own blues as Benedict takes a step closer.
“I know my good girl is eager to please on her first day.” I watch his Adam”s apple bop up and down. I feel the air become thick with a different type of expectation and it is officially time to remove myself from his presence.
“I’m not your girl. I’m your mentee. Thanks for getting me to class.” I turn heel and walk into the half-full classroom. Despite my racing heartbeat, I head calmly to the back of the room and take a seat. I want to purposely defy Benedict by sitting in the front, because darn him if he isn’t right, I would have sat there. When I am settled, I glance up to the doorway where I left Benedict standing. His smirk returns, and he mouths “good girl.” I am so screwed.