Jules snatched the canister out of his hand. His face was still bright red, his brow still drawn, but the anger had dissolved from his eyes. “If nothing’s changed in another three weeks,” he said, low and threatening, “I’ll be shoving the rest of this cream down your throat.”
Well, most of the anger had dissolved from his eyes, anyway.
But Carswell merely smiled and gave Jules a friendly pat on the chest just as the anthem of the American Republic began to blare through the school speakers. “So glad I could clear things up for you.”
Turning, Carswell waved his wrist over his locker to unlock the ID-coded mechanism and gathered up his things, as polite a dismissal as he could give.
* * *
He walked into literature class four minutes late, his book bag over one shoulder as he deftly buttoned up his blazer. He slid into the only remaining seat—front row, dead center.
“So nice of you to join us, Mr. Thorne,” said Professor Gosnel.
Crossing his ankles, Carswell tipped back in his chair and flashed a bright smile at the teacher. “The pleasure is all mine, Professor Gosnel.”
She sighed, but he could see the corner of her mouth twitch as she punched something into her portscreen. Within moments, the screens built into the classroom desks lit up with the day’s assignment. Great dramatists of the first century, third era, was emblazoned across the top, followed by a list of names and which of the six Earthen countries each dramatist had hailed from.
“For today, I want everyone to select one artist from this list,” said the teacher, pacing in front of the classroom, “and choose a drama from their body of work that appeals to you. At half past, we’ll split into pairs and you can take turns reading the dramas you’ve found with your partner and discussing how the themes in them relate to our world today.”
A finger tapped Carswell gently at the base of his neck, the universal symbol for “I choose you.” Carswell struggled to remember who had been sitting behind him when he took this seat, and if it was someone he wouldn’t mind being partnered with. Had it been Destiny? Athena? Blakely? Spades, he hoped it wasn’t Blakely. Once she started talking, it was difficult to remember what peace and quiet sounded like.
He slid his gaze to the side, hoping he could catch his mystery partner’s reflection in the windows before committing to the partnership, when his gaze caught on the girl sitting in the seat beside him.
Kate Fallow.
His gaze narrowed thoughtfully.
Despite having been in the same grade since toddler primaries, he doubted that he and Kate had spoken more than fifty words to each other their whole lives. He didn’t think it was anything personal. Their paths just hadn’t crossed much. As evidenced at that moment, she preferred to sit in the front of class, whereas he did his best to end up somewhere near the back. Instead of coming out to sporting events or school festivals, Kate always seemed to rush straight home when classes were over. She was at the top of their class and well liked, but by no means popular, and she spent most lunch hours with her nose buried in her portscreen. Reading.
This was only the second time Carswell Thorne had stopped to ponder one Kate Fallow. The first time, he had wondered why she liked books so much, and if it had anything to do with why he liked spaceships. Because they could take you somewhere far, far away from here.
This time, he was wondering what her math score was.
There was a thud as Carswell settled his chair legs back on the floor and leaned across the aisle. “You probably know who all these writers are, don’t you?”
Kate’s head whipped up. She blinked at him for a moment before her startled eyes glanced at the person behind her, then back to Carswell.
He grinned.
She blinked. “Ex-excuse me?”
He inched closer, so that he was barely seated on the edge of his chair, and dragged the tip of his stylus down her screen. “All these dramatists. You read so much, I bet you’ve already read them all.”
“Um.” She followed the tip of his stylus before … there it was, that sudden rush of color to her cheeks. “No, not all of them. Maybe … maybe half, though?”
“Yeah?” Settling an elbow on his knee, Carswell cupped his chin. “Who’s your favorite? I could use a recommendation.”
“Oh. Well, um. Bourdain wrote some really great historical pieces…” She trailed off, then swallowed. Hard. She lifted her eyes to him and seemed surprised when he was still paying attention to her.
For his part, Carswell was feeling a little surprised too. It had been a long time since he’d really looked at Kate Fallow, and she seemed prettier now than he’d remembered, even if it was the kind of pretty that was overshadowed by the likes of Shan or Elia. Kate was softer and plumper than most of the girls in his class, but she also had the largest, warmest brown eyes he thought he’d ever seen.
Plus, there was also something endearing about a girl who seemed entirely floored by no more than a moment’s worth of attention from him. But maybe that was just his ego speaking.
“Is there a certain type of drama you like?” Kate whispered.
Carswell twisted his lips up in thought. “Adventure stories, I guess. With lots of exotic places and daring escapades … and swashbuckling space pirates, naturally.” He followed this up with a wink and watched, preening inside, as Kate’s mouth turned into a small, surprised O.
Then Professor Gosnel cleared her throat. “This is supposed to be individual study, Mr. Thorne and Miss Fallow. Twenty more minutes, and then you can partner up.”
“Yes, Professor Gosnel,” said Carswell without missing a beat, even as the redness stretched to Kate’s hairline and a few students snickered near the back. He wondered if Kate had ever been reprimanded by a teacher in her life.
He slid his gaze back to Kate and waited—five seconds, six—until her gaze darted uncertainly upward again. Though she caught him staring, she was the one who instantly turned back to her desk, flustered.
Feeling rather accomplished, Carswell took to scanning through the names. A few sounded familiar, but not enough that he could have named any of their works. He racked his brain, trying to remember what, exactly, he was supposed to be doing for this assignment anyway.
Then Kate Fallow leaned over and tapped her stylus against a name on the list. Joel Kimbrough, United Kingdom, born 27 T.E. His list of works spilled down the screen, with titles like Space Ranger on the Ninth Moon and The Mariner and the Martians.
Carswell beamed up at Kate, but she had already returned her attention to her own screen, without any sign of her blush receding.
The next twenty minutes were spent scanning through Joel Kimbrough’s extensive body of work, while his mind churned through different scenarios in which he could get Kate Fallow to help him with his math homework—preferably, just to let him copy off her so he wouldn’t need to put any more time into that wasteful venture.
When Professor Gosnel finally told them to choose a partner, Carswell scooted his desk closer to Kate’s without hesitation. “Would you like to work together?”
She gaped at him again, no less surprised than the first time. “Me?”
“Sure. You like histories, I like adventures. Match made in heaven, right?”
“Um…”
“Carswell?” hissed a voice behind him. He glanced around. Blakely was seated behind him, leaning so far over her desk that her nose was practically on his shoulder. “I thought you and I could be partners.”