Page 22 of Sweet Nightmare

He lifts one dark brow, taps his pen against the edge of the desk. “You wouldn’t have?”

“If I loved him the way she says she did in this letter?” It’s my turn to wave my phone. “I would never have let him run off to basically die alone. And if he loved her, he wouldn’t have just walked away and left her wondering.”

“Maybe he thought distancing himself would keep her safe.” His pen is tapping faster now.

“From what? Tuberculosis? He didn’t seem to mind infecting everyone else. It says here Fanny wrote letters to him almost daily. But he didn’t even open them because he couldn’t ‘bear to read them.’ So he never wrote back. He didn’t leave to keep her safe. He left for his own vanity. That’s fucking selfish.”

“You don’t know that. She could have moved on, forgotten all about him—”

“Yeah, because all of those letters she wrote scream, ‘I’ve moved on.’” I roll my eyes.

“He was probably trying to help her move on—”

“By leaving her wondering if he ever thought about her the way she thought about him?” My voice is getting louder now, indignation tearing through me as I throw up my hands. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“What’s bullshit is expecting him to stick around and ruin her life,” he shoots back, sounding almost as annoyed as I feel. “Especially when he knew things could only end one way.”

And just like that, I’ve had enough. Of Jude. Of this poem. Of this school that sends its graduates out to die like lambs to the paranormal slaughter. “Are we really going to do this?”

The words practically explode out of me, so loud that Ms. Aguilar lets out a little squeak from the front of the room.

I ignore her, and so does Jude.

To his very small credit, he doesn’t try to pretend my question is about the assignment. But he doesn’t answer, either. He just watches me out of eyes that seem much older than his years, eyes that have always seen way more than I want to show.

But this time, I stare back. I’ve spent too many months—too many years—looking away, trying to hide the maelstrom of emotions inside of me. But Serena’s death, my mom’s betrayal, and Jude’s latest bullshit have collided to make me feel as volatile as the storm that’s building outside. Screw keeping a low profile. I’m done pretending.

“Is everything okay over here?” Ms. Aguilar asks nervously, and I glance up only to realize that Jude and I have been staring at each other long enough for her to cross the whole room.

“Everything’s okay,” Jude tells her, but his intense gaze never leaves mine.

I don’t even try to disguise the harsh laugh that comes from my throat. Because nothing is okay. Not with Jude. Not with Serena. Not with anyone or anything in this whole messed-up school.

“Are you—” She breaks off as the classroom door opens. She pivots, clearly grateful for the distraction.

“How can I help you, young man?”

“My schedule changed, and I just got transferred to this class,” answers a voice with a slow, thick New Orleans accent that has my blood freezing in my veins.

No. Just no.

Because there is only one person in the whole of Calder Academy who has that accent—and I’ve done my best to stay as far away from it, and him, as I can since he showed up here a few weeks ago.

But apparently the universe has other plans for me today. First Serena, then Jude, and now this?

Ms. Aguilar walks to the front of the classroom and takes the slip of paper from the office that he holds out to her. “Remy Villanova Boudreax. Welcome to Brit Lit. We’re currently working on analyzing one of the greatest poets of all time.”

Her eyes scan the classroom, quickly darting past the Jean-Jerks before coming to rest on Jude and me. “Why don’t you go join Clementine and Jude’s group? I’m sure they’d love the…help.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

DOESN’T METER

TO ME

Ms. Aguilar’s words knock the breath out of me, leave me gasping for air as tears bloom in my eyes. I curse the fact that I put my hair up, ensuring that I can’t hide behind it even though I really, really want to right now.

Instead, I pull my hood over my head, and duck deep inside it in a desperate effort to mask my tears—and the momentary weakness they signify. But I wasn’t prepared for this today, had told myself that I’d just be able to avoid Remy for the rest of the year. Just because he’s a senior, doesn’t mean he has to be in my Brit Lit class. Not when I’ve been so careful to turn around and go the other way every time I so much as see him in the halls.

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