Page 10 of The Torment of Two

I’m not going to let that guy ruin my day. Forcing another smile, I make my way into the building and down the hall to my classroom. Since I’m late, there’s only one available table right up front. The professor, a man with a long, graying beard, arches a brow at me but doesn’t mention my tardiness. I’m just settling into my seat and unzipping my bag when another person enters the classroom.

“Mr. Sheridan,” the professor says, a smile tugging at his lips. “I was wondering if you were going to show up.”

Two Sheridan gives the man a slight nod before he scans the room for a seat. His eyes land on mine and then dart to the chair beside me. He flares his nostrils as though the thought of sitting beside me is annoying.

Join the club, buddy. You’re no prize peach yourself.

Ignoring him, I face the professor, eager to get class started. My morning has been off and I’m ready to get it back on track again.

“I’m Jack Pederson,” our professor says, hands on his hips, “and this is not a blow-off class. If you signed up thinking you were going to sleep through this one, you may as well take yourself down to Administration and drop this course.”

One guy playfully pretends to stand up, but Mr. Pederson waves a dismissive hand at him. “Charlie, don’t be cute.”

Charlie sniggers but settles back in his seat. I’d been hoping it would be easy, but as Mr. Pederson passes out the syllabus, I’m beginning to question that initial line of thinking.

“As you can see,” Mr. Pederson says as he makes his way back to the front, “this class will be comprised of lectures on architectural history, seminars on preservation techniques, case studies that analyze successful examples of historical preservation and urban renewal projects, and of course various class trips to local historical sites.” He waggles a finger at Charlie. “Yes, the field trips are for a grade. You skip them and you get a zero.”

Charlie groans. “Hard-ass.”

“You’re still here.” Mr. Pederson shrugs. “That makes you a masochist.”

The class, everyone aside from me and Two, sniggers. There’s clearly history—no pun intended—between Mr. Pederson and some of the students in this class, including Two. Once again, I feel like an outsider.

“What about the semester project?” a girl with fiery red hair asks. “This says it’s worth seventy-five percent of our grade. When do we choose partners? When is it due? When do we start?”

Mr. Pederson waves her off. “We’ll get to that. First, I want you to look at your table partner. This will be your seat for the entire semester and your partner for the semester project. I want you to take the next five minutes to get to know the other person.”

My heart sinks. I have to partner up with the guy who almost ran me over? As if this day couldn’t get any worse. Ugh.

The classroom breaks out into a hum of chatter. Reluctantly, I turn to look over at Two. He’s swiping rapidly through his phone. I try to peek at what he’s doing, but it looks like he’s just scrolling through his camera roll.

I know his type.

I’m going to be stuck doing this whole stupid project alone and he’ll pop in at the end to get half the credit. Maybe I should go down to Administration and drop this class.

Dad would be disappointed.

“You got lucky, miss,” Mr. Pederson says as he walks by our table, rapping his knuckles on the wood surface. “Mr. Sheridan, for the love of God, let her do some of the work.”

Two grunts but continues his rapid-fire scrolling. He pauses long enough to dig around in his bag. Once he pulls out a butterscotch candy, he unwraps it, pops it into his mouth, repeats the process with another, and then continues his scrolling.

Right.

So lucky.

I suck in a deep breath and slowly exhale to settle the irritation burning in my gut. While I wait for him to finish whatever the hell he’s doing, I skim through the syllabus again.

Seventy-five percent of my grade depends on this whack job.

“So,” I utter, forcing myself to look over at Two. “Tell me about yourself.”

He runs the candies along his teeth, making a clanking sound that has my eye twitching. I arch an eyebrow, waiting for his answer.

Nothing.

When he finally finds whatever he’s looking for, he lets out a sharp whistle that has everyone looking his way. Mr. Pederson chuckles and saunters over to us.

“Cedarwood,” Two says, thrusting his phone at the professor.

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