Page 41 of Between the Lines

As I’m judging the current spread of white pieces that sit across from me defending their queen, I feel eyes on me. With my hand tensed above the board, I shift my gaze carefully around the room until I spot him.

Rocco Thatcher is standing thirty yards from me, his school bag dangling over one shoulder. He’s staring like he recognizes me from somewhere but just can’t place it.

Which is odd, considering how often he’s been in my office these past couple of weeks.

I could ignore him, like I usually do when I see students in public—Idolike to keep my personal and professional lives separate. But the longer I sit there pretending I don’t see him, the longer the hairs on the back of my neck stand beneath his stare. I finally turn my head, and when my eyes meet his, they widen like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

I would know. I caught him trying to shove three chocolate chip cookies from the cafeteria snack line into his hoodie pocket last Thursday.

I slowly lift one brow, my hand still paused over a pawn, and tiltmy head toward the seat opposite me. He swallows, but approaches the table and takes a seat.

“Mr. Thatcher.”

I don’t make eye contact, instead choosing to focus on the chess board. He seems like he didn’t want to sit down at the table, but also wanted to be noticed. I make my selection, moving my pawn to capture the rook, and place my winning to the side before swiveling the board so that the white pieces are now facing me.

“Checking out books tonight?” I ask, surveying my playing field before making my next move.

Rocco clears his throat. “No, uh… I’m uh… There’s this homework club thing. It’s over, but my mom can’t pick me up until later, and I’m not allowed on the internet anymore.”

I think of Claire, and the suggestion she’d made about setting Rocco up for success. I wonder if this homework club is her doing.

“What time is she coming?”

“Like, five or something. Soon, I think. What are you playing?”

“Chess. Do you play?”

“Is it like checkers?”

“Not exactly.”

He shakes his head.

“I could teach you. Did you get all of your homework done?”

He hesitates, then shrugs.

“No. Not really.”

I hear the scrape of his foot against the carpet as he kicks it lightly.

“Were they not able to help you at homework club?”

“I don’t know. They, like, don’t believe me when I say I don’t get it, and then they make me try to figure it out on my own.”

He shrugs again, and I take a second to absorb how much he has cracked open like a book. Carefully, I replace the rook and fold my hands in front of me, giving him my full attention.

“That doesn’t sound veryhelpful.”

“It’s not. Kind of a stupid club, but Ms. Benson told my mom about it and…”

His eyes find the ceiling, and his cheeks grow red.

“And you like Ms. Benson, and want her to be proud of you.”

There’s a small smile, a small nod, and I feel my chest start to beat faster both at the heartbreak I have for this student, and for the teacher he’s grown so fond of. At the way that I find myselfwanting to make her proud too.

“Ms. Benson was helpful?”

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