Page 21 of Spearcrest Knight

“My Lit homework.”

“That’s not homework,” she snaps. “That’s just a big pile of… stuff!”

“Well, I don’t fucking know!” I say, dumping the pile on the floor where I’m kneeling. “Mr Houghton is always giving us stuff. I have no idea what half this shit is. You sort it out, since you’re so fucking smart.”

Sophie gives me a look of barely repressed exasperation but kneels next to me, setting her bag aside.

Now she’s so close, I can smell her, that warm vanilla scent that makes me think she must taste sweet as caramel. She tucks her hair behind her ears and pushes her glasses up on her nose, leaning down to sift through the pile. With that serious look and those thick black frames, she looks almost like a teacher.

The kind of young, hot teacher you want to bend over your desk and fuck from behind.

“Right.” Her tone is crisp and business-like, startling me back to reality as surely as a slap to the face. “I’ve roughly sorted it into three piles: the poetry comparison material, the Shakespeare material and your research project. Have you picked a topic for that yet?”

I already know she’s going to be mad, so there’s no point in delaying the inevitable. “No. I don’t even know what I have to do for it.”

She rolls her eyes and sighs. “Right, right. Well, the deadline for that isn’t until Spring Term, so let’s leave it for now. What essay do you have due first?”

“An essay on Hamlet in a couple of weeks.”

“You guys are doing Hamlet for your Shakespeare?” she asks with a frown.

“Uh… aren’t we meant to?”

“Of course you are, don’t be stupid. Your teacher’s probably selected a different text from our teacher. I’m doing Othello, which means I can’t even use my notes. Do you have any notes on the Hamlet lectures?”

I hand her a notebook, knowing full well she’s going to be displeased by its contents. As expected, she flicks through the pages with the tips of her fingers and her face twists into a grimace of disgust. “Most of this is doodles.”

“Not just doodles,” I say, grabbing the notebook and flipping proudly to one of the last pages. “I also got Grace’s number, look. She even drew a heart.”

Sophie gives me a withering look but doesn’t comment.

“So you have a Hamlet essay and no notes. That’s all I have to go off?”

“I have those handouts,” I say, pointing at the essay booklet Mr Houghton gave us.

She sighs and picks it up. “Well, actually that’s probably going to be of some help.” She puts the Shakespeare pile she made into her bag, making sure none of the papers bend and then looks back up at me. “How on earth can you be failing Lit with Mr Houghton as your teacher? He’s incredible.”

I shrug. “Sure, but he’s pretty boring.”

“He’s not—” she interrupts herself and takes a deep breath. “I suppose everything is boring to someone like you,” she ends up saying, voice dripping with disdain.

She stands and I quickly follow suit. “And I suppose everything must be interesting to someone as boring as you.”

Even though I said it to get a reaction out of her, it’s a bare-faced lie. I’ve never found Sophie boring. I don’t find her boring when she’s nagging, or judgemental, or doing some impossibly snooty prefect stuff.

She wasn’t even boring when she was going through my Lit stuff, and I find Litdepressinglyboring.

But she completely ignores the insult and instead, she gestures at the piles still on the floor. “Keep all this somewhere safe and tidy for when we get to the next assignment. I’ll take the Shakespeare stuff and sort out the essay.”

Then she turns around and strides away. I scramble to catch up with her and all but throw myself against the door when she reaches for the door handle, stopping her exit.

“You’re leaving?”

“I got what I came for,” she says. “Now I’m off. That’s our deal, remember?”

“You’re going into town?”

She sighs. “Yes. I am. And you’re in my way.”

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