Page 34 of Spearcrest Knight

“Fucking hell, Sutton,” he says, peering inside the box. “You’re worse than Mr Houghton.”

“Mm,” I say drily. “Should’ve listened to him, then, shouldn’t you?”

“I’m starting to wish I had,” he mutters. “Come on, then, you fucking killjoy.”

We take our usual places on opposing sides of the kitchen island. I pull the books and sheets out of the folder, forming neat piles between us. He watches me, his eyes flicking from my hands to my face as I organise the work.

“Wanna drink?” he asks finally.

“No, I don’t think that’s appropriate,” I snap.

He glares at me, “I mean like a hot drink or something. I know how much you Brits love your tea.”

I actually prefer black coffee, and caffeine would certainly not go amiss right now. But accepting Evan’s hospitality would indebt me to him somehow. And that’s the last thing I want.

I glance at his big hands, suddenly remembering the way he pushed my coat off my shoulders last time.

Okay,oneof the last things I want.

“I’m alright,” I say quickly. “But thank you.”

“So much for trying to be nice,” he mutters, as if offering one cup of tea was going to redeem him for years’ worth of shit.

I’m tempted to say this out loud, but we’ve already wasted enough time, so I get straight to it.

“Right, so last week we covered the basic plot of Hamlet. Do you remember it?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving a hand. “Angsty prince, incest, suicide. I remember.”

“Anything else?”

“Dead girlfriend.”

“So succinct.”

“Oh, Sutton,” Evan says, tilting his head and biting his lip. “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

“You do?” I lower my voice and lean towards him. “Then let’s get really filthy, Evan.”

He blinks at me in shock for a second. “Really?”

“Yes. Let’s talk about the motif of disease and decay in the play and how Shakespeare uses it to symbolise corruption.”

The only reason I say it is to make him feel stupid; I doubt he has any idea what I’m talking about. But he doesn’t fall for my trap. Instead he sighs and, to my surprise, flips open his tragically underused notebook.

“Go on, then, my dirty little slut,” he says with a wicked grin, clicking his pen open with his thumb. “I’m all ears.”

For a moment, I can do nothing but stare at him, speechless and hot in the face. But he waits patiently, and to my surprise, he even takes notes of what I tell him. He asks relevant questions and follows my annotating instructions to the letter. He picks up on things pretty fast, which is irritating. If he had paid this kind of attention in class, I wouldn’t have to be wasting my time here.

If I think about it, I must be just repeating stuff that Mr Houghton’s already told him, except he chose not to listen then. I banish the thought from my mind, because it does nothing but fill me with a quiet, bubbling rage.

An hour in, Evan tells me we should stand and do stretches. I roll my eyes and stay on my stool. He hops towards the middle of the kitchen, twists his torso, swings his arms, touches his toes. His effortless athleticism, the rolling of his muscles underneath his clothes, is strangely captivating.

“I gotta stay limber,” he explains, probably in response to my stare. “Otherwise my muscles will seize up like crazy.”

“Yes,” I say drily. “I forgot you’re the star athlete of Spearcrest. A champion in the making.”

“Not anymore,” he says, impervious to my sarcasm. “Dad’s made me drop rugby, and it was the only thing I was really good at.”

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