Page 64 of Until the Ribbon Breaks

It’s nothing new for fights to break out around here. Although not a daily occurrence, it does happen from time to time, but never has one involved me or been about me.

“Is something going on between you two?”

My eyes dart to Max, and I stare at her as if she’s lost her mind. “What? No,” I respond on a heightened whisper. “Are you crazy?”

“No, but the guy just threw a punch for you.”

“So?”

“So ... maybe he likes you.”

My eyes roll because she has no idea how far off base her comment is. Sure, we’ve been getting along better these past couple of days, but that’s it.

“He has a girlfriend,” I tell her as I grab my pencil and start on my work.

She leans across the table and grabs her own workbook, murmuring, “Has he ever beaten up someone forher?”

Not that I know of, but I’m not the most informed person at my school. Max wouldn’t understand that, had someone made that comment to me at school, Sebastian wouldn’t have lifted a finger. Heck, he would havebeenthe person making the comment.

I’m starting to see that there are two sides to him—the one in Edmonds and the one here at Hopewell. There is no way for me to know which one is the real him, and then I wonder if it even matters, if I should even care.

No, I shouldn’t.

“Okay, wrap it up for elective time,” Mr. Garrison announces before everyone starts checking their pencils back in.

“You coming to the game room?” Wes asks as I stand. “Marcus said they got the foosball table fixed.”

“I wanna go!” Max chirps.

“I think I’m going to go outside.”

“Oh, well then, I’ll go outside with you.”

“That’s okay, Max. Go play foosball.”

“Are you sure?”

I paste an unconvincing smile on my face. “Yeah. I need some time alone.”

“Catch you later,” Wes says before they dip out of the room.

After dropping my workbook into the tub and waiting for Mr. Garrison to sign off that I returned my pencil, I turn to find Marcus standing by the door. I get that I’m on suicide watch and it’s his job, but we’re on day three and his presence is starting to irritate me.

“Aren’t you sick of me yet?” I mutter as I walk out of the room.

“You’re going to miss me tomorrow.”

“What’s tomorrow?”

“You’re coming off watch.”

“Yippee.”

Outside, a few boys are on the basketball court, so I head across the grass toward the fence with Marcus in tow. “You think I could get some breathing room?” I hold up my hands, mocking, “I’m safe, I swear.”

Beneath a light chuckle, he agrees, “Okay. I’ll be right over here,” he says motioning to the picnic table.

“Don’t have too much fun.”

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