3:30pm

32: after dusk comes dawn

             <She's my every, everything. I need her more than anything; she's my tranquility. I can't go to sleep without her next to me, so I'm sure she's the one for me>

•°•°•°•

Unable to stand my pressing, obnoxious thoughts any longer, I let out a heavy sigh of resignation.

Fine! I'll ask him, sheesh!

I flipped to the back of my notebook where I'd doodled a lot during Mr Cunningham's class—back before Brent became my tutor—and tore out a small piece of paper.

As soon as Mr Cunningham turned away from the class to face his desk, I wrote down a few hasty words on the paper.

Have you seen Stephen? Like, this morning before homeroom. Maybe he was hanging out with you guys or something.

Folding it, I scribbled on its surface, For Brent, and passed it to Kimberly who was sitting behind me and two seats in front of Brent.

Right then, Mr Cunningham turned back to face the class, a stack of papers in his hands. His brown eyes did a quick scan of each member before finally settling on me. And once they did, his thin lips stretched into an equally thin, creepy smile. Then his eyes left my face to fall on someone else in my column.

"Lockwood," he called, his voice sounding microphone-amplified in the quiet classroom. "Can you come over here and distribute your last test scores. From last term."

The ear-splitting sound of the legs of a chair scraping against the tiled floor followed after Mr Cunningham's polite command, and seconds later, Brent walked past me, the strawberry scent of his perfume wafting into my nostrils as he went. And making me suddenly nostalgic as I remembered how that scent, on lesson days, used to linger for hours in the kitchen where we studied, even after he'd already left.

I watched as he took the papers from Mr Cunningham's hands and began giving them out. Silently, I watched as the bunch in his hands thinned and thinned until it remained one final paper. Which was his.

I hadn't gotten mine.

"Anyone yet to receive his or hers?" Mr Cunningham asked as usual, like he always did, while Brent waited behind.

My hand flew into the air immediately.

"Ah, Petrakovski." He smiled. "I believe I have yours right here with me."

I blinked. Okay, was that a good thing or a bad one?

"Okay," I said slowly. "Can I, um, have my paper?"

"Of course," Mr Cunningham nodded and made to hand the paper over to Brent.

"But first." He stopped mid-air. "I am more than happy to announce that you, Petrakovski, had not an F. Nope, far from it. Not a D either and neither a C."

"A C-?" A random person from the class piped up.

"Definitely not that." Mr Cunningham shook his head.

"D-?" Another yelled.

"That neither." Mr Cunningham shook his head once again.