London Prep: Book Three, page 32
I remember from the first week that Mohammad said he had first period with Olivia, so her suggestion makes sense. But I also think she doesn’t want to walk away from us alone.
“Yeah,” Naomi says. She stands up from the couch, pulling me with her. “Thanks for showing up,” she whispers, giving me a hug.
Naomi looks to Mohammad with a smile. His eyebrows rise as she nods at him, and he gets up to follow them.
“Later,” he says to me, quickly catching up to Olivia and Naomi, leaving Noah and me in the common room.
“Should we head to class too?” Noah asks, but he stays on the couch.
I look at the clock as the first bell goes off, our warning that classes are starting soon.
I want to say no, that we should just sit here and stare blankly at one another. I could use the time to zone out of everything.
But if we do that, we’ll be late.
“Yep, let’s go.”
It was hard to miss.
Statistics
“That was weird,” Noah finally says, breaking the silence between us.
“So weird,” I agree, turning toward him.
“Mohammad was … blushing,” he replies, his creamy forehead creasing.
“Right! You saw that too?”
Noah scrunches up his nose and lets out a heavy chuckle. “It was hard to miss.”
“I mean, I know I said I wanted them together, but that was a little fast,” I say, thinking about the strange morning.
“I wouldn’t get ahead of yourself. You did ask Mohammad to cheer her up,” Noah says, bringing his hand under his chin.
“Yeah, cheer her up. Not flirt with her.”
“He wasn’t exactly flirting alone,” Noah says, shaking his head once like he can’t believe it.
“All right, class,” Mr. Johnson says. “I’d like for you to go ahead and turn in your homework from last night.”
“Oh shit,” Noah mutters as I grab my bag.
I take in his worried expression and know what he’s thinking.
“I’ve got your homework. I threw everything from the kitchen table into my bag this morning,” I say, pulling out his stack of folders.
Noah lets out a sigh of relief.
“Thanks.” He looks flustered as he takes his folder from my hand, gets his homework out, takes mine from my hand, and walks it up to Mr. Johnson’s desk.
“So, how did we all get on with the homework?” Mr. Johnson asks as students move back to their seats.
I glance around, seeing frown after frown. And from the looks of it, Mr. Johnson’s cool factor is quickly wearing off. Because his usually chipper class is looking at him like they want to murder him.
“I’m sensing it didn’t go well,” Mr. Johnson infers, running his hand across his jaw. As no one replies, he searches the classroom, his lips pulling into a flat line. “I’d like to hear your thoughts.”
“It was hard,” one girl says.
“It was hard,” Mr. Johnson repeats, tilting his head. “Anyone else?”
“It took me over an hour,” someone else says as the class riles up.
And I’m internally cheering for them. But I don’t say anything. Mostly because I don’t want to be one of those students who goes all power crazy when they’re finally asked for their opinion.
“I remember this one kid in my class in New York,” I whisper to Noah. “This guy was always silent. Finally, one day, the professor called on him and asked what he thought, and he just started spilling out every critique he had on his mind. It was negative after negative after negative.”
“That’s the problem with holding things in. They just fester,” Noah whispers back as someone else tells Mr. Johnson that they couldn’t even finish the homework.
“I know. It was surprising actually. But after that, he started talking more. It was like he got it all off his chest. And he wasn’t wrong. His critiques were fair, and our professor even pointed that out,” I reply, thinking about school in New York.
“So, your professor agreed with the student?”
“Yeah. And I think it made him like her more though. Because, sometimes, professors can get that sort of high-and-mighty vibe. I know that’s not fair to say because education is important and their job is basically impossible. But still, I think it made everyone feel like they could speak up if they had a problem.”
“You’re not afraid to ask questions, are you?”
“Nope. Are you?”
Noah shakes his head. “No. But most of the time, the questions I think about asking, I never actually ask.”
“Why?”
Noah glances up at Mr. Johnson. He’s sitting at the edge of his desk, flipping through our homework assignments, evidently checking how much everyone got done.
“I guess I just get consumed in my thoughts. There are pieces of information that stick out to me, and I get fixated. I would rather work on one theory or problem for an entire lesson. Knowing how they created the formula, tricks for it, different ways of coming to the same answer. That’s not really how they teach though.”
“No, it’s not. I think that might be my nightmare of a course. I want to know just enough to solve the problem.” I let out a little chuckle.
“Problem is, there are so many different ways of learning. Everyone’s different, but we have a system built for one type of student.”
“That kind of sucks,” I comment, realizing he’s right. “Do you ever think you’d do better at the courses you didn’t like if they were taught differently?”
“I’m sure I would. But doesn’t matter too much. Whatever I want to know, I can always look up on my own.”
Mr. Johnson interrupts our conversation by setting down our stack of homework on his desk and then says, “Let me defend myself firstly by saying, I am your professor, and as such, I’m entitled to assign you homework. And secondly, though it was difficult, you shouldn’t need to prepare for your exam Friday because of it. So, you’re welcome.”
He gives us a heavy head nod, like his statement somehow addressed every complaint, and then instructs us to quiet down and open up our textbooks.
Try living it.
Latin
“I’ve been dying to talk to you,” Mohammad says as he slides into his desk.
Statistics dragged on, but at least Mr. Johnson didn’t assign us any homework.
“History was terrible. There was way too much information coming at me from all sources. I was like a computer that was short-circuiting because of too much input.”
“What?” I say, trying to follow along.
“I have History with Olivia and half, if not three-quarters, of our year’s other chatterboxes.”
“And …” I state, still trying to understand.
“I got all of the details,” Mohammad replies, leaning in toward me.
“I thought Noah told you everything?”
“Noah’s useless,” he replies, brushing off my answer. “He gave me a stream of facts that didn’t imply or suggest anything.”
“Well, let’s hear it then,” I say, mentally preparing myself for the gossip to come.
“Let’s start off with whatever the fuck happened between you and Noah in Art yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” I ask, confused about what he’s talking about. “What does that have to do with—”
“Well, from what I heard, you and Noah had a staring competition,” Mohammad insists, like I should understand what he’s saying. “One of the girls said—and I quote—‘You could cut the tension between them with a knife.’ Apparently, you two stared at one another for a solid minute, minimum.”
“Oh God,” I moan, dropping my forehead onto my desk.
Because this cannot be happening to me.
“That’s not even the half of it. Half of the girls thought it was romantic. The other half think you’re even more of a slag than before because not only do you have Harry, but now, you’ve also put some sort of spell on Noah. Their words, not mine.”
“That’s kind,” I say, shaking my head.
“That’s Kensington.”
“What does it matter at this point?” I reply, not sure what else to say.
“I just thought you should know. So, what were you doing, staring at Noah anyway? I thought you said that was handled. And I saw you two this morning,” Mohammad whispers, leaning closer to me, talking through closed lips.
“What do you mean?”
“You were holding hands,” Mohammad says, his eyes widening with each word.
“Forgive me, but it was a rough morning. He was trying to support me.”
“Luckily for you, I’m the only one who saw,” Mohammad says, eyeing me sternly.
“And Harry?” I ask hesitantly. “I’m not sure what exactly Noah told you, but just because I was upset … I still care.”
“Harry’s at school,” he replies, softening his gaze. “He came in at the last minute. I saw him before class.”
“That’s good.”
“Mallory, are you all right?”
“Yeah … honestly, I don’t know. I have this terrible feeling in my stomach about everything.”
“You’re knotted up.” Mohammad nods understandingly.
“Yep.”
“Well, news of his black eye will spread like wildfire, and then he’s all you’re going to hear about. So, mentally prepare.”
“I hate this. We shouldn’t be gossiping. We should be talking to Harry. I should be,” I clarify.
“From what Noah said, he deserves a cold shoulder for a day.”
The bell goes off, and Mohammad lets out a heavy groan. “Presentations today.”
“I know,” I reply with a frown.
“We’re going to bomb it, aren’t we?”
“Stop,” I say, slapping at Mohammad’s arm. “You need to be optimistic. We will do fine.”
“Well, if we don’t, why don’t you be the one to explain it to my mum tonight? Then, finally, someone will understand the soul-crushing disappointment I apparently inflict on her each and every time I come home with shit marks.”
“You’re being dramatic,” I say pointedly.
“What can I say? It’s been a dramatic day. It’s affected me,” Mohammad says, his dark brows dipping in.
He gets a pout on his lips, and I can’t help but grin at his cute face.
“Aww, is someone worn down from all the gossip? Well, try living it …”
“Yeah. That’s a big no, thank you on that one.”
“You’d just rather help me navigate it, right?” I tease.
“I did say I would be your guide, didn’t I?”
“Along with my counselor, Latin tutor, advice giver, and best friend.”
“How about we just say I’m many things to you?” Mohammad grins. “But most importantly, your best friend.”
“And my source of gossip.” I grin back at him.
“Obviously.”
Like a sweet flower.
Lunch
Our presentation went better than we’d expected. Evidently, Mohammad had been overly dramatic about not doing good because he drove us through it. I’m not sure where it came from, but he did amazing.
And at the moment, he knows it.
He totally knows it.
“Did you see me? I was on fire. I was practically a Latin god!” Mohammad declares to the entire hallway on our way to lunch.
“You actually were,” I agree, giving him full credit.
“I sounded like some ancient, sexy emperor up there. Like I was about to conquer a corner of the world and take its treasures as my own.”
“And what did I sound like?” I ask, peering up at him.
“Well, you sort of sounded like you were reading lines,” Mohammad says.
“How. Kind,” I say each word in sync with a push, shoving him away from me in the hallway.
“It’s not my fault you got stage fright, baby. I carried us all the way.”
“You really did,” I admit, shaking my head and just deciding to let him have his moment.
Mohammad’s got a grin plastered on his face. I can tell he’s thinking about our presentation, and each time he tries to wipe the smile off his face, it comes right back.
“Someone should have really recorded that. I’m telling you, maybe I should go out for theater. I could be the next James Bond.”
“All right, buddy, I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself,” I say, trying to rein him in. “Besides, I thought you were going to be a matchmaker. Or a detective.”
“Well, seeing as your love life is a disaster and I couldn’t find anything on our joyful Mr. Johnson, I might have to find a new profession.”
“Luckily, you’ve got time,” I say as we make our way into the lunchroom.
My stomach instantly knots up when I see Noah sitting at our usual table, alone.
I wave him over, following Mohammad as we get in the lunch line.
“What are you doing?” Mohammad asks.
“I forgot our lunches today,” I comment as Noah joins us. “Busy morning and all that.”
Noah’s lips pull at the corner, curving up into a sympathetic smile. It’s more of a twitch than a smile, but I think it’s the best I’m going to get.
“Ah, it’s better for you anyway,” Mohammad insists, extending his head forward to see what they’re serving today.
Noah keeps his eyes on me. I want to say something to him, but I just don’t know what to say.
It feels like there’s too much to say.
“Oh my God, I just realized …” Mohammad says, turning to me. “I could actually be the next James Bond.”
“What?” Noah asks, breaking his eyes away from mine.
“You said it earlier. I’m suave. I’m brilliant with women,” Mohammad goes on, giving a girl in line a quick wink to prove his point. “I’m sneaky, I’m a mediocre detective, I have a way of always extracting information, and I’m matchmaker enough to see who’s secretly shagging. All I need to learn are some action moves, and I could literally be Mr. Bond.”
“Where is this coming from?” Noah asks with a questioning smirk.
“Oh, just wait …” I whisper to him, knowing that it’s just a matter of time before Mohammad goes off again.
“This is coming from a man who has not only conquered Latin, but who has also conquered the world! I could apply for MI6 tomorrow and be accepted just on my public speaking skills alone. That’s a thing, right?” Mohammad asks, his eyes way too bright.
“I’m not sure they’d let you in …” I reply, trying to avert this idea.
“I’m clean as a whistle. What are they going to find? A few pics of me with a stiffy? Big deal. That’s all the dirt I’ve got,” Mohammad insists.
“Mohammad and I had a presentation in Latin today. It went … well,” I say, connecting the dots for Noah.
“Well? Well? It was a blinding success!” Mohammad exclaims, apparently disappointed with my underwhelming assessment of our presentation.
“Well done,” Noah says, giving Mohammad a wholehearted smile.
“Thank you,” Mohammad replies with an approving nod.
We move through the lunch line and take our trays back over to our table.
I glance around, looking for Harry. I can hear Mohammad’s voice in the background, but I’m not really listening to him.
“Mallory?” Noah says, breaking into my thoughts.
“Yeah?” I look up at him, but he looks directly to Mohammad.
“I was asking if you’re still down for having dinner at my house tonight,” Mohammad says to me.
“Yeah, of course. Sorry,” I apologize, feeling bad for ignoring him.
“Don’t worry. Things will blow over,” Mohammad says.
“I don’t know,” Noah states, stabbing at a piece of his pasta.
“What’s got your knickers in a twist?” Mohammad asks Noah.
“Harry was being a wanker this morning,” Noah says, shaking his head.
“Harry’s always an ass, and we love him for it,” Mohammad replies quickly.
“Well, he was especially one today,” Noah counters.
“Simmer it down with the testosterone, please,” I say, not wanting to get into this.
“Don’t blame me,” Mohammad says, holding up his hands in defense. “I’m not the grumpy grouch of the table.”
“There are no grumpy grouches at the table,” I scold, flaring my eyes at Mohammad. And even if there were, he shouldn’t be bringing attention to it. “I don’t want you guys taking sides. And there aren’t sides anyway.”
“We’re not taking sides,” Noah replies, setting down his fork. “We’re irritated.”
“No, you’re irritated,” Mohammad corrects.
“You would have been, too, if you had heard Harry this morning,” Noah says with frustration.
Mohammad looks over at me accusingly. “Things didn’t go as smoothly as you made it seem this morning, did they?”
I bite my lip, not sure what to say.
“It wasn’t good,” I admit.
Noah nods in agreement, finally picking his fork back up.
I look around, my gaze finally stopping when it lands on Harry. He’s sitting at a table with a different group of guys, but he isn’t speaking.
Mohammad and Noah follow my eyes.
“He’s sitting alone,” I mutter, knowing that this isn’t right.
“He’s at a table full of guys,” Noah retorts.
“It’s what guys do. We fuck up. We sulk. Or fight it out. Then, we make up. It will be fine,” Mohammad insists.
“But just because we’re having trouble doesn’t mean you both should have an issue with him,” I say, trying to get them to understand. “You’re his best friends. You’re supposed to be there for him.”
“If I talk to him right now, I’ll lose it,” Noah says.
“When he’s ready to talk, he’ll talk,” Mohammad adds. “For now, just let him roll around with it.”
I nod, knowing I have to respect their decisions.
Their process.
It’s okay for me to be upset.
