Miss Cannon winces. “Yes, preferably, since it’ll be substituting the time you spend helping me here. It’s only for three months, and you’re my best student, Karina. I know you can do this.”

I shake my head, my pulse hammering. “Miss Cannon, I don’t know if—”

“If you do, you’ll be excused from having to do the poetry project,” Miss Cannon says, cutting me off. “I’ll count this as your grade instead.”

I falter. The poetry project is worth twenty percent of our grade. She wants us to write ten original pieces following the specific parameters of different poetry formats—haikus, limericks, freestyle, and so on. We have to turn it in next month and choose one of the ten poems to present in front of the class.

Even though I love poetry, I hate public speaking. More than that, I hate the thought of saying my deepest, most vulnerable thoughts aloud. Being free of that obligation just to tutor some random dude during the time I’d be helping Miss Cannon anyway? It might be worth it.

But still...

“Karina, your grades are consistently the highest in the class, and you’ve been a great help to the other students,” Miss Cannon says, squeezing my shoulder. “No one is more capable than you.”

I know she’s trying to encourage me, but her words are making me more anxious. I don’t want to let Miss Cannon down, not when she believes in me this much.

The idea of facing her disappointment twists my stomach.

With painstaking reluctance, I say, “Okay.”

Miss Cannon’s face lights up with a grin. “Thank you so much, Karina.”

“So...who’s the student?” I ask, shoving my hands in my pockets to hide the way my fingers are shaking.

“He’s in this class,” she says, waving a hand toward the left side of the room. “Alistair.”

An uneasy feeling spreads through me, like a heavy weight settling on my shoulders. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.

“Alistair?” I repeat. “Alistair Clyde? As in Ace Clyde?”

Miss Cannon pauses. “Yes. Will that be a problem?”

I almost laugh hysterically. The world is clearly plotting against me. “No. Of course not.”

She eyes me, her brows rising as she scrutinizes my expression.

Her face starts to fall, and my heart feels like it’s pushing against my rib cage, making it difficult to breathe. The smallest hint of disapproval always sets off my anxiety beyond words. It’s hard to believe I never realized this until a few months ago, because it’s so achingly obvious now.

“Should I still come to your classroom after ninth period?” I ask, pushing forward. I can do this. I will do this.

Miss Cannon is still staring at me, so I paste a smile on my face, swallowing past the uncomfortable lump in my throat.