“Fuck!” Henry dropped the offending sheet of paper into the desk in front of him. Lifting his hand to his face, he examined the cut left behind on the tender skin webbing his thumb and forefinger. It throbbed in pain, protesting its assailant, and possibly paper in general. Henry could appreciate the idea of trees fighting back and promoting electronic paperwork.
“Son of a—” he cut himself off as Mr. Neilson reentered the classroom, a boy in tow.
Hastily, Henry bent his head attentively over the papers he was helping grade as assistant to the Latin teacher. He was an excellent Latin student—which is how he landed this job—but with the low conversation in the background, he couldn’t stop his ears from straining to make out the words.
“—sorry to intrude—”
“Alexander, you’re not intruding. I always have time for my students.”
At the name, Henry’s head jerked up. The movement caught the other boy’s eye, who captured Henry’s gaze. Alexander gave Henry a winning smile, who practically grimaced in return.
Alexander Grayson was Phillip Grayson Academy’s golden child. He was the sort of boy Henry would have labeled as a bastard: the school was named after his father, he drove a loud car too fast, was friendly with all of the teachers, and had the tendency to stare down whoever happened to be in his direct line of sight. He wore the same khaki slacks and white button-ups as the rest of them, but rather than the clothes wearing him, he wore them, and looked powerful doing so. But that was not the boy Henry saw before him now. He was unfamiliar with this jovial smile and self-deprecating attitude, and Henry didn’t know how to respond to this.
You don’t know him, Henry thought.
“You may sit next to Mr. Price,” Mr. Neilson told Alexander, gesturing towards Henry, who gulped. “He’s helping me grade some papers, but he’s in your grade. Henry,” he said, addressing him now, “you may pass those papers back to me and help Mr. Grayson with his Latin. He has requested some extra classroom time so as not to fall behind the others.”
“O-okay,” Henry stammered, handing his stack of papers to the teacher. With nothing else to do, he let his hands drop into his lap as Alexander pulled out the seat beside him. He dropped his messenger bag to the floor beside him carelessly.
“Hey,” Alexander whispered, smiling easily at Henry before turning to retrieve his papers from his bag.
“Hey,” Henry returned. He glanced at the clock. Good; he only had to endure this for twenty minutes.
“Your name is Henry?” Alexander queried. Henry nodded. “I’m Alexander, but you can call me Alex. Do you have a nickname?”
“No,” Henry replied.
“Well, then. Can I call you Harry?”
“Why is it that Harry is a nickname for Henry? It—”
“Boys!” Mr. Neilson exclaimed from his desk behind them. “I was under the impression that you were here to study Latin.”
“Yes sir,” Henry and Alexander replied in tandem.
“Then get to it!”
“Yes sir.”
The rest of the time passed with minimal talk, all of it about Latin.
They spent thirty minutes in the classroom before Alexander suddenly glanced at his watch with some alarm.
“I really need to go,” he said, “but I will return tomorrow. Perhaps you will be here also?” he asked Henry, who nodded. “Then I’m off. Mr. Neilson. Harry.” He saluted them with a boyish grin, and then he was gone.
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