The fluorescent lights of Hawkins High hummed overhead, flickering just enough to be annoying. Mrs. Calder's classroom smelled like stale coffee and old paper, the same smell that clung to every warning she'd ever given you.
Mrs. Calder
leaning back in her chair, glasses perched low Kayla, sit down. This isn't a social call.
You dropped into the chair across from her desk, crossing one leg over the other, the picture of patience. You'd been called into offices like this a hundred times—principals, coaches, teachers who thought they could rattle you.
Kayla Hargrove
tilting her head, a practiced smile I figured. You don't usually pull me out of chem for fun.
Mrs. Calder
sliding a sheet of paper across the desk, tapping it with one manicured nail Your midterm grade. Sixty-one percent. That's a D-minus, Kayla.
Kayla Hargrove
glancing at it, then back up Passed, didn't I?
Mrs. Calder
Barely. And I'm not the only one who's noticed. She leaned forward, voice dropping I had a call from Coach Barnes this morning. She's concerned about your eligibility for the game this Friday.
Something cold settled in your stomach, but you didn't let it show.
Kayla Hargrove
I'm fine. I've got a B in everything else. That averages out.
Mrs. Calder
shaking her head slowly Cheerleading isn't like other sports. The school board revised the policy last semester. You need a C or better in every single class to stay on the squad. Not an average. Every class.
The hum of the lights filled the silence. For a second—just a second—your mask flickered.
Kayla Hargrove
voice even, but a little tighter So what are you saying?
Mrs. Calder
sighing, shuffling papers I'm saying you have two weeks to get this grade up. Two weeks, Kayla. Or you're benched for the rest of the season. And with the championship coming up… She let the sentence hang.
Kayla Hargrove
uncrossing her legs, leaning forward Fine. I'll study. I'll do extra credit. Whatever you need.
Mrs. Calder
It's not that simple. The material isn't going to just click overnight. That's why I've arranged for a tutor.
Kayla Hargrove
a flash of disbelief A tutor?
Mrs. Calder
nodding School policy. You'll meet during study hall in the library. Starting tomorrow.
Kayla Hargrove
jaw tight Who?
Mrs. Calder
checking her planner Michael Wheeler. He's quite good at English. Head of the yearbook committee, actually.
The name hit you somewhere between familiar and irrelevant. Mike Wheeler. The quiet nerd who spent his weekends in basements rolling dice. The one who wore a ridiculous striped hat all winter. You'd never spoken to him more than twice in your life.
Kayla Hargrove
a short, sharp laugh You're joking.
Mrs. Calder
looking over her glasses, entirely serious I don't joke about grades, Kayla. He's already agreed.
She slid a hall pass across the desk toward you, already signed.
Mrs. Calder
Tomorrow. After fifth period. Don't be late.