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Though he’s always been a diligent student, with more time for his books than his peers, the occasional mediocre grade has never been as big a source of anxiety as it could have been. Excepting the case of horrendous failure, his future was all but secured. Being his father’s son– as grossly nepotic as it is– comes with that security.
As apprehension about his prosthetics grows, however– so do Sinclair’s apprehensions about that future. Rejecting his family’s designs for him means, most likely, rejecting that secure future. Suddenly his grades and his position in his class matter far more.
Suddenly getting a test back and seeing a C grade on it makes him queasy.
Sinclair thumbs the paper on his desk, looking at the clean red pen marking on it and feeling his gorge rise. By all accounts, not a failure, and good for a subject that he’s never been good at. But Wings only take the best of the best; he knows this as much as any of his classmates. Just passing is not good enough to secure a job in one. It’s simply not.
As he’s just on the verge of a full-blown anxiety attack, someone comes up and sits on the corner of his desk. He doesn’t need to look up to know who it is.
“Yo,” Kromer says. He looks up anyways. Sometimes the intensity of her smiles are unnerving, but today the fact that she’s unchanged from her normal is oddly comforting. Sinclair huffs out a breath, and feels himself calm down ever so slightly. “You’re looking a little green there, Sinclair.”
“Ah,” he croaks out, and gently touches his own face. His cheeks feel a little clammy, his forehead a little sweaty. “It’s… nothing. I had a bad reaction to my lunch.”
“Did you fail the test?”
He freezes, though he isn’t certain why. Kromer has always been terrifyingly good at seeing right through him, to the point where he realizes it’s likely a waste of his breath to try and lie to her. Lips twisting, he slides the edge of the paper up so she can see the mark on it.
Kromer’s single visible eyebrow disappears into the blunt line of her bangs. “How horrible,” she intones, dryly.
Sinclair’s stomach twists, and he looks away. His face heats up, furious at himself both for the poor mark and for his own neuroses about it. He stares at the wall until he feels Kromer poke him in the shoulder, long finger not ungentle, but impossible to ignore.
“You know, we can help each other out a little,” she says. “How about this weekend I come over to your place and we can have a little study date? I’m sure we’ll get more done together than we would separately.”
Sinclair stares at her. He’s gone to a few study groups before, though never really made it more than a session or two, too uncomfortable around his peers to really make the most out of them. He’s never done it one-on-one, and certainly not at his house. It takes him a moment to be capable of speech again.
“Would yours not be better? My parents…” He trails off, glancing around.
Kromer flashes a hint of teeth. “Worried about me? That’s sweet of you,” she says. “But I’m sure I can manage for an afternoon, Sinclair. And my house isn’t nearly as nice as yours, anyways.”
“That’s…”
That’s probably true, though he doesn’t want to say as much. She’s right, after all. He could use some help, some outside encouragement to stay with his studies. At the very least, some companionship. There’s no real reason to turn down an offer of all three things at once. Even if the intense way she looks at him makes Sinclair’s skin crawl a little.
He nods, head bobbing in a way that he realizes probably makes him look stupid, but that he’s powerless to stop. Kromer’s grin widens a little, more teeth flashing.
“Okay,” she says, patting him on the shoulder. “Then it’s a date.”
She comes that Sunday. They’d arranged for noon, but Kromer is running a little late. Not that that’s surprising– Sinclair can’t even blame her sense of punctuality for the fact that his house is a little difficult to get to. On the edge of town, with a forest and an iron gate separating where he’d grown up from the rest of the world.
It’s about fifteen minutes past the hour, and he’s trying not to pace. His palms sweat, and he tries– with much less success– to not wipe them on his shorts. Absurdly, he’d dressed himself in his school uniform again that morning, even knowing he doesn’t have to go to school. It had seemed proper when he’d been rifling through his closet, but now he feels more than a little ridiculous. Is he over-dressed? Does it matter?
There’s a knock at the door.
Drying his hands on his shorts one more time, Sinclair hurries to the foyer to open it. Kromer, standing on the step, greets him with an easy grin and a small wave. Her own attire is more casual; shorts that are a little shorter than uniform regulation, and a white turtleneck in lieu of the usual nondescript sweater vest Sinclair sees her in. By no means dolled up, but she looks more mature, the casual confidence in her posture a fitting match to her dress. She looks him up and down, and Sinclair flinches when she laughs.
“I admire the commitment,” she says.
Sinclair isn’t certain whether it’s a compliment or not. It’s soon forgotten as Kromer looks up at the front façade of his house and whistles. Not the usual sharp beckon, but a low note of genuine appreciation.
“Nice place.”
“Thanks,” Sinclair says, as if he’s at all responsible for anything about the current state of the property. “Um. Come on in, I guess.”
Despite what Kromer said to him, he’s still hoping his family is away. His sister probably will be, at least– out with friends, like she is most weekends. His father is probably cooped up in his study, working despite the fact that it’s the weekend, unlikely to emerge until dinner or take kindly to disturbances.
His mother…
Sinclair flinches when he shuts the door to the foyer behind him and hears footsteps.
“Emil, is that you?”
She sways into view from down the central staircase, alerted by the knock at the door and by the sound of conversation. Sinclair can sense Kromer stiffen next to him, suddenly growing rigid in the face of his mother’s inhuman countenance. His mother, too, goes still when she sees the stranger in her home.
“You’ve brought a friend?” She says; even through the speaker that has replaced her mouth, Sinclair can hear her surprise.
“Mother, this is… Kromer,” he says, staring at the floor. “Kromer… my mother.”
“Good to meet you, Mrs. Sinclair,” Kromer says. Her voice is clipped, polite, and absent of much of the energy that usually accompanies her speech. She doesn’t say anything else, staring his mother dead in the face. Sinclair coughs.
“We were going to study together,” he says, hating how quiet he sounds.
“I see. Were you planning on staying for dinner?”
“No.” Kromer answers before Sinclair can answer for her. “We won’t be more than a few hours.” She rests a hand on Sinclair’s shoulder, and he can feel her fingers dig into the meat. Not enough to hurt, but enough that he can’t ignore it.
“Alright. I’ll leave you two alone then.” When she still had a face capable of discrete expressions, that would have been when she smiled. It had always been a kind look, her eyes soft and the dimples at the corners of her lips creasing. “Have fun.”
She gives them a little wave before she walks off. Sinclair knows what she must be thinking, and what she’s certain to tell his father as soon as they have a moment alone.
Emil brought a girl over. Can you believe it?
And he can imagine his father’s response. A slight shake of his mechanical head.
I thought the day would never come. He’s finally growing up.
It sits poorly with Sinclair, though he knows it’s true. He’s never invited a girl over to his house before. He’s… never really invited anyone over before. Honestly, he’s not sure this even counts– Kromer had more or less invited herself. But his parents have no way of knowing that– no way of knowing any of the circumstances of his and Kromer’s friendship. Nor does Sinclair particularly want them to know those details.
He glances over at Kromer. She’s still smiling, but there’s something unpleasant shining in her eyes, something that makes Sinclair shiver. After a moment, she turns to him.
“Why don’t you show me your room? We won’t be interrupted up there, right?” She asks.
Sinclair feels his mouth go dry. He’d assumed– perhaps foolishly– that they’d be studying in one of his home’s more communal spaces. The dining room, or perhaps at the smaller table in the kitchen space. But, this makes more sense. She wants to see as little of his family as possible. His bedroom is about as private as it gets. Even his sister wouldn’t barge in unannounced.
“It’s upstairs,” he says, tugging his head in a vague direction. Kromer grins– a real one this time– and waits to follow him.
His room is nothing truly special, but Kromer gives another low whistle when she sees it, spreading her arms out as she takes it in.
“All this space,” she says– no bitterness in her voice, just wonder. “I thought it would be messier.”
Sinclair laughs, awkwardly. “I try to keep it clean. You never know when you might have visitors.”
Not that he usually does, but the principle still applies. Kromer doesn’t see him blush and scratch at his head. She steps across the room, over the throw rug, and plops herself down on his bed.
Sinclair stares. Kromer bounces once or twice, eyebrows raising and lowering as she checks the springiness of the mattress.
“Comfy,” she says. “I like it.”
She pats the bedspread by her side. The implication is obvious. Sinclair continues to stare, mouth slightly agape.
“Um.”
Maybe we should sit on the floor instead is the thought that springs to mind, but when he tries to speak it, the words catch in his throat. He doesn’t want to say anything she might take as weird– and the assumption that her sitting on his bed is weird, would be weird. Besides, she’s already unpacking her bag, her notes and textbook materializing on top of Sinclair’s bedtop quilt. It’s obvious she feels quite comfortable where she is.
Still feeling awkward, Sinclair goes to join her.
The next near-hour goes by relatively quickly. Sinclair feels himself relaxing a degree as they go over the course material together. His note-taking is more organized than hers, his handwriting neat and outlines cohesive, if a little rote. Kromer’s scrawl is less legible, but she has a way of explaining what she’s written down that makes it feel simple and comprehensible. He finds himself smiling a little.
It’s nice to be around her. It’s nice to have friends, or even friend-singular, and to do the things he’s always been told friends do together. Kromer scoots a little closer to him, her thigh pressing against his as she leans over him to point out a slight mistake in his grammar.
She smells nice. Sweet. His mother used to wear a perfume that smelled like Kromer does, before her surgery. Used to say his father liked it.
Sinclair stiffens.
Has…
Has he misinterpreted this? Is she interested in him? Sinclair doesn’t want to assume, and he has gotten far in life riding the assumption that girls are, as a rule, not interested in him, but– she’s touching him more than he thinks is probably normal. He shifts away, and Kromer follows, sliding right back into his personal space as he scoots up the bed towards his headboard.
“Feeling antsy, Sinclair?” She asks, pausing from reading from her notes to look up at him. There’s a hint of a smile on her lips; not unkind, but definitely amused by something.
“No! No, not at all. I just, um…” He stutters to a stop, and swallows uncomfortably. He hadn’t thought out that sentence before starting it. “Just…”
“We can take a break, if you want. We’ve been working pretty hard.”
Dumbly, he nods. Maybe it would be best to get some fresh air; to open a window at least. Kromer sighs, swinging her legs up and around until she’s kneeling. She looks at him, something behind her pale eyes that Sinclair can’t parse.
Silence stretches on for a long moment, in which Sinclair casts around for something more casual to talk about. Kromer is still staring at him. Right before he’s about to blurt out something stupid out of pure desperation, she speaks.
“How do you tolerate it?” She asks.
“I’m sorry?”
Kromer jerks her head in the direction of his bedroom door. “Does being in the house with those... things not make your skin crawl?” She says, voice a conspiratorial murmur, like she’s afraid his family’s hearing has been so enhanced by their prosthetics that they can listen in to their son’s conversations from the first floor.
What’s he meant to say to that? He finds them discomforting, yes– uncanny, unfamiliar, other in a way his family never was before. But still, even so…
Kromer shakes her head before he can answer. Her lip curls, the briefest hint of disgust. “It makes me feel the need to prove my own humanity all the more.”
That, he doesn’t quite understand what she means by. Sinclair’s brow furrows.
“How so?” He asks.
“I want to do something with my body. Eat, maybe– gorge myself on more food than healthy. Run until I can feel my legs ache and burn. Cut myself to prove that I still bleed real blood.” The fire in her eyes flickers, and she hits her fist against her palm.
Sinclair, not for the first time that afternoon, or even for the first time in the last five minutes, is unsure what to say. “Please don’t.”
Patting him on the leg, Kromer laughs. “Relax. I won’t make a mess of your bedroom. There are better things to do with this kind of energy, anyways.”
She pushes herself upwards, and crawls over closer to him. Sinclair shrinks back, but he’s given himself very little in terms of places to go, and Kromer stares him down as if she’s daring him to make a move before she puts a hand on his knee. Her fingers are warm against his bare skin, the hem of his shorts having ridden up an inch or two to expose a bit more of his thigh.
“Do your parents still sleep together?”
He blinks. “I– what–”
Kromer’s face looms closer. There’s a smile on her lips again, and the same kind of fire in her eyes that he’d seen the first time they’d ever spoken. Sinclair feels himself swallow.
“Do your parents still sleep together. Are they intimate, Sinclair? Do they make love?” She draws his name out when she says it, stretching two syllables into four. As close as they are, he can feel her exhale. The puff of it tickles his nose.
“I… I don’t know.” His face flushes, and he’s not certain if it’s because of the uncomfortable nature of the question, or the sudden nearness. Kromer’s hand is casually keeping his leg from bouncing, disallowing even that as an output for his nervous energy. “Why do you care?”
“Care?” Her face turns incredulous for a moment, before she begins to laugh. “I don’t care. They knew what sex felt like, and abandoned that pleasure for those appalling bodies. I can only pity them.”
Sinclair does not particularly want to think about his parents having sex, prosthetic bodies or otherwise. He tries, clumsily, to divert the subject.
“Maybe it isn’t that good, if they didn’t want to have it anymore,” he says, looking downwards at an interesting bit of his bedspread. “I don’t know.”
Silence follows. He can feel Kromer’s fingers digging into his knee. Against his will he swallows again, trying not to let his nerves get the better of him.
“Sinclair,” she says, somehow making his name sound even longer this time than the last. Stretched out like taffy, amusement and disbelief behind every savored syllable. “Sinclair. Don’t tell me you’ve never done it before.”
“I–”
He hasn’t. If he’s being honest with himself, he hasn’t even really thought about it. He’s known girls, has observed them enough to understand which ones are generally considered attractive, but the urge… the feelings people describe… he can never recall having them, no matter how desirous the girl in question was in the eyes of his male classmates. Even while touching himself, seeking that pleasure on his own terms, they hardly come to mind. In fantasies that feature another person, they are amorphous, featureless. They touch him without him ever seeing their face or even getting a clear look at their body.
Sometimes, secretly, he fears he’s broken in some fundamental way– that the lack of interest is some kind of failure on his part.
His face must be bright red. It certainly feels like it is, his cheeks burning while he desperately tries to find somewhere to look that isn’t Kromer.
“I haven’t,” he says– squeaks– closing his eyes.
Her laugh is softer than usual. Sinclair thinks of shoving her off, but reconsiders it. He tries to loosen his shoulders, a task made all the more monumentally difficult when Kromer’s hand slides from his knee to his inner thigh.
“You poor child.” Sinclair remembers a cat he’d found in an alley once, years ago, on his way home from school. It had rubbed up against his ankles when he’d offered it a bit of leftover meat from his lunch tin, and bit him when he’d reached out to pet it, and he’d cried as he’d run back home to his mother. Kromer now sounds similar to how it had sounded then, the low purr it had let out right before sinking its teeth into his hand. “You haven’t experienced even a fraction of what a human body can feel, and they want to take it away from you before you’ve gotten the chance.”
She’s too close. Sinclair hears himself stutter, raising his arms to– to what? Push her away? He can’t bring himself to do anything of the sort. The fluttering in his chest is uncomfortable, borderline painful, and he settles for hiding his face behind his hands.
“Kromer–” He starts, and feels his ears heat up at how incredibly meek he sounds.
Her hand slides further upwards, cupping between his legs. Sinclair yelps like he’s been burned, squirming away from the touch, but– there’s nowhere to go, trapped as he is between her and the headboard. Kromer shushes him, and through the cracks in his fingers Sinclair can see her leering at him, her smile wide and toothy.
“This is the perfect proof, the proof that we’re human. Let me show you what they’re missing, Sinclair,” she says, and despite his reticence he can feel himself stir when she palms him through his uniform shorts. “What only true, pure flesh can do.”
“Kromer, I-I don’t–” He coughs as her palm slides over him, choking on whatever he was about to say.
“‘Don’t’ what?” She asks, pausing for a moment. “Don’t know how? That’s fine. It’s normal to be nervous your first time, but I’m here. I’ll show you how it’s done.”
That… must be it. Nerves, doing something he’s never done before. Fear that Kromer will be disappointed by him if he isn’t immediately good enough at it to please her. It can’t be reticence, because she’s right, and because he’s getting harder with every passing moment as she touches him. His body wants it, even if his mind is panicking and unsure.
Still, he yelps again when she tugs his shorts and underwear down to his knees. He’s never– the only people who have ever seen this part of his body this close are his parents and a few doctors over the years, and none of them have ever touched him like Kromer is. She wraps a hand around his penis, stroking him with short, languid motions of her wrist. Her fingers curl easily over the shaft.
“You’re so adorable, Sinclair,” she says. “So sensitive. Don’t you touch yourself at all?”
“I…”
She’s close enough to ghost her tongue along the shell of his ear. Sinclair still can’t quite look at her– he’s shrunk as far back against his headboard as he can get, shoulders hunched and rigid, and her hot breath on the side of his face makes him shiver. Her thumb traces a circle around the head of his penis, teasing at his foreskin.
“You don’t have to be coy about it. I think it’s cute.” It’s hard to ignore the way he twitches at the praise, heat blooming in his gut as well as his face. Kromer must notice it too, because she laughs, a sound that breaks off into a choked-out moan that sends ice through Sinclair’s veins. “Lie back. Good boy.”
Sinclair doesn’t know what to do, besides what he’s told. He tries to relax as she climbs on top of him, straddling his thighs with her knees. She’s terribly lean– Sinclair has never noticed it before, how angular her body is, all long legs and narrow hips– but she pins him in place with a strength he can’t resist. He feels so strangely numb, his limbs leaden and heavy.
“Look at me,” Kromer says.
Slowly, he slides his hands away from his face. Kromer looms above him, leaning down close enough that their foreheads are almost touching. Her one visible eye’s pupil is blown, the dark void of it swallowing all but a thin ring of silver, and her cheeks are stained pink. Her smile is a hungry, mean thing.
“There’s no need to be so shy.” She cups his chin in her hand, nails scraping just so over the skin of his jaw, and laughs.
It’s not shyness that makes him hide himself, but Sinclair can’t summon the words to argue. He bites his lower lip, eyes casting around nervously. When Kromer reaches for the buttons of her shorts, he desperately tries looking elsewhere. The fear overwhelms him. He doesn’t want to see it, whatever she has in her pants. From a purely biological standpoint, he knows what it is– he’s learned about it in school, and from a few awkward, clinical talks with his parents– but there’s distance from the sterile diagrams, from the unappealing names for bits of anatomy.
Distance that doesn’t exist when Kromer presses herself closer, her shorts and underwear around her knees. Her skin is warm, soft in a way Sinclair supposes should be pleasant. She reaches a hand down between the two of them, wrapping it around his penis again, and Sinclair tries as hard as he can not to cover his face once more. His chest feels tight, heart beating out of control.
“Kromer,” he says, his voice pitifully weak, high-pitched like a balloon letting out air. “I d-don’t know if I… if I can…”
“It’s alright. Just lie back, and let me take care of you. Okay?” She pushes his shoulder down, encouraging him to relax, something that seems borderline impossible at the moment, but which Sinclair attempts anyways. He has to think about unclenching his muscles, one at a time, and when he feels… something… hot and slick against the tip of his penis, they tighten again all at once.
He doesn’t want to look at it. He doesn’t want to think about it. But he can’t not feel it as she lowers herself, sinking down onto him with smooth, gentle sways of her hips. Nor can he avoid hearing the sound Kromer makes, a sigh of such satisfaction it makes his stomach churn. She’s warm– against him, around him, a feverish, uncomfortable heat. Wet, too; smoother than his hand ever is, even when he spits on it to make it easier for himself.
It’s good. Sinclair’s chest constricts, tightening around his heart. It’s good. He’s having sex, with a girl. A very pretty girl, who likes him enough to do something like this to him, with him, for him. This is what every boy his age wants, and it’s literally fallen into his lap without him even trying. His knuckles are white as he hangs onto the bedspread beneath him, as if he’ll float away if he lets go. It’s good.
Kromer’s thumb brushes under his eyes, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s crying. The smile on her face is beatific. Sinclair sniffles and shakes his head.
“I’m sorry,” he manages. It comes out as a little gasp, one he’s not even certain she hears until she responds.
“Don’t apologize, Sinclair. There’s no shame in crying, since it’s further proof of the purity of your body.” She sucks her thumb into her mouth, licking his tear off the pad of it. “They would take this from you, too. The nerve to flense anything resembling true feelings from a person, and call it an improvement.”
With a hand braced against his chest to steady herself, she rocks against him. The physical stimulus is there, even if Sinclair’s lungs are still about to collapse. It’s all a blur of sensation; heat enveloping him, the sound of Kromer panting, the wetness on his cheeks. Her thighs warm and soft against his, pressing down on him every time she lowers her body. A tightness in his stomach– one he’s felt before, but more intense than it ever is when he’s alone.
He grabs at her wrist.
“Kromer,” he whimpers, panic seeping into his already high-pitched, borderline hysterical tone. They shouldn’t– he knows enough about this to know the risks, what might happen if he… if she lets him…
Kromer brushes her knuckles down his face, laughing breathlessly. Her face is flushed, pink with exertion and pleasure both.
“It’s okay, Sinclair,” she says. Her thighs move methodically, relentlessly. Despite his inability to finish a sentence, she seems to understand what he’d meant. “Go ahead. I want it. I want to feel it.”
Even were he more in control of himself, Sinclair doesn’t think he would have been able to push back. Now– now he can’t do anything except finish messily, with a sound so pathetic it makes him wish his bed would open up and swallow him. He closes his eyes, mercifully shutting the world out for a moment. Shutting out the sight of Kromer as she moans, enjoying either her own climax or the feeling of–
He doesn’t want to think about it. He can still feel himself crying, tears slipping out between his eyelids. It’s all quite overwhelming, and it doesn’t stop being so, even when she pulls herself off of him. Her weight and pressure vanishes, but it leaves behind an afterimage– a phantom of her he can feel against his skin even when he pulls his shorts back up.
It’s a few minutes before he can breathe properly again. He sags forwards, staring down at his lap. His hands are shaking. Kromer adjusts herself next to him, whistling a low, jaunty tune as she brushes her hair back to neatness with her fingers.
“Much better. Wouldn’t you agree?” She says. Sinclair doesn’t respond. “You feel like a whole, pure person again.”
Her words brook no argument. He guesses that he does. He’s acutely aware of his own body; painfully hot where her hands had touched him, icy where her sweat is evaporating off of his flesh. Sinclair’s skin feels too tight, uncomfortably stretched over his frame. There’s a scream in his chest that hurts to hold in.
His classmates had talked about feeling different after their first time. He hadn’t listened too closely to those sordid details, but he supposes this must be how it was for them too. Overwhelmed by the unfamiliar.
It’s not like he didn’t like it– he’d climaxed, after all. And Kromer had obviously enjoyed herself, if the way she smiles as she bumps her shoulder against his is anything to go by. Her face is still quite pink, though other than that it would be hard to tell just by looking at her that anything untowards had occurred. She’s tidied herself up quite nicely.
“Sinclair,” she says, drawing out the air once more. “Not to ruin your fun, but we should get back to studying. I said I would be out before dinner, and we still have quite a bit of material to get through.”
“.. Right. Yeah.”
It feels like nothing even happened. For her at least. Kromer pulls her notebook out again and resumes her review of its contents, casually twirling her pen between her fingers. Sinclair tries to follow suit, but the buzzing static in his head makes it difficult to focus on much of anything.
They call it quits around two hours later. The sun is starting to go down, and Kromer’s house is– according to her– a bit of a walk away. She squeezes him on the shoulder as she says goodbye, a last, lingering bit of intimacy. Sinclair watches her go, feeling strangely hollow as her narrow silhouette makes a turn from the house’s front gate and disappears.
He doesn’t notice his mother standing at his side until she speaks.
“What a nice girl,” she says. Her face doesn’t really have expressions anymore, but Sinclair knows she’s being sincere, that she would be smiling if she had a mouth. “You should have her over again. I’d love to get to know your friends better.”
Sinclair can still feel her hand on his shoulder. The phantom touch burns through his clothes like a brand. He doesn’t respond.
The next day, he returns to school and also to a pop quiz. His classmates grumble, and though Sinclair generally shares their sentiment he can’t really muster up the same energy to express it. He sits quietly through it, scratching his answers into the paper without much passion.
He doesn’t see Kromer again until Wednesday. It’s not unusual for her to not be in school– he’s never asked her why, though he’s always assumed it’s family-related. Sinclair notices it offhandedly this time, and feels some of the crushing weight that’s been on him since the weekend lighten.
On Wednesday, he also gets his quiz results back. When he lifts the paper this time, he finds his score has gone up by 10 points.
An improvement, and a notable one. For the first time in several days something manages to cut through his fugue.
And then a shadow looms over him, and a familiar hand curls around the edge of his desk.
“That’s a lot better,” Kromer says, echoing his thoughts. She’s leaning over his shoulder, looking down at the paper in his hand. Smiling. Close enough that he can smell traces of that sweet fragrance she likes. His other hand in his lap balls into a fist.
“Y-yeah,” he says, not quite able to keep the stutter out of even that one word.
Sinclair glances around– no one’s looking at them, and after a moment he wonders why he even cares. Her proximity might be rumor-worthy, but mostly the kind of rumors that would flatter him. He can imagine being cornered by classmates during lunch period, boys his age poking him in the arm with their elbows and asking, slyly, if he’s still a virgin.
It’s a point of pride for most of them to not be. Even at their age– to brag about that singular signifier, that point of transition from innocent child to wise, worldly adult. He could brag now, if he wanted to. Earn a point of respect, just like he had talking about his father’s business.
He swallows. Kromer has circled around his desk, planting both hands on it to lean more closely at him.
“We should study together again. It’s definitely producing results.”
Sinclair’s first and most pressing desire is to tell her no, and he’s not certain why. Obviously Kromer is right– the material he recalled was covered in their study session, all the easier to remember because of Kromer grilling him on it beforehand. To say nothing of anything else that might occur if she were to visit again.
No, his mind insists still. But he ignores it, ducking his head to nod a yes with as much enthusiasm as he can muster.
Kromer’s smile, wide and full of teeth, sends a shiver down his spine.