Chapter Text
“Something of exquisite beauty arose in the mind of each at last, something unforgettable and eternal, but built of the humblest scraps of speech and from the simplest emotions.”
— Maurice, E.M. Forster.
No one who works at an elementary school can truly have a peaceful day, so it is perhaps the pure shock from how calm his day has been that makes Caleb Widogast let his guard down. He’s in his library (the school’s, sure, but for three years everyone had known it was his) after lunch, reveling in the tranquility—or illusion thereof.
So far, there has been zero screaming or fighting in his presence—none in the library this morning, none on the playground, none in the cafeteria thirty minutes ago. For anyone else it’d be sad to consider that a success, Caleb is sure. He doesn’t much care.
The illusion of tranquility wobbles at hurried footsteps in the hall, then outright shatters when the door bursts open. In runs a rather short young woman. She stumbles coming in, boot tip catching on the bump between rooms, but her frenzied golden eyes and choppy green-slicked hair are unmistakable.
Caleb stares, mouth dropping open, at his sister. Nott’s face scrunches up as she reaches down to clutch her foot. Fumbling for a reaction, Caleb wonders if this is a lucid dream and he’s dozed off while categorizing his new arrivals. He immediately dismisses the thought—he’d never fall asleep during that. It’s one of his favorite hobbies.
“Hi!” says Nott, voice shrill. She flashes her pointy teeth across the room at him. “I’m here!”
Caleb’s brain clicks back on. “So I see. Why.”
“That didn’t sound like a question. Aren’t you happy to see darling little me?” Nott frowns, still holding onto her foot and bouncing further into the room. At least she’s little and thus unlikely to knock into any of his bookshelves.
Actually, he wouldn’t put it past her. Caleb leaps to his feet and rushes around the counter, shooting a mournful look back at his dinosaur of a desktop.
“You haven’t been ‘darling’ since you were ten,” says Caleb. “And it isn’t unreasonable to ask.”
Nott pulls a face, tongue lolling out of her mouth. She veers uncomfortably close to one of his carts. As soon as Caleb yelps and shoots out his arms to stop her, though, she drops her foot and regains her balance with a weak smile. She spreads her arms as if to prove she’s steady and says, petulant, “Can’t I just visit you?”
“For the first time in two years? Nein, I don’t think so.” Caleb’s hands twitch with the sudden urge to squeeze her cheeks as a threat.
“Okay, okay!” Perhaps sensing something in Caleb’s voice, Nott almost shrieks this, her lips pursing. Caleb’s attention flickers to a ratty bag hanging at Nott’s size. It must weigh twice as much as she does. “I didn’t want to spoil the surprise so soon, but I’m going to be your assistant teacher this year!”
A long pause. Nott’s arms wiggle on either side of her, sleeves billowing around her thin wrists. Caleb directs his gaze to a poster on the wall. Library Etiquette, it declares in blocky letters, followed by a list of rules. Nott has broken several already.
“Hello? Caleb?” A dark-skinned hand waves in front of his face. When Caleb glances down, he sees Nott on her tiptoes, ruining the effect—he raises an eyebrow and smacks her hand down. “Ow!”
“I have almost no upper body strength,” deadpans Caleb. “Now please repeat what you just said. I think I’ve finally had an aneurysm and misheard you.”
“I don’t think that’s what an aneurysm does,” says Nott, tilting her head. Caleb glowers, and her eyes crinkle at the edges as she rushes to add, “I’m your teaching assistant this year!”
“I… am not a teacher.”
Nott sticks her tongue out. Caleb squints at it this time—it’s a disturbing shade of blue, suggesting she’d been in Jester’s office first. “Fine, I’m just your assistant then.”
“I don’t need an assistant,” says Caleb. It feels futile to resist, but he wants to at least have plausible deniability.
He can’t have an assistant. He absolutely can’t have Nott as an assistant. A generic assistant would be bad enough (there was that mess with Schmidt the Volunteer™️ his first year), but his goblin of a sister? Hell no.
“Too late! Mx. Feelid already hired me!” She sticks her tongue out again, blowing a raspberry with it this time. “Unless you want to take it up with them, I’m here to stay!”
Caleb glances up toward the ceiling and shuts his eyes. He’s not scared of Bryce—they’re nice and let him do what he wants with the library, which is more than he can say for the previous principal. They’re still his boss, though, and have only been so for a week. When he thinks about doing anything contradictory to their decisions, a knot tightens in his stomach. On the other hand, Nott’s presence and the thought of her finding out Certain Things might be enough to overcome his social anxiety and authority problems. Plus, they hadn’t consulted him about Nott, so—
During his intense internal struggle, there’s a soft mrow from the cat bed in the corner. Frumpkin, the traitor, trots over from his napping position and peers up at Nott, who squeaks.
“Hello.” She whirls back to Caleb, wide gold eyes flickering back and forth. “Have you decided?”
“Not remotely,” he says, eyes narrowed, but before he can say anything else, the door opens again.
The sounds of children murmuring make Caleb bolt upright. Scheiße, he thinks, snapping his gaze off Nott. It’s a Wednesday afternoon, around two, which means—
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” says Mollymauk, blase, the gaggle of his third and fourth graders surrounding him.
All the light in the room seems to redirect to him as he leans into the doorway, tucking himself against the frame to avoid being toppled by his students. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking on Caleb’s behalf. Either way, as the light hits him, his curly hair (dyed a gradient of deep purple to blue) and his bronze skin glow. One hand, the one with the winding snake tattoo that crawls up into his rolled-up sleeve, tucks into his pocket.
Caleb clears his throat and shoots the fiercest glare that still conveys we’ll talk about this later to Nott. She beams, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, which are fixed suspiciously on Mollymauk. “Oh, nein, I just—I got distracted—my—my new assistant here…”
If he ground his teeth harder, they’d be powder. He drops one hand onto Nott’s shoulder and stretches the other out, as if presenting her to the mostly uninterested class. Mollymauk lifts an eyebrow.
“…was just getting settled in,” says Caleb, aware it’s been too long a pause but not sure what he can do about it now. “Children, Mx. Tealeaf, meet—” Pause. “Miss Widogast.”
“Miss Nott,” she corrects, waving at the children with a deer-in-headlights expression.
Mollymauk folds his hands at his waist and nods shortly in her direction. He seems off-put by Nott’s narrowed eyes darting toward him every few seconds, on his students the rest of the time. Caleb doesn’t blame him. Another pause ensues, Caleb trying to get his brain working again and Nott beginning to hum “Whistle While You Work.”
“Well!” says Mollymauk, lifting his still intertwined hands. He glances over to where his students are congregated between the library’s entrance and the presentation area. “Have fun, kiddos,” he calls, “and remember to behave for Mr. Widogast. See you in an hour.”
With that, he’s gone in a flash of ombré hair and bright clothes that draw attention away from the sun. Caleb stares at the spot where he’d been for another few seconds—until a student, probably the short and golden-blonde Toya, coughs. Caleb shakes himself and gestures the students over into seats, kicking himself for not setting up seating charts yet. He makes I’m watching you gestures at dangerous pairings of students at the same tables.
“Stay put,” he tells the class at large, hesitating for a moment before adding, “I have the authority to make seating charts.”
That earns a smattering of snickers from mostly new students, who still think he’s kidding when he makes these kinds of threats. They’ll learn. Oh, they’ll learn.
Caleb doubles back to the counter to grab the book he’d been planning to read from. Nott has moved, now in the midst of slinging her bag across in the second spinny chair behind the counter. She eyes him with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.
“We have not finished our conversation,” he hisses, snatching a sparkling clean paperback off the counter. He knows it’s not long to remain so.
He manages to get through his lesson plans without much issue, reading an excerpt from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. The copy shines in the overhead lighting—like Mollymauk, he thinks, then shoves that thought away so as not to go bright red in the middle of describing the White Witch. It’s a fine replacement for the second-edition copy he’d had in the library last year, which had been all but destroyed by certain students that shall remain nameless. Nott is silent throughout, though the chair she’s flung herself into squeaks every now and then from her absent spinning. Caleb thinks she might actually be listening.
When he notices the class growing more and more restless—and, now that he thinks about it, it’s almost half past two now—Caleb finishes the paragraph. He snatches a bookshelf from the literal bucket sitting on the nearest shelf. He may or may not fix the entire class with a dirty look as he does so. He’s seen the dog-eared pages he gets books back with.
“Go check out,” he says, mildly defeated.
Then comes the universal sound of eight-to-ten-year-olds scrambling to their feet and raising their voices (replacing the stage whispers under Caleb’s reading he’d been too tired to address). Caleb shuts his eyes and adds, “Push in your chairs, please!”
A small number of students do as he requests, but the majority flock to the other side of the library, where the books they’re interested in are. He notes Toya pushing in other kids’ chairs.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says, despite his grateful smile. “I can and will make your classmates clean up after themselves.”
Toya flushes and says, in a creaky voice, “Mx. Tealeaf says we should be nice to you. Even nicer than we are to him, even.”
Caleb almost drops his book. “Does he.”
“Mm-hmm. He says—” she drops her voice and affects it with a mockery of the light accent Caleb is pretty sure is fake “—‘I’m sure Mr. Widogast has enough on his plate without you brats disrupting the peace.’ Then he told us the opposite applied to Ms. Lionett.”
“Of course he did,” says Caleb, ignoring the warmth coming back to his face. He runs a hand through his hair, then meets Nott’s reproachful gaze across the room. He drops it—and his head—at once. “Go check out, Toya.”
She nods and scurries across the room—“No running,” Caleb calls—and joins another few girls hovering by the folklore section. Caleb sets the book atop the nearest shelf. (Well, the highest of the nearest ones, careful to place it higher than most students would be able to without drawing attention to themselves.) Taking a deep breath, Caleb walks over to lean against the back side of the counter. Beside him, Nott stops spinning in her chair.
“Okay, Schwesterherz, I’ll give you a trial basis,” he mutters, keeping an eye out for any eavesdroppers. Reading to a disinterested crowd had given him an opportunity to work the puzzle that was Nott’s presence and current job out. “I will teach you the ins and outs of working at Zadash Grade School—more specifically, my library. If I do not think your work has been satisfactory by the time winter break starts—which is just over three months—then, ja, I will speak to Bryce. If not, you may stay. Is that clear?”
He’s just glad his voice doesn’t crack. He inhales, quick and sharp, as Nott blinks up at him, processing. Her face breaks out into an open, crooked grin. She kicks the spinny chair toward him so she can wrap her arms around his waist.
“Thank you thank you thank you,” she chants into his torso. The whole thing is very uncomfortable, between the awkward position, the surprise physical contact, and the attention from a few giggling students. Caleb chews on his cheek and pats the top of her head. “I promise I won’t let you down!”
It’s not an inside voice. Caleb pries her arms off, gentle as he can, and resists the urge to shush her. “Right. Now can you go sit in the other chair? I need to be in this one to scan books into the system.”
Nott’s eyes widen. “This is my home now. You’ll have to bring me home attached to this chair.”
“Nein, sorry,” says Caleb, toneless. He takes her by the shoulders to drag her up out of the chair. She wriggles in his grasp, screeching in protest and kicking at his shins.
Inside fucking voice, he wants to say, but common sense and awareness of the children in the room manage to kick in. Something about her word choice clicks in the back of his mind—home? He says nothing, though; better to have that out when not surrounded by kids.
Speaking of—as he reclaims his seat and Nott, scowling, moves her bag to take the other spinny chair, a student with two books in his arms approaches. Pierre, he thinks, a new student this year. Caleb takes the books and the checkout card. While he’s scanning the barcodes, Pierre asks, casual despite his shit-eating grin, “Is Miss Nott your wife?”
Caleb almost chokes on his own spit. He can’t help his face from twisting in disgust. “No,” he says, dropping the card into his drawer and pushing the books forward on the counter. “What. Um. What gave you that impression?”
“You said her last name was Widogast. That’s your last name.”
“Ja, because she is my sister.” He tips back in his chair and shuts his eyes. He’s too fucking tired to explain that, even if the same last name could draw conclusions like this, he would’ve introduced Nott as Mrs. Widogast.
When he opens his eyes, he catches several other students—bypassing checking out today, whether due to disinterest or inability—forming a line by the exit. He groans. He’d feel bad for cutting Mollymauk’s prep time short, but he doesn’t know if he can handle the next twenty minutes with this bunch. Over a few feet, he hears Nott cackle and involuntarily clenches his fist.
“Please go sit down somewhere else now,” he tells Pierre, who leaves with a smirk.
A row of three more take his place. It’s shaping up to be one of those days only a few students in a class check out—in part because, as the crowd by the door without books would indicate, Bryce is letting Caleb hold overdue books from years past against them. He’s never liked a principal more. Given, he’s only had one other.
Caleb passes the students’ books over as if in a trance, moving methodically through them. As the class scatters to various parts of the room—a handful more stopping by to get their books checked out—he revels in the dull quiet. He has to keep Nott from touching various displays in the twenty minutes that follow. She’s just about as difficult as managing several kleptomaniac children, and it’s not like he’s never had to watch her before, so he doesn’t mind as much as he puts on.
When the bell rings, the students form an almost straight line without incident. Caleb almost cries. “You did it,” he whispers, drawing odd looks from the students and Nott alike.
Mollymauk gets what Caleb is sure is the same expression when he sees the line too, though. It’s fine. He flashes Caleb a bright look, then files out with his quiet (for once) children trailing like ducklings behind. It’s great.
Before the self-loathing, as it is wont to do, can sink in, Caleb steps over to his mini-fridge and digs around for an energy drink. He steels himself to handle Nott for the remaining hour or so of his workday. He takes a long drink, then looks around.
Frumpkin, though he’d spent the past hour weaving around students’ legs, is now planted back in his usual sleeping spot. Nott straightens up from petting him and wanders over to one of Caleb’s series carts. The one with Wings of Fire and Warriors, he’s pretty sure.
“Last you told me,” says Caleb, leaning against the counter, and Nott jolts upward and almost slams her head into the cart, “you were living up north somewhere. How exactly did you get down here?”
Nott’s eyes dart across the room. “Took a bus.”
“You—okay.” Caleb pinches the bridge of his nose. “Not that I am not glad to see you,” he adds. “The last time was Passover a few years ago, ja?”
“Ja,” echoes Nott. “I—things weren’t, well, working out up there, so I’m here.” She holds out her arms and wiggles them, too-big hoodie sleeves dangling around her wrists. Then, sheepish, she lowers her head and says in one breath, “And I might need to live with you for a while.”
“What.”
“Sorry, Cay-Cay—”
“Still hate that nickname.” He groans and waves it off. His brain is rushing through scenarios, and his mouth stumbles to catch up. “Are you—are you saying that you packed up one bag and are now moving here permanently?”
“It’s not just one bag!” says Nott, indignant. “There are two more upstairs with—uh—a Ms. Lavorre?”
Caleb drains about half of his Red Bull. “Jester,” he hisses through his teeth, dragging out the r.
“Is that a newfangled German curse, or—?”
“Icelandic,” says Caleb. Nott nods thoughtfully, and he winces as he sets his drink down on the counter. It’s going to leave a foamy mark. He realizes that. It grates on him after a few seconds, and he picks the can up again. He doesn’t really want to go on the rest of his life with Nott thinking his—their—co-worker’s name is a foreign swear, though, so he says, “Nein. Jester is our menace of a nurse and counselor. Don’t ask how she’s both.”
Nott’s jaw shuts. “She didn’t tell me her first name,” she says, tilting her head. “Or her last, actually, I just got that off the door. She did tell me all about her upcoming wedding to someone, er, F—Fee-yord?”
“That sounds like her.” They’ve gotten off track. Caleb drags a hand over his face, other tightening on his Red Bull, and peers through his fingers at Nott. “Nott, you—you could have called me. I will clean the guest room out for you now, ja, sure, because you are my sister and I love you, but—”
Nott rushes toward him, but stops just short of hugging him. Her head ducks, showing off the mess of green and dark brown at her roots. “Thank you thank you thank—”
“But,” Caleb reiterates, cutting her off, “it is a temporary arrangement. As the job most likely will be.”
Nott’s shoulders scrunch, but she lifts her head and nods, slow and pointed. A flint sparks and catches fire in her gaze. “I get it.”
A moment of silence while Caleb stitches his thoughts back together. He glances at the clock—though vaguely sure someone is going to wander in and ask for his help with something not in his job description before the day is done, he gestures around the library with his energy drink hand. “Would you like a tour?”
Nott lights up.
+
Nott’s first few days are far more exciting than Caleb’s had been. In the rest of what Caleb dubs in his head as Week Zero (the Wednesday she starts through Friday), Nott pays witness to a number of events, including:
- an aggravated parent telling Caleb off on the phone because he didn’t let their kid check out due to the exorbitant late fees said child has left over from the past two years;
- hordes of students trying to con Caleb into letting them check out books clearly labeled NOT FOR CHECK OUT;
- one particular student trying to sneak a book out by stuffing it under his shirt;
- and, most notably, a fistfight. In his library.
Caleb hasn’t really gotten a chance to show Nott around the rest of the school yet, save the office and the bathrooms. Lunch and recess are exciting as ever—he and Beau prevent fights as best they can, though Beau is more competent at stopping them (especially physical) than he is.
So naturally, that firsthand excitement has to come to her, in the form of a fistfight on Friday afternoon. Why not?
He doesn’t notice the two fifth graders duking it out over the new release section at first, preoccupied with scanning books into the system. A weary-eyed classmate (Gail, he’s pretty sure her name is) sidles up to the counter.
“Hey, Mr. Widogast? Monet and Rani are fighting.” She points helpfully across the room.
Caleb follows her finger, expecting this to mean the normal slap fight thing, or maybe just a verbal fight with increasingly worse “your mom” jokes slung back and forth. Instead, he finds himself looking at, indeed, Monet and Rani full-on punching each other in the face.
“Hey!”
Nott, in the other spinny chair behind the counter, doesn’t look like she knows what to do. Caleb ignores her as he marches over to the faltering two. They at least have the dignity to look guilty now, Rani with shiny bite marks in her arm and Monet with a bloody nose and patches of hair missing. Rani is still gripping Monet’s hair in her raw-knuckled fist; Monet has his foot in Rani’s shin. Their mouths open at the same time.
Caleb has enough experience in this matter to hold up his hand and say, irate, “You can tell me all about who started it on the way to the office. I do care who did, ja, but right now you both need attention from the nurse. Not to mention the principal.”
Snickers arise from the rest of the class. Caleb ignores it, snapping his fingers at Nott, who’s quick to sit up.
“Miss Nott, please watch the rest of the class while I take these two to Ms. Lavorre.” He places one hand on each’s shoulder, watching them pull faces at each other. Mature. Fifth graders are the worst. “Make sure no one destroys anything. Or gets into more fistfights.”
Nott falters but, after a second, gives him a thumbs-up and a wink. Caleb is fearful for his library. Think of the greater good, he tells himself, as he guides the two out of the library and upstairs in silence. They squabble under their breaths beneath him, but he really can’t care as long as they don’t start wailing on each other again. Their hands are still at their sides when they reach the office, so it’s a success.
Caleb stops outside, peering at Ornna, the fire-haired secretary, through the glass window. “Is Jester in?”
Ornna jerks a thumb over her shoulder toward the health room, not bothering to ask about the two bloodied children. Caleb nods and heads inside.
The small nurse’s office is covered in gaudy yellow wallpaper—a clear remodel from last year’s gentle blue, and the year before’s sickly green. A cot is laid against one wall. Clutter dots the walls, counter, and floor. Caleb’s not sure how many posters there are concentrated on each wall and isn’t sure he wants to find out.
He’s slow to close the door, but as soon as the click sounds, a blue-highlighted bob jerks up. Jester turns away from the iPad in the corner, its soft blue glow illuminating her round, freckled face. Her eyes widen once they settle on the three figures in the doorway. Well—one, at least.
“Caleb!” she shouts, muffled, wiping sprinkles and crumbs off her mouth. A quick swallow, then she adds, “It’s so good to see—” Her gaze drops to Monet and Rani, resolutely avoiding looking at her (or the neon walls). She gasps and slaps her hands to her jaw. “Oh no! What happened?”
She scurries around the office—once she reaches Monet and Rani, she shoves them to opposite sides of the cramped room. Monet shifts up onto the scale, and Rani lands with a whump onto the edge of the cot. Jester darts back toward the cupboards. Bandages and paper towels come rustling out—Caleb presses his back to the door, wary of being hit with a canister of Shakespearean insult band-aids. Jester notices this and rolls her eyes. Despite her quirks, he knows she’s very good at her job.
“Shakäste?”
Caleb jumps when a smooth voice says, “Yes?” He doesn’t know how he could’ve missed the new health assistant, now—Shakäste stands near the bathroom door, leaning on his cane. His shock of white hair stands out against the sunny poster behind him.
“Could you clean these two up?” asks Jester, voice muffled as she sticks her head in a cabinet. “Caleb can help—”
“I can?” says Caleb.
“Yes, ma’am,” says Shakäste at the same time. He steps forward, cane knocking against the floor as he stands between the children.
Well, this is happening, thinks Caleb, pushing himself off the wall. The bloody nose isn’t nice to look at. At least it isn’t a burn wound. He winces and shakes that non-sequitur off, but it still hovers at the back of his mind. Switching his focus to Jester, who’s shoving a handful of damp paper towels into Shakäste’s outstretched hand, Caleb turns his mind to static before his thoughts can spread to visuals.
Shakäste pauses, leaning over Monet. “Mr. Widogast, would you mind—”
“I—er. Nein.”
Caleb shifts to help Shakäste with moving the towels. Shakäste seems to have memorized the current position of Monet’s face after a few moments. Jester joins them before long, working to get her first-aid kit open.
She’s also fixing Caleb with a sharp look. “What happened?”
“Fistfight.”
“Over what?”
“Um—I didn’t ask?” Jester scowls, disgruntled, and flicks Caleb in the arm. Rani’s eyebrows jump. Caleb jolts back, clutching his upper arm. “They needed medical attention, Jester, I did not have time—”
“You always have to ask,” says Jester, eyes big and shiny. “Otherwise I can’t treat them properly!”
Caleb eyes Shakäste, easing Monet’s head down and cleaning up the blood. “Well—”
“I meant metaphorically.” Jester folds her arms and makes a little hmph! sound. “I can heal their broken nose, but it will not fix their broken hearts, will it?”
“What soap opera did you lift that from?” says Caleb, just as Shakäste chuckles and says, “Wise words, Ms. Lavorre.”
Monet and Rani both look intensely uncomfortable at the turn of the conversation. Good, thinks Caleb in a flash of vindictiveness. He makes a mental note to write them both up when he gets the chance.
“Why don’t you two stay with Ms. Lavorre and—” it takes him a moment to remember Shakäste’s surname “—Mr. Romanoff for now? I need to, ah, go make sure Miss Nott hasn’t torn my library to shreds.”
The two exchange a look. Monet tucks his hair—what remains of it—behind his ears and looks to Jester, whose smile stretches grotesquely from cheek to cheek. Rani, poking her spit-soaked forearm, peers at Shakäste—a more somber figure but still offering a broad smile.
“Sure,” says Rani. Monet glares at her, and she steps on his foot.
Fucking fifth graders. Caleb sighs and glances at Jester, just on the edge of pleading. “You want to find out why they did it, you can ask. You are better with people than I am.”
Jester preens and flashes her sharp teeth at him. “I knew you’d come around,” she says sweetly. He’s about to say he hasn’t, not really, but her doe eyes have already found a new target. “Shakäste, want to help me with Rani now?”
Caleb doesn’t bother sticking around to see how the rest of the situation plays out. Jester will end up telling him eventually, he’s sure. He nods goodbye to Ornna and Gustav, the assistant principal who has just walked in, on his way out, then heads back downstairs.
Well, his library isn’t a complete wreck, which is a good thing. The bell rings as he walks in. Yasha appears on the other side of the room, arms folded. Her students are very far from being in a line. Caleb sighs and claps his hands, shouting, “Line up please!” in unison with Yasha’s quiet command of the same.
He’s not sure which convinces them more (most likely Yasha), but they snap to attention and get in a wobbly yet decent line. Caleb narrows his eyes at Nott, perched in his chair.
“I wasn’t sure what to do,” she hisses as Yasha’s class files out of the door after her, and—Caleb sighs. He can’t fault her for that; he had put her in charge with no preparation for being in charge of a handful of students, let alone an entire class minus two. “And they were—they were all amped up ‘cause of the fight, so—”
“It’s fine, Schwesterherz,” says Caleb. He takes a deep breath. “I’ll—okay. This weekend, I will actually tell you what to do in this situation. It was… an error in communication.”
He dislikes admitting so, but the number of times in college he’d had it out with Beau have taught him to acknowledge his own faults and move the hell on. He’s not used to doing that with Nott, though, so the words feel wrong in his mouth. With them, it was always more just one blowing up and neither really talking about it in the end. Caleb finds that he wants to change that.
Nott’s eyes are saucer-wide and glossy. “Okay.”
It’s uncomfortable, but at least they can leave in a couple hours. Caleb has never experienced a longer week—not even the affectionately-dubbed Hell Weeks before breaks. It’s only the second week of September.
Well, the next two months should be fun.