Breathe for Me Read Free Page A

evenings. Right now he looks relaxed, one thumb loosely hooked in a loop on his jeans while the other arm casually bears a couple of books. But beneath that careless surface I sense intensity. It pours from his eyes into mine.
    I slowly nod in reply to his question, not quite trusting myself to speak. I didn’t expect to see him, and I’m a little off-kilter.
    We move to the fringe of the hallway, and I dig through my notebook, flipping to yesterday’s page where I’d sloppily scrawled my notes. I rip it out and hand it to him, my hand thankfully steady.
    He gives me a small nod of thanks and takes the paper. “I’ll get this back to you in the library during lunch.”
    â€œUh, so, did you read that story?” I blurt out, curiosity getting the better of me.
    Eyes wide, he shakes his head in disbelief, a crooked grin on his face. “I did. Read it twice, actually. I can’t believe she dies like that.”
    â€œI thought it was crazy how sorrow over seeing her husband alive is what made her die,” I say, a thread of interest bubbling into my voice. Stories have an odd way of easing my nerves. I’m not so awkward when I can focus on something outside of myself. “I didn’t see that one coming the first time I read it.”
    â€œWell, I can’t wait to hear what you recommend next.” He stares into my eyes with that odd intensity; I swallow and look away for a moment, heart thrumming.
    I dare another glance at him. “Okay.”
    Obviously sensing my unease, he glances at the time on his cell and says, “Gotta run. Thanks for the notes, Isabel.” With that, he walks off.
    I press my back to the locker for a long moment and watch him melt into the crowd, the top of his shaggy head visible above the rest as he moves away from me. Focus , I tell myself and re-enter the stream of students, heading into Algebra II. It’s not like he and I are friends or anything. He’s probably just curious about why I’m so different.
    The teacher, Mr. Morris, fills the chalkboard with mathematical formulas just waiting to be answered. I know what’s coming. I bite back a groan and slide into my seat in the back of the room, then open my math notebook. Not my strongest subject, as I am most decidedly right-brained.
    â€œClass, pop quiz time,” Mr. Morris says, his gruff voice always sounding like he’s on the edge of a sore throat.
    This time, everyone groans.
    I hear loud whispers in front of me as Becky, a redheaded basketball player, grouses to her fellow teammate, Alexis. “This is ridiculous,” she says. “He knows we all hate math and no one understands it. Why torture us?”
    Alexis snorts in reply. “What else can he do but come up with stupid quizzes? It’s not like he’s spending his evenings dating or anything. I mean, look at what he’s wearing. I didn’t know they made clothes like that past 1980.”
    Mr. Morris, who must have overheard Alexis, shoots the two of them an angry look. “Zip it!” he says, adjusting the knot of his brown tie and pulling it tighter into the collar of his dress shirt. His cheeks turn a mottled shade of red, and his chest rises and falls rapidly as he glares.
    I tear my eyes away from the numbers above his head as their descent gains speed, rolling forward with jagged determination to speed him closer to zero. The way it’s been since I started in his class.
    â€œAnswer the questions on the board, class,” he chokes out, interrupting my train of thought. “You have half an hour to complete the quiz. I suggest you start now, before you lose more time.”
    The room grows quiet in a flash as everyone begins to work. In the silence, I chew the end of my pencil and turn my attention to my paper for several minutes. But my thoughts dawdle away from math and return to Dominic. He’s coming to the library again, this time to see me, specifically. Is