Chapter 3 The Exception

The garden should’ve stayed in the dark.

Instead, I walked into class still thinking about Isaac Fletcher— and the way he’d looked at me like he remembered everything.

So, naturally, I chose denial.

Pretend last night in the garden hadn’t happened.

Pretend the courtyard that morning hadn’t happened either.

Pretend Isaac Fletcher had not looked at me like he already knew something I didn’t.

Simple. Stable. Delusional, maybe, but workable.

I slid into my seat by the window and pulled out my notebook. Around me, the room buzzed with first-period noise—chairs scraping, bags dropping, people talking too loudly for this hour.

Normal. Good. I liked normal.

This was school. My area.

Deadlines made sense. Rubrics made sense. The right answers made sense.

People, unfortunately, did not.

I opened my notebook and focused on the board like concentration alone could fix my life.

Krizzy dropped into the seat beside me and gave me a quick look.

“You okay? You look a little stressed.”

“That is a very polite way of saying I look terrible.”

She smiled. “I was trying to be nice. We literally just met.”

“Appreciated.”

She tipped her head slightly. “First day hitting hard?”

Before I could answer, Mrs. Vale walked in and the room snapped into attention.

She set her folder on the desk and looked at us like she had personally lost faith in youth.

“Since some of you seem to think the first week of term is a social event,” Mrs. Vale said, “we’ll be redirecting that energy.”

A few people laughed.

“We’re starting the term research project today. It will count heavily toward your final grade.”

That got everyone’s attention.

“At the same time,” she continued, “students with lower assessment scores will attend peer tutoring support until their performance improves.”

A quiet ripple moved through the room.

At Fletcher, grades weren’t just grades. They were ranking. Reputation. Proof you belonged here.

That part, I understood.

My shoulders loosened a little. Project, pressure, expectations—fine. I could work with that. Academics were at least honest about trying to kill you.

Mrs. Vale began assigning project pairs, and I copied everything down in neat, careful lines that suggested I was either very focused or quietly having a crisis.

Then I felt it. I looked up.

Isaac sat two rows over, leaning back in his chair like the room had been arranged around him. He wasn’t looking at me.

That should have helped. It didn’t. Mrs. Vale glanced at her clipboard. 

“For tutoring support, I’ll be assigning high-performing students to those who need—” She looked up. “Mr. Fletcher—”

The room stilled.

Everyone knew what came next. Nobody wanted to be named as the student who needed help.

Especially not him.

Mrs. Vale barely got another word out before Isaac spoke.

“She’ll tutor me.”

The room went still.

For a second, my brain refused to process it. Then every head turned—toward him, toward me, then back again like the class had collectively decided this made no sense.

I almost hoped they were right.

Mrs. Vale lifted a brow. “Excuse me?”

Isaac didn’t blink. “Clara Smith,” he said. “She’ll tutor me.”

My pen slipped out of my hand and hit the floor.

Excellent.

Very dignified.

When I bent to grab my pen, I could already hear the whispers starting—quiet, fast, impossible to miss.

Krizzy grabbed my sleeve. “Why you?”

“I have no idea,” I whispered back.

Around us, the reaction spread almost instantly.

Just sharp little fragments from people who clearly knew more about Isaac Fletcher than I did.

“Is he serious?”

“Why her?”

“Since when does he ask for help?”

That one landed hardest. Someone across the aisle let out a quiet laugh. 

“This is actually kind of entertaining.”

Another voice, somewhere behind me, said, “No, this is suspicious.”

“That’s because it is,” I muttered. Krizzy turned to me fully now.

“Do you know him?”

“No.”

That came out too fast. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

I exhaled. “I mean—I don’t know him.”

Which was technically true. Terribly, dangerously incomplete, but true.

“Oh,” Krizzy said, like she did not believe me even a little. “This is bad.”

Around us, nobody was openly staring anymore, which somehow made it worse. Fletcher people were too polished for obvious reactions.

Even Mrs. Vale looked surprised, and that told me everything. If a teacher was surprised, then this was not normal.

This was an event. A social one. Possibly a fatal one.

I stared at my desk and tried to breathe.

This was socially dangerous.

Academically irrelevant.

And somehow, it was happening to me.

For the rest of class, I took notes with the energy of someone trying not to have a public breakdown.

It was almost impressive, honestly.

Mrs. Vale moved on. People stopped staring directly. 

The room returned to something that looked normal from the outside, which was rude, because my life had clearly changed and I thought that deserved at least a formal announcement.

I kept my eyes on my notebook.

This was a problem. That was the important thing.

Not a moment. Not a feeling. Not whatever weird, unhelpful thing happened to my pulse every time Isaac Fletcher existed too close to me.

I could survive this academically.

That was the decision.

I didn’t have to understand why he picked me. I didn’t have to care.

I just had to get through it without losing my scholarship, my mind, or my father’s remaining faith in my ability to stay out of rich-people chaos.

One crisis at a time.

When the bell finally rang, the room exploded into motion.

I stayed seated for half a second longer than necessary, pretending I was organizing my things instead of delaying my own social funeral.

Krizzy turned to me. “You’re not actually going, right?”

I shoved my notebook into my bag. “I don’t even know what I’m going to do.”

“That is not reassuring.”

“It is the only answer I have.”

A couple of students passed our row, still talking in low voices that were very obviously about me.

“This is insane.”

“Why did he pick her?”

“I told you something was weird.”

Great. Love an audience.

I stood, adjusted my bag on my shoulder, and turned toward the aisle.

Isaac was already there.

He moved past me close enough that the air changed. Not touching. Worse, somehow. 

Just enough for me to catch the clean, sharp scent of his cologne and the quiet certainty in the way he stopped beside me like stopping was not something people usually earned.

I went completely still.

He didn’t look at me at first. Then he did, and it was that same look from the courtyard—calm, steady, like this had already been decided somewhere without my permission.

“After school,” he said quietly.

That was it.

Two words. Low enough that no one else would hear.

Then he stepped away and kept walking.

I stared after him, my heart doing something reckless and deeply unhelpful.

Krizzy appeared at my side a second later. “What did he say?”

I kept my eyes on the doorway he had disappeared through.

Nothing about this felt optional.

Nothing about him ever did.

And somehow, I already knew— I didn’t have a choice.