what I was doing. Iâm hoping if I donât make it explicit, sheâll let me get away with it. So far, so good. This is my favorite time of day.
Putting my pencil down on my easel, I wish I were wrapping up a palette full of oils, but my dad had made it clear he wasnât going to work a minuteâs worth of overtime to pay for my âprissy ass hobby. What the fuck do they put in that paint, anyway? Fucking gold dust?â
I hadnât bothered to explain that in some cases, yeah, the stuff that goes into the paint is pretty freaking valuable. So Iâd dropped Oils III and wheedled my way into Drawing IV, not having taken Drawing III. I think Iâm holding my own. From the way Erin looks at my drawings, like theyâre actual works of art, I donât care.
I tug my coat on and we walk out together.
âSo, tell me something.â
âAbout what?â Her big brown eyes look up, wide and curious. I want to say, âAbout you. Tell me anything about you. Whatâs your favorite movie? How do you make your hair smell like that? Why do you like Will Chase?â But those are questions Iâm not allowed to ask. âDo you have any brothers or sisters?â
âNo. Do you?â
âA brother. Caleb. Heâs ten.â
âDo you guys get along?â
âYeah.â The corner of my mouth curves up, thinking about him and his sheepdog hair and his goofy laugh. âNot always, but mostly heâs pretty cool.â
She nods, her mouth tightening up into a bow. âI used toââ
Her lips close around the word and I want to coax her open until I can reach inside and pull out whatever she was going to say. Sheâs always locked up so tight, like she doesnât think anyone would want to hear what she has to say, or like sheâs not allowed to say it. Those are the words of hers I want. The secret ones sheâs afraid to say out loud. âYou used to what?â
She shakes her head, looks down at the ground and crosses her arms over her chest. âI donât want to tell you. Itâs embarrassing.â
Itâs like sheâs protecting herself, like I might turn her words back on her and hurt her with them. I wouldnât and I want her to know.
âYou know I wonât tell, Erin.â Her nameâs slipped off my tongue without thinking and my face gets hot. Iâve just made it very clear I donât always think of her as just a teacher. But she doesnât scold me. Instead, she blushes, unless Iâm imaging that by the lampposts strung along the path.
âFine. I used to pretend I had a brother. That heâd gone away but that he was going to come back for me. That I wasnât alone.â Her expressionâs gone from embarrassed to sad and lost. Maybe sheâs still waiting. She seems to remember herself then, smoothing her hands down the sides of her pants before she picks up the pace and says in a canned light kind of way, âHis name was Felix. He was quite dashing.â
I want to stop and hug her, hold her close until sheâs not lonely anymore. But I canât. I
canât
. I shove my hands in my pockets so I wonât reach for her. I try to think of something to say, something that wonât make her more self-conscious but let her know I heard her, that Iâll keep my promise. My chest squeezes tight around the words. âIâm sure he was.â
Erin
Itâs the mid-semester art show and study hours at the studio have been more crowded than usual. Itâs meant less time spent checking in with Zach Shepherd. Shep. Not that he needs me to check in. He works independently, not bugging the boys whoâre slogging away but happy to take a look at a drawing or a painting if someone is struggling.
He gazes at the oil paintings and sloppy palettes with longing. Why is he taking Drawing if he likes to paint so much? I know from faculty chatter heâs on full
Nikita Storm, Bessie Hucow, Mystique Vixen