“I see,” he says, his tone unreadable. “The poem I assigned was beautiful. I was looking forward to hearing your thoughts.” He pauses, like he’s considering something. “How about an alternative? Draw me something. Anything. Just put your heart into it, and I’ll count it.”
I blink. That’s the last thing I expected.
If every assignment could be replaced with art, I’d have perfect grades across the board.
I smile. Not the polite kind, the real kind. I feel like I can breathe again. “Yes. Absolutely. Thank you, Mr. Hayes. I won’t let you down.”
His expression softens, just slightly. A flash of a gentler feeling, like warmth, hidden under his professionalism. His voice lowers.
“I know you won’t.”
I walk away with my heart fluttering in my chest. Feeling both light and heavy at the same time.
At home, I can’t stop thinkingabout what he said. Not just the words, but the way he said them, and even more so, the way they made me feel. The way he looked at me when he said them, like I mattered. Like I wasn’t just one more student on a roster.
My desk is a mess. It’s stained with makeup, foundation swipes and eyeshadow dust ground into the surface. My parents hate it. They remind me often to clean it up. They paid for the desk, and they expect it to stay pristine.
The same goes for my room. Minimal and tidy. The version of me they want to show off.
But the real me? She’s messier than that. Definitely not built for display.
I pull out the sketchbook Sal gave me for my birthday. Its edges are soft and worn. I flip to a clean page and reach for the charcoals. Deep blacks and cool greys, my comfort colors. The ones that match the way I feel more often than not.
The blank page stares back at me, like it knows I’m stalling. Normally, I’d already be halfway done, but this is different. I'm drawing this for him.
Eventually, I settle on a self-portrait. Personal, but not too personal. Something honest without giving too much away. It still feels like a risk. The idea of him holding it, of him looking at me and seeing it… seeing me… makes my chest tighten.
Music plays low through my speakers, Sleep Token on repeat. I let it carry me into the work. I let the charcoal move the way it wants across the page. Shadows, lines, emotion splaying from my fingertips.
When I sit back, the face on the page isn’t just a portrait of me, it's emotion on a page. It’s tired and curious and open and afraid. The eyes are windows to the soul they say, and I'm not hiding.
It feels like too much.
But with him, it doesn’t feel unsafe.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
I slide the drawing into a folder, careful not to smudge it. Then I grab a joint from my stash and slip outside, the evening air colder than I expected.
My thoughts are loud again. Twisting and tripping over each other. Too many feelings I don’t know how to name.
This won’t fix anything.
But maybe, for a little while, it’ll help me breathe.
8
SOPHIE
Ican’t wait to show this to Mr. Hayes. My fingers drum against my thigh and my stomach flutters, those damn butterflies again. I tell myself the nerves are just a side effect of the anticipation, but the way my heart flip-flops in my chest says otherwise.
Still, I head into first period with a smile on my face. A rare sight, considering I usually walk around looking like I’d rather be anywhere but here. Maybe if I didn’t suffer from a severe case of resting bitch face, I’d have more friends. But really, I’ve got Sal, so who needs them anyway?
I’m early, so I watch students file in, claiming their usual spots. The desks are worn, scratched-up relics of the bored teenagers that came before us, and the walls are the same depressing white-painted cinderblock that seem to exist in every school. Bare, lifeless, and void of all personality. I guess Mr. Hayes isn’t much for decorating. No “hanging in there” kitten posters to be found.
Sal skates in at the last possible second, carrying with her an air of effortless confidence. The pale pink lipstick she’s wearing makes her dark hair stand out even more, the colormatching her top perfectly. I’m more of a nude-lipstick girl myself, but I can appreciate a pop of color.
She drops into the seat beside me, lips already curling into a smirk. Can’t wait to hear this. “Good news. I told my parents I'd be staying at your place Saturday, so I'm free for the night of the party. No curfew.” She wiggles her brows suggestively.
