I wonder if Mr. Lightheart remembers that I would be here today.Then I hear the familiar scuff of sneakers on linoleum.
Mr. Lightheart walks down the hallway holding two of the largest drinks from the local Desert Drip. I wave and say hello, but he doesn’t respond. That’s rude. He stops right next to me and thrusts one cup into my hands.
With a scowl on my face, Mr. Lightheart looks at me with his sly grin. He pulls his earbuds out of his ears. “Good morning, Ms. Carrington. I hope Virginia School of Design hasn’t turned you into a coffee snob, and that you still like the prickly pear latte.”
I take a small sip and let the sweet, but tangy, miracle liquid grace my taste buds. “Thank you so much for this. I haven’t had one of these since I left for college two years ago.”
The bell rings, and I can hear the crackling of the intercom come on, calling a student to the office during the passing period. We step out of the middle of the walkway, he unlocks the theater room door, and the bright fluorescent lights come on overhead.
Students are walking into the class, joking and making weekend plans. We stand there talking about options for the spring musical. Musicals like Grease, RENT, and even Fiddler on the Roof are being tossed around.
As the last of the students walks into the class, I ask, “Have you read any good books lately? I know you used to sit in the atrium and read at lunch.”
A look crosses his face that I can’t really place, and he whispers, “I started a book on anti-gravity. It’s impossible to put down.”
Staring at him for a moment, my mouth slightly ajar. Then I let out a huge laugh and grab his arm to steady myself as I lean.
“Thank you for the laugh, Mr. Lightheart. I forgot how funny you are. Your ‘not-dad’ jokes are always the best.” My hand brushes down his forearm slightly before I pull away and tuck one of my braids behind my ear.
I’m about to walk into the classroom, but I stop before my feet cross the threshold. The visceral feeling of being watched sweeps over me.
Turning towards the exit down the hall, it's empty. I look toward the office, and my breath catches like a punch to the ribs.
Standing outside of the front office, right next to the display case full of championship trophies, is the most beautiful man I have ever seen. I take in his 6’2” stature and the forearms with the delicious, corded veins. You can tell he is still a master at lifting weights. He is wearing dress slacks that make his ass look like a snack, a dark teal polo shirt tucked in, and black athletic shoes.
Donovan stands there with his hands in his pockets like he owns this school, and he is staring at me as if he just saw a ghost.
As always, his presence sends a shiver through me, and I can’t help but give him the biggest smile. For a moment, I almost feel like I didn’t ruin things between us during our senior year.
I pivot on the toe of my well-loved Doc Marten boots and scurry into the theater room, shutting the door behind me. I press my back against the door and pull my phone out of my pocket, and quickly type out a text.
Me: Ans…we have an O.C. level crisis right now. SOS, send help.
The nostalgia of being back at Cordova Linda crashes down on me like a wave. The friends I made, the love I lost, and of course… my enemies.
I shift in the hard blue plastic chair at the edge of Mr. Lightheart’s desk, trying to get comfortable. My notebook’s open, pages full of frantic red scribbles that barely make sense now. I sit through four class periods and listen to many suggestions on musicals.
Grease has been extremely popular; every girl made heart eyes thinking about Oscar Mendoza in a leather jacket playing Danny Zuko. They were even deciding which Pink Lady they wanted to be, matching poodle skirts and all.
Oscar doesn’t seem thrilled. His exact words?'All I want to do is track, but my mom is making me hang out with you dorks.'I don’t think he quite gets the irony of what he just said. Mr. Lightheart and I just gave each other a knowing look and giggled.
Aster is sitting in the back, staring down at her desk with her charcoal pencils moving a mile a minute. She is a quiet girl. She hasn’t said a word to anyone since she walked into the classroom and set her bag down.
I stand up and walk over to the whiteboard, looking at the different options. I am going over each one and mentally taking note of the pros and cons.
I turn around and, in the best teacher voice I can make, I say, “Aster, I’d love to hear what musical you would like to see performed this year.”
She sets her pencil down, glances behind her, then meets my eyes. “Are you asking me?” she says, pointing at her chest like she’s not sure that I could mean her.
It’s clear she’s rarely spoken to by others. She probably sits alone at lunch. So I walk over to where she is sitting, and I pick up her drawing. I stare at it for a long second.
It’s me.
She’s drawn me in charcoal, vivid and alive in a way I didn’t know I could be. I place the page back on her desk and gently say to her. “Aster, this drawing is beautiful! Also, yes. I was asking you what your thoughts are.”
I turn back around and move to the front of the class, hoping that I am not overstepping boundaries.
Aster opens her mouth, then falters, and takes a slow sip from her water bottle.
