Marie sits in the seat behind me in Mrs. Wallace’s class. Ten minutes into the lecture, she passes me a note, throwing it over my shoulder, so it lands in the center of my desk.
Text me. I like you, the note reads. I laugh out loud, a slight sound, but enough to cause a distraction.
“Is everything okay, Miss Dane?” the teacher asks, staring at me with little amusement on her face.
“Yes. Sorry,” I mutter, waiting for her to turn back to face the whiteboard before swiveling around in my seat and exchanging a chuckle with Marie.
Mrs. Wallace dives back into Animal Farm without another word to me, and I force myself to focus on the moral of the story.
In Anatomy, I spent my time trying to section off the different pieces of a human eye, while in Calculus, I fought death as Ms. Carver explained how to find the derivative of a function. My lunch is spent going over the new terms for Spanish while Marie touches up her nail polish.
“Why didn’t you take a language at your other school? I wouldn’t want to do that shit my senior year,” Marie says, hunched over with her knees to her chest as she delicately draws little white hearts on her toenails.
Setting my flashcards off to the side, I flip onto my back, hands crossed under my head, and stare at the clouds rolling over me. “I took one year, but then I did cheerleading. Sports were sufficient substitutes for any language in my school, but those credits didn’t transfer over.”
“Oh,” is all she says. I lift my chin higher, staring at the lower half of her face as her eyes track a man and woman walking across campus.
“Marie? You alright?” I ask, gazing at the couple before they disappear inside the west hall. Her eyes linger on the building they vanished into, nail brush slightly quivering in her trembling hold. She sucks in a harsh, wheezing breath while the color bleeds from her honey-tinted skin.
The bell shrills through the school grounds, reminding everyone we have five minutes to get to class or its detention and a write-up. Marie and I pack up our things and head in opposite directions. She promises to text me after fifth so we can meet up and go to De Luca’s together, but her voice was distant and distracted. I don’t know if she meant it, but I agree anyway and stroll in the direction of Señor Rios’s class.
“Buenas tardes, Scarlett,” Mr. Rios says as I walk through the door. I smile and wave, too insecure about my Spanish speaking to respond back properly. He doesn’t push. I chalk it up to it being only my second day, but I know that won’t last for long.
I zone out most of my fourth period as the anticipation for my next class grows. My cheeks heat as I think about last night. I feel myself drip as Mr. Rios goes over dialogue. Shuffling in my seat, I subtly grind my thighs against each other, praying that my oncoming arousal evaporates quickly.
I’m mortified to be feeling this way in class, fearful that the students surrounding me will somehow know exactly what’s on my mind. My shallow breath draws the attention of the guy on my left. I feel his stare burning into the side of my face, but I keep looking forward.
Deep breaths, Scarlett. Deep breaths.
I’m thankful that class ends not long after, but I’m still battling the pressure in my core. Each step I take toward Ellis’s door deepens the current of want in my veins.
My heels echo in the hall, booming over the laughter and chatter of passing students. Guilt rings in my heart, as does shame for the sensations storming through me.
I can’t want a teacher!
It's wrong.
“Hey, Scarlett. Are you okay? You look… kinda sick,” Chris says once I step through the door. He drops a stack of papers onto an empty desk and dips down to look into my eyes.
“Shit, are you on drugs? Your pupils are fucking blown.”
“Oh my God! No, I’m not on drugs!Shut up,” I hiss, nervously tucking a wavy strand behind my ear as I look around the class.
There he is, unaware of my inner conflict, grading papers with the end of a pen swirling around in his mouth.
A swarm of girls dawdle around his desk, writing their names and drawing on the whiteboard, ruining my beautiful creation with their bullshit, all the while battling for his attention.
He smiles at them softly, kindly, engaging in their conversation with half-hearted attention, but then something strange happens. And it rattles me to the core.
It all happens too fast, yet time freezes as his gaze lifts and cuts through the crowd. His eyes land on me like a lover's touch, full of tenderness and yearning. And then it ends in a blink. His stare dips back down to the work in his hand, and I’m left craving a connection I never had.
Theodore Ellis
CHAPTER VI
One more look.
It won’t hurt.
