“A rough draft of my art final,” I answer, twisting my head in all directions, determining which direction I’m going to go with it. For our final project, Mr. De Luca assigned the class to create a piece of artwork that captures the inner you. It must be abstract and evoke emotion in the viewer's eye.
I scrutinize the board, knowing, in the midst of all the petals, thorns, and death, I’m in there somewhere, butwhere?
Where do I stand in all that darkness?
Stepping a few feet back, I take a panoramic picture of the drawing before erasing the whole thing. I’m at the edges when Mr. Ellis’s hand snares around my wrist.
“Leave it. I like it.”
He never drops my wrist, even as I bring the eraser down. His fingers linger on my skin, scorching me through to the bone until I’m sure he leaves his fingerprints in my marrow.
We don’t share eye contact, barely utter a sound, and when he begins to draw little shapes on the underside of my wrist, I feel my heart fall to the floor in awe.
Something snaps him out of the moment. As if my skin has burned him, he throws my arm down and jumps as far away from me as possible.
“Okay!” he shouts, a little too enthusiastically. “Let’s get you caught up, so you’re ready for Friday. Although, I peeked at your previous curriculum and credits. Very impressive report, Miss Dane. I don’t doubt all this will come easy to you.”
“Yeah, well,” I begin, but chuckle, wiping my dirty palms on my thighs. “According to my last history teacher, I was dreadful to teach.”
“Oh. I highly doubt that,” he responds, looking everywhere but at me.
He has me sit in the front row, directly in the center, so I’m closest to the board. With heavy limbs and a confused, slightly bruised ego, I pull my notebook out of my backpack and start my notes.
My hand begins to cramp within twenty minutes of the lesson. I try to keep up with him, but he speeds through the lecture, rapidly going through the southern generals without a breath in between.
“Mr. Ellis, you’re going to have to slow down. I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, feeling a bit defeated, dropping my pencil onto the already full sheet and wringing out the knotted cramps in my palm.
He appears frazzled, his blue eyes in the middle of a storm as he stares blankly at my face. The notch in his throat bobs harshly while his nostrils flare ever-so slightly. I can see the sweat collecting around his hairline, the beads gathering on his temples as his balled hands disappear behind his back.
Did I upset him? It seems so, but all I asked was for him to slow down.
The color reappears in his flesh, bringing back the lively pink tint to his skin tone. When he smiles, it’s bashful, almost embarrassed.
“I’m sorry about that, Scar. I just kind of got lost with it. I’ll go slower. If it happens again, just… I don’t know, throw something at the back of my head. I’ll stop.”
Scar.
Out of everything, that’s all I heard, my name, shortened and sweet, coming from his heavenly mouth. It’s the sweetest sound in my ears.I want to hear it, again and again, for the rest of my life…
“Oh, it’s um… it’s okay. I just need a minute to understand all this.” I circle my nail around a random section in the text.
He comes over to me, taking two long strides until he’s kneeled by my side. His stare is in line with my chest, and when he leans in close, looking over the passage in my book, his minty breath washes over me, pebbling my nipples into sharpened points. They throb needlessly, crying out for his wet-
“Oh, this isn’t really something you need to know. It’s mostly background information on “Stonewall” Jackson. So unless you’re planning on doing some extra credit, you won’t need this.”
I’ll do whatever you want me to do.
Oh my God, stop!
“No. I, uh, I think I’ll be okay.”
“Okay, let’s continue, then.” He places his calloused palm on my knee before giving it a couple of quick pats.
The rest of my tutoring session might as well have been in German, because I didn’t process a single thing after his touch. The gentle warmth of his skin on mine never fades. I play with the area on my knee, still feeling the tingles under my fingers.
The hallways are mostly empty, almost soundless of any student or faculty member. No one has passed the window in nearly an hour. It almost feels like it’s only us on the third floor.
“So, I think that’ll be all for today. How was that? Understand a bit more?” he asks, clearing the board of any markings, minus the flowers I drew.
