"Art," I reply, pushing away the fright that arose when he grabbed my arm.
He nods slightly, a sliver of dark hair falling over his eyes. His mouth curls up in a secretive smile. Dominic walks past me, not before drawling, "See you round, Sweetheart."
Chapter2~
Rory ~
What the hell was that?
That was...odd to say the least. I don't talk to people. People don't talk to me. Unless it's supposed to be insulting. It was kind of…nice?
It won't last.
By lunch, they will have warned him off.Theybeing the rest of the damn school.
I quickly realise I'm standing in the front of an empty classroom and head for my next class.
Thinking about that interesting interaction, I miss a step coming into my art room when I see someone I don't recognise in my spot. A new kid? Another one?
It's unusual to have one new student but two? In the middle of a term? There are no other empty desks so I take my chances with the new kid.
There's five circular desks with chairs around them. When you're the social outcast of the school, you're pretty lucky.You're almost guaranteed no friends, a hellish year and a free table anywhere.
I sit down opposite the new guy and put my bag on the chair beside me. I don’t attempt to start a conversation. I don't look at their face.
I fiddle with my hands once I've pulled out my pencil case and laptop, waiting for the teacher to start the lesson.
"Hey," a soft velvety voice says and I look up.
The new guy taps his fingers on the desk in a repeated rhythm that reminds me of Dominic’s irritating tapping. He knew it too.
He's leaning back in his chair but not slouching. Dirty blond hair shorter on the sides falls over his eyes and he brushes it away with a flick of his fingers. His hazel eyes are brimmed with curiosity as he awaits my response. Which snaps me out of my staring.
"Hi," I respond. I smile faintly, not knowing what else to say.
"What's this teacher like?" He leans forward, whispering like he's afraid she'll hear.
I think for a moment about my impression of Mrs Ewelyn, who’s writing something on the whiteboard.
"She's a bit passive-aggressive," I whisper back and he laughs softly.
"Aren't all art teachers?" He half-smiles, his fingers never stop the fast, complex rhythm they're tapping at.
"Yeah." I find myself smiling back.
His shoe brushes mine under the table and his lightly tanned, golden skin burns red for several moments.
"Sorry," he mumbles. His fingers change rhythms but never seem to stop. I’m not even sure he knows he’s doing it.
"It's fine," I smile, hoping it will assure him of my words.
I realise as he looks around the room that he's rather nervous being here. His eyes burning a hole in the table in front of me.
I have an unspeakably confusing need to comfort him. What the fuck is happening?
I swallow my pride and fear. "Don't worry about Mrs Ewelyn. She expects our finished piece to be done but she doesn't set checkpoints or anything. She lets us do it at our own pace."
He seems to relax a bit hearing this, the tension in his face and shoulders melting away.
