I glance at Zane and vulnerability hovers in his shadowed eyes. When he notices me watching, his face shutters, stashing his secrets away as he stands, striding from the class.
When he’s gone, I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Are you staying?” Mr Simmons asks, and I nod.
It’s my study period and I often use the time to work on my painting. With the first round results for the Matthewson Art College scholarship looming, I need to work on it every chance I get.
“You haven’t had an answer yet?”
I shake my head. “The application said by the end of next week.” Then I give a laugh. “Which hasn’t stopped me checking and double-checking their website every day.”
He chuckles along with me, then glances at the door, moving closer to where I’m setting up my easel. He shakes his head in wonder at my work—a level of appreciation that wraps around me like a cosy hug. “This piece is about entering adulthood, right?”
It isn’t but I nod, knowing once I show a piece, how the observer interprets it is up to them. One of the many things I love about art is that the consumer brings as much to the completed work as the artist does. A truly shared experience.
“Thanks again for this extra time,” I say, more restrained than I would have been if he hadn’t just picked on a student. “I really appreciate it.”
“Not a problem. It’s a teacher’s job to nurture talent.” He pauses, taking out his phone and tapping it against his chin, looking pensive. “You know, I often come into school on Sunday to prepare lessons for the week ahead. My wife doesn’t really understand how much work it takes to be a good teacher. Not that I’m claiming—”
“You are a fantastic teacher,” I say before he can denigrate himself. “No wonder your lessons are so easy to understand if you work on them so hard.”
“Thank you.” He touches his finger to the back of my hand until I move aside to select my brushes. Simple touches have become more complicated since the party; a state I hope doesn’t last. “But what I meant to say was you’re welcome to come into class if you think it will be beneficial. I know you’re always looking for extra time.”
“If you’re serious, that’s…” I shake my head, unable to put it into words. For the past fortnight, I’ve been too distracted to focus, and my work has suffered. This opportunity is perfect timing.
“Good, I’ll grab your number.” He types it in, sending me a text to confirm. “It probably won’t be this coming weekend, we’re out of town, but maybe the next. I’ll text you the night before if I’m able to make it.”
A rush of pleasure zaps through me, bouncing me onto my toes.
Then he raises a finger in warning. “I’m not saying anything for definite. This is just if the stars align. Don’t rely on it.”
“I understand and don’t worry, my expectations are in the gutter.”
I wince, my thought coming out of my mouth dressed in the wrong words, draped in the wrong imagery.
But the teacher smiles, then his face grows serious. “It’s probably none of my business but I’ve worried about you these past few weeks. Young women come into class full of hopes and dreams, then they let a boy turn their heads and next thing you know, they’ve abandoned all their goals to help pursue the young man’s interests instead.”
A faint blush hits his cheeks, and his eyes avoid my gaze.
My mouth dries in horror as I understand he’s seen it. The video.
Since the upload, I’ve been wandering around, worried by what my peers think. It never occurred to me until now that teachers are privy to the same sites as the students. They’re probably just as aware of what was posted from my account.
Oh, God.
What if mymotherhas seen it?
A new flood of shame washes over me, this time growing into a tsunami. “There isn’t any boy.”
“Not that it’s any of my business—”
“There isn’t a boy,” I say more firmly. “And I’m more serious about my work than anyone you’ve ever met.”
He holds my gaze for a moment, then he nods. “Good. Because I don’t want to invest all this extra time into your development unless it’s going to pay off.”
“It will,” I assure him. “I promise.”
“Is any student allowed to spend their study period here?” Zane asks, frowning from the doorway. “Or is it a privilege reserved for your young female students?”
