The implication burns as I turn back to my painting, nerves already frazzled from the hour spent next to him in class. I keep my mental fingers crossed the teacher turns him away, but Zane wanders farther into the room, not showing any signs he cares about the answer.
He comes to a stop behind me, staring at my painting and I try to block his view, awkward, wishing he would leave.
“Fuck,” he says in a low voice, almost reverential. “You’re actually good at this. Is this piece for class?”
The backhanded compliment throws me off kilter. “It’s for the Matthewson scholarship.”
“You made it to the second round?”
Surprise steals my voice for a couple of seconds. I didn’t expect he’d know what I was talking about, let alone understand the timing of the process. “Not yet. Hopefully, I’ll know next week.”
Zane continues to gaze at the painting, eyes following my brushstrokes, bumping up to the left-hand corner just like I hoped they would, the direction important to experience the suffocating pressure in the design.
His bruised hand reaches towards the canvas, then pulls back, his face breaking with emotion. Instead of touching the painting, he touches me on the ball of my shoulder, gentle, the sensation settling deep into the joint.
Then he lifts it away to dig his thumb into his chest like he’s struggling to breathe. “Tell me their names and I’ll beat the everlasting shit out of anyone who bullied you. John will just be the start.”
I freeze.
The mentor I’ve revered since starting at Tiaki didn’t understand the piece but this boy who has torn my equilibrium into shreds—hesees. Not projecting his own personality onto theabstract shapes and colours but deciphering the truth I bled onto the canvas.
It’s not even a guess. His voice is certain. Ringing with confidence.
As my head buzzes with confusion, it feels like he split open my sternum to peer straight at my beating heart.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AVON
The next morning,Clare texts to say she’ll meet me in homeroom. Hopefully, something to do with the rugby slash hockey player occupying her attention. When I arrive at my locker alone, Zane catches my eye from the far end of the corridor.
I turn away, expecting him to move along since his friends are already heading outside. Instead, he rocks up to my locker, leaning his shoulder against the neighbouring door while every eye in the corridor fixes to our unfurling soap opera.
This morning, my reflection in the bathroom mirror resembled a thousand-year-old troll having a bad hair day.
It’s highly irritating that the reason for my sleeplessness looks like he stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine, complete with rich-boy swagger. He runs his fingers through his hair, making the platinum blond tips stand on end, the dishevelment only adding to his charm.
Life is so fucking unfair.
I dial my combination into the lock and yank, but it doesn’t open. Muttering a curse under my breath, I do it again. And fail.
“Let me try,” he says, reaching around so his arms cage me on either side, trapped facing the locker door while he spins the dial to reset it. “What’s your combo?”
Heat pulses off his chest, the warm rumble of his breath hits against my ear, making my lower belly cartwheel. I swallow but it doesn’t relieve the building pressure in my throat; does nothing to stop the high whine in my ears or the full body tremble that takes hold.
My head drops me into Saturday night, not the attack but the aftermath. When he’d hugged me against his broad chest while the sweat cooled on his skin, his large, long fingers softly stroking my hair while he planted a row of kisses on my shoulder. The caring gestures so at odds with what came before.
When I snap back to the present, my lungs struggle for air, eyesight darkening. It takes all my concentration to reply, “I’m not giving you my combination, are you crazy?”
The vivid memory leaves me off-kilter and I jab my elbow, needing to be free. He sees it coming, easily contorting himself to avoid the knock, torso brushing against my side.
“Just trying to help. You seem a bit out of sorts.”
“Which wouldn’t have anything to do with a boy who’s already assaulted me once, pinning me against my locker.”
“This is pinning,” he says with a chuckle, twisting me and pressing his palm against my shoulder until the metal grill digs into my back. He bends down until his face is level with mine. “Quite different.” In a lower voice, “And we’re keeping secrets, remember?”
More snapshots from the party flicker in my brain, some with enough force to white out the surrounding scene. I snap my head back in alarm, and my skull would strike the locker if his palm wasn’t there, a cradle of protection.
