Evie clears her throat. “Whether or not he’s poor, that’s the stupidest rule I ever heard, and I’m going to ignore it at least twice tonight with Maddox.” She gets to her feet just as the warning bell for class goes. “So, let’s pretend you didn’t say it and I’ll see you here on Monday at the dot of twelve.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
AVON
On Sunday,I wake early enough to turn off my alarm before it rings, happy to have hours of art to look forward to.
In the shower, my thoughts turn to Zane, his lame apology and everything it might mean, and I snap them back. I’ve decided it’s not allowed until at least a week has passed. A tiny buffer zone for my emotions.
“Text me if you’re running late,” Mum calls as I’m leaving. Mindful of Zane’s reaction, I’ve told her I’m spending a few hours with Clare. “Otherwise, I’ll eat your half of the leftover pizza.”
We’ve been heavily reliant on fast food since her work hours expanded in tandem with her client list. A nice change and still enough of a novelty that my stomach grumbles in protest at the idea of missing out.
“I will,” I promise, waving goodbye, my traitorous thoughts returning to Zane the moment I start cycling towards school.
I think Mr Simmons is still on his way when I arrive at the classroom to find the door locked, but he hears me outside and opens it, waving me inside.
“Sorry, force of habit,” he says with a friendly smile. “It’s to keep out the cleaners, not you.”
The thought of being locked inside with him gives me pause, but he doesn’t engage the lock, just pulls the door closed.
“Do you have a lot of work to do?” I ask, setting up my painting supplies.
“Just the usual. I prefer to prep in here because we get a steady stream of visitors on the weekend.” He pulls a face. “My wife is very much a social butterfly, and I very much am not.” The statement is accompanied by a long sigh. “She really doesn’t understand me.”
I nod but my focus is more on my work than his descriptions of home. My progress has been stagnant for so long, I’m discontent with the piece, and don’t know why.
Today I need to fall in love with the painting again, even if that involves making sweeping changes.
For a second, I’m irritated by my entire process, painting in layer after layer until there are a hundred coats, the cumulative build-up giving depth and texture. Fantastic when I’m at the end, but it takes so much time to get there, it seems wasteful.
I soon lose myself in the work and the minutes tick past. It takes effort to withdraw to the real world as I hear Mr Simmons shuffle behind me.
“Goodness,” he says, and I can’t tell if that’s a good or a bad reaction. “This is quite a different direction. It looks like you’ve been painting happiness onto the canvas.” He gives a low chuckle. “I take it things are going well.”
“Of course, I’m happy,” I agree, utterly confused by his assessment since it’s very much the opposite. When he stiffens, I try to drag some enthusiasm onto my face to match. “I’mworking on a piece I love for a scholarship I’ve dreamt about for years and my favourite teacher in the world is giving me his endorsement. It feels like everything is finally clicking into place.”
Giving a soft laugh, he moves closer behind me. “You might need to rework some of these background shapes to remove the solemnity. Let me see…” He pulls out his phone. “I’ve got a photograph on here somewhere.”
He steps away and I adjust my shoulders, appreciating the move out of my personal space. Then he immediately invades it again, holding the phone at an angle for me to see.
“The student is a girl I taught at a previous school. She won a place at Matthewson but couldn’t take it in the end. Even with the scholarship, her family couldn’t swing the other expenses.” He flicks through a few more photographs, holding the phone steady again when he finds the one he wants. “A pity because she really had a unique flair to her work, just like you do. The spark no one can teach you.”
“Have you taught at a lot of different schools?”
“A few.” His voice grows fainter as he hunts for another image. When he leans the screen close to me, his hand lightly rests on my shoulder, and I suppress the urge to jerk away. I don’t want to be rude. “This is a self-portrait. She really was an incredibly talented girl.”
With a gesture, he enlarges the photo, staring at the crisp clean lines of the work.
“She wouldn’t have won the scholarship without my endorsement, of course, but I was happy to give it. When a teacher discovers new talent, it’s our job to nurture it to maturity.”
The hand on my shoulder grows heavier with each passing second. My bottom lip is nearly bitten clean through as my unease expands.
“Thanks for showing me this,” I say, easing off my stool and taking a step back, like I’m evaluating my painting from a different angle. Anything to get away from his weighty fingers. “I should get back to—”
“Students have offered to pay me for my endorsement in the past, you know.” He laughs and the sound should be merry but instead it’s full of low menace, making the hairs on my neck stand on end. “I can’t accept money, of course, but I suppose there are other ways of showing gratitude.”
I freeze in place as his hand returns, this time stroking my upper arm. The warning Zane raised, and I dismissed, fills my head until my ears buzz.
