“Isn’t that what we do best?”
He’s about to grab my arm when I slip into the classroom, just out of reach. I look over my shoulder and offer a sweet smile and closed wave, like I’m on a float and Carter’s disappearing lips are the audience.
His eyes narrow just as the bell rings.
“Mr. Watson, don’t you have somewhere to be?” Mr. Doau says.
Carter holds my gaze, his flickering with the promise of retaliation, before he stalks off.
I drop my backpack near my desk, slump into my chair, and open my notebook. Mr. Doau’s voice instantly stabs my eardrums. Gripping my pen, I trace the worn lines of the sketched lily. The ink bleeds through the page from being traced so many times.
I’m not an artist, but Mom’s tattoo is etched into my brain so vividly every line is a perfect replica. That wilted petal stretched over her collarbone, the stem sliding down her shoulder blade. White and green on olive skin.
“It’s a lily, see? Just like your middle name. Do you like it?”
“It’s so pretty, Mommy.”
Soft lips brush my forehead. “I got it for you. So I can keep you close no matter where I go.”
“You’re doing it for real this time? You’re really going away?”
Gentle fingers in my hair. Wet cheek against my temple. “Yes, my sweet Evangeline. I’m really going away.”
My lip trembles, but I quickly steady it between my teeth. She’s okay now, wherever she is. Safe. Maybe even happy.
I can’t blame her for leaving me, for saving herself from more bruises and tears. She was dying inside, and even as a child, I could see it. But what she didn’t know was, I was dying too.
My head snaps up at the ring of the bell. Did I miss the entire lecture? What a shame.
I stuff my things into my backpack and bolt for the door, but, of course, I’m not quick enough.
“Miss Rutherford.”
“Detention,” I respond numbly. “I know.” I continue toward the door, but his stern words stop me.
“I haven’t excused you yet.”
Frozen, I stare ahead, at the horde of people blurring into the hall. The last student trickles out, and Mr. Doau shuts the door. Then, we’re alone.
The nape of my neck crawls when he moves behind me, way too fucking close, and mutters in my ear, “Don’t you ever miss it? Us?” He even has the nerve to brush the hair off my neck, his fingers lingering. “We had a good thing going, didn’t we?”
And that is the moment Easton opens the door.
His grip stills on the knob, his gaze pinned on the teacher’s hand on my neck. The blood drains from my face. Hecan’t see this.
Not this.
Mr. Doau’s fingers disappear in a flash, and he clears his throat. “Mr. Rutherford. I was just informing your sister about an extra credit assignment. What can I do for you?”
Easton’s eyes flash with something hostile I’ve never seen before.
I feel sick.
Groping hands.
Dainty.
Docile.
