Page 51 of Sinister

My blood runs cold.

“Yeah, Sin Arnoult was there,” her friend responds in a gloating tone. “He’s always where the action is.”

I stiffen and try to return my full attention to my screen, but more gossip about that fateful night starts pouring into my ears. Almost immediately, a wave of nausea hits me as I almost pass out from the light buzz at my temples.

Whether it’s a reaction to the gossip or the physical remnant from that night that still inhabits my body, I don’t care. I have to do something fast.

I’m not going to hurl in my first ever art history class!

With shaky movements, I get up and start moving to the front of the classroom exactly when the door opens and Ms. Matthews walks in.

Dressed in a monochrome red-colored set and sporting the most stylish little pixie cut, she draws everyone’s eyes almost immediately.

“Afternoon, everyone,” she says in a brisk, commanding tone. Feeling thankful for her unwitting intervention, I reach the first desk and start to pull out my chair.

I hear a snicker.

“Teacher’s pet already, huh?” a guy near the back, someone from the football team, says loudly enough for everyone to hear. I am surprised that any of those granite-headed idiots would be interested in Ms. Matthews’s class, but before I can say as much, Sin’s voice fills the silent air.

“Cut it out, Eric.” There it is again, that sudden edge to his voice. “Not everyone needs to hide in the back to coast through class.”

Even Ms. Matthews remains silent, watching this entire exchange with an amused look on her face. I can feel all eyes shifting between me and Sin.

At last, even I am forced to glance at him.

He’s leaning back in his chair, arms crossed casually and body relaxed as usual, but his eyes glitter with the total lack of mercy.

Eric mutters something under his breath, but he doesn’t push back. I sit back in my chair and take deep breaths to calm my heart, stomach, and brain.

Having gained back some of my composure, I finally look at Sin and give him a tentative smile, small and grateful.

He returns it with one of his own, warm and completely disarming.

For a moment, the brooding intensity that has astonished me of late is replaced by something softer, more protective.

Someone clears their throat loudly.

When I see that it’s Ms. Matthews, my face turns almost as red as her attire.

“Shall we begin?”

The class settles down as the lesson begins. Ms. Matthews starts with a slide of Renaissance paintings. Soon, I’m completely lost to the world as the rich colors, luxurious fabrics, and intricate details absorb me.

Throughout the first fifteen minutes, I can’t help sketching quick impressions on my Sketchbook app.

But every so often, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. It’s Sin.

He’s not just glancing; he’s staring. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, half out of anticipation and half out of curiosity, if I’m being honest.

I am not sure what he sees in me, what he’s trying to find by looking at me so frequently.

Just as I steal a sideways glance at him, our gazes brush against each other, and I turn around so suddenly that Ms. Matthews stops mid-speech and peers around.

I try grounding myself in the lesson again.

“Of course, when we’re talking about the use of perspective in painting, we have to mention da Vinci and his Last Supper,” Ms. Matthews carries on. “Can anyone tell me why?”

A veil of silence drops over the classroom. But I raise my hand without even thinking.