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When I finally arrive at my classroom, the high seats are already taken. Only the front row remains empty. I sink into it reluctantly, hating how visible it made me.

Mister Caldwell walks in, calm and quiet, and everyone stops talking. Something about the way he moved brings some awareness around him.

There isn’t a single inviting thing about him.

Cold blue eyes framed with glasses. Veiny hands and military posture.

Completely guarded.

I glance up for a second, then look away immediately after. He spins his chair ever so slightly toward me, and his gaze seems to pause on me for a second before turning back to the class.

I can’t tell if it was deliberate. Probably wasn’t.

Mister Caldwell starts talking about behavioral cues, micro-expressions, posture, how people reveal themselves without realizing it, just like he did without knowing.

Words float past me, facts about patterns and tendencies, but I’m not really hearing them.

My pen moves, scratching an eye onto the surface of the table I’m sitting in front of. I trace the lines, darkening the iris, shading the lid, as if I can anchor myself in it while the rest of the classroom blurs in the background.

I don’t know why but I’ve always drawn on tables since elementary school. Ugly doodles at first, weird scribbles. Over the years it got… better?

When my thoughts are too loud, I draw, as if all I’m made of is slipping through my fingers.

Lashes, one by one, making it look pretty enough to not feel guilty for dissociating when you get aware of your surroundings again.

I keep drawing around the eye, little flowers, lilies, all around and after what feels like a few minutes, large hands step in my vision, encircling me.

I trace the arms, the hands, following them until my eyes land on him, my professor, leaning slightly toward me, glasses catching the light.

“That’s a good eye,” he tells me. My pen freezes mid-stroke, then, almost without a pause, he adds, “You’re really focused on this. That’s… impressive.”

That’s when I see around me that the classroom is now empty. The classes have ended and I was still drawing things on the table. I thought it was a small eye but then I look back at the drawing and it is bigger with details I didn’t even think I was doing.

I take a long breath before turning my eyes back to him and smile. “I’m learning. Eyes are important. You said it yourself: the smallest details can tell the biggest story.”

He pauses, and a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Clever,” he says finally. “You should be more focused next time, Miss Vitelli, I’m going to need your brain at full capacity to help me on the case I want you on."

Not this again…

I get up putting my stuff back in my bag and smile politely, “I already declined your offer Mister Caldwell, but I will be more focused, thank you for your time.”

“You’ll change your mind,” he replies with the same fake polite smile. “It could be a good addition to your record.”

I look down at the eye I drew, tracing the lines again, and then start walking out.

“It’s still a no,” I say.

A small laugh from him echoes behind me, before closing the door and it strangely made me smile.

What a weird feeling.

21

Mireya

Play – Brooklyn Baby by Lana Del Rey