He shook his head. “I don’t.”
The rules of gentlemanly behavior were clear under the circumstances, and he followed them. After she’d packed her belongings in her tote, he offered to carry it for her. As she locked her classroom door behind them, he scanned the dim hallway to ensure her safety. Once they reached her car, he made certain she left the lot before driving away himself.
The entire time, he tried to hide the disconcerting truth.
Her touch had incinerated him so thoroughly, he might as well be the house in her diorama. And the burn had left him feeling anything—anything—but gentlemanly and professional.
Three
As the seventhperiod bell rang on Wednesday, Simon sat at his usual table and congratulated himself on having remained cool, calm, and controlled for almost a full forty-eight hours, despite having spent several of those hours in Poppy’s unsettling presence.
Yesterday, the students had begun creating their dioramas.Controlled chaoswas perhaps the best way to describe her classroom then. Or possiblypaint-bedeckedandglue-soaked.
No wonder she’d worn her faded jeans again. That pretty black dress would have been absolutelyruined.
At the end of class, he’d asked whether she knew of any reasonable way to limit the mess created by her students during their projects. Not so much because the mess was excessive—which it wasn’t, under the circumstances—or because mess bothered him in general—which it did, of course—but rather because cleaning up that mess required a considerable chunk of student time at the end of the period and an even more considerable chunk of Poppy’s time after the students left.
“Well, I can’t leave everything to the custodial staff. Mildred, the teacher I replaced, apparently used to have poor Mrs. Denham do all the cleanup, but that’s just cruel. No wonder they hated her so much.” Poppy had patted him on the arm then, the gesture not quite pitying, but not quitenotpitying either. “Besides, Simon, mess is both inevitable and part of the artistic process for most people. Don’t worry.”
Yes, the contact burned, but her near-pity had helped temper the worst of it.
He’d helped her clean and made a quick stop back in his own classroom to gather the night’s grading. Then once again, he’d walked her to her car, and once again, he’d been forced to recite prime numbers to himself that night before he could fall asleep.
Still, he’d neither insulted her nor pinned her against the classroom wall to claim that wide, impish mouth of hers. He hadn’t even buried his fingers in her drooping bun and angled her head to reveal her soft neck, hadn’t sucked at her rapid pulse there, hadn’t left a mark with his teeth on her pale flesh.
Small victories. Small, small victories.
Today, he hoped, would prove equally satisfying.
Or, rather,unsatisfying, but predictable. Understandable and under control.
The students were hard at work again this period, their educational dioramas beginning to take shape minute by minute. Occasionally, someone paused a moment to peruse the half-charred diorama perched at his table, but for the most part, no one went near him.
Which, now that he considered the matter, was rather odd.
Two students shared each work station, and space was tight. He’d deliberately placed himself at the very end of his long table, right next to the diorama, to leave Poppy’s kids as much room as possible. But no one had moved to claim the open space or even bothered to deposit an overflow of supplies there.
Maybe she’d previously told them not to spread out on his table. It was the closest one to her desk, so maybe she reserved it for her sole use. Or maybe the students were simply too terrified of him,not in a fun way, to share the space.
Or maybe—
He could swear some of the Goth softball players kept looking at the table. Not him, not the diorama, thetable. In fact, Tori was saying something to her pale-powdered friend right now, in between glances at the faux-wood surface. In response, the poor girl blanched even further, her black-lined eyes round with horror.
Casually, Simon got to his feet and wandered closer.
“I mean…” Tori said with a shudder. “Can you believe it?”
“I—” The other young woman clapped a hand to her belly. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Tori corralled a nearby trash can with her boot, nudging it toward their work station. “Here you go. If you have to hork, keep it as clean as possible.”
Very practical. Simon was growing fonder of Tori by the minute.
“I’ll never be able to use that table again.” Nausea apparently conquered for the moment, the pale girl wrinkled her nose. “Not without picturing what happened…there.”
He couldn’t deny it any longer, even to himself. He really, really wanted a full explanation for Mildred’s departure, because some of his imaginings were…
Well, he’d clearly seen one too many blood-soaked dioramas.
