“Really?” I ask, skeptical.
“You’re a catch, Nate. She’d be crazy not to.”
Iris
My classroom smells faintly of pencil shavings and glue sticks, a scent that clings to your clothes whether you want it to or not.
Sunlight spills in from the tall windows, catching dust in the air and making everything feel warm and peaceful, while an indie song hums from the corner radio, barely audible over the student chatter.
I make my rounds between the tables, checking sketchbooks, offering encouragement, trying to keep my tone steady and kind even when I feel like I’m winging it.
“Remember,” I say, pausing at one table, “these are rough sketches. Don’t worry about perfection. You’re not being graded on appearance. Just get your ideas down.”
Most of the students are focused, while a few are zoning out, and one is clearly texting under the table.
I can’t make everyone care about art, I know that.
But since I talked to Layla and Nate about what happened, there hasn’t been another incident. If anything, the football boys seem to be trying their best.
A few even acknowledged me in the hallway this morning, which wasstrange,to say the least.
At the very back of the room, I spot Addie curled over herpaper, pencil hovering above the blank page, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration.
She’s wearing a sweater that’s too big for her, the sleeves bunched at her elbows, and her pink hair looks like she didn’t have time to do anything with it this morning.
I crouch down beside her desk. “Hey, Addie.”
She looks up with her ever-present smile. “Hi, Ms. Patel.”
“You stuck?” I ask, glancing at her untouched page.
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s fine. But sometimes thinking gets easier once you start.”
“That sounds like something off a mug.”
“I’ve embraced my inner Pinterest.”
“I don’t know what to draw. It’s supposed to be a self-portrait, but I’m not… I’m nothing special,” she says softly, like she shouldn’t admit that out loud.
My chest tightens at her words. “Addie, you’re the most interesting person you’ll ever know.”
She gives me a look. “Okay, now that’s definitely a Pinterest quote.”
“Guilty. But it’s still true. No one else has lived your life. Or sees the world the way you do. That’s what makesyouworth drawing.”
She twirls her pencil between her fingers, staring down at the page. “Could I… draw how I feel?”
“Of course.”
“Even if I feel like a ghost sometimes?”
“Especially then.”
When class is over, students scurry past me in a stream of paper and backpacks, drop their sketches onto my deskwithout looking up.
“Thanks for the pep talk, Ms. Patel,” Addie says, placing her drawing on the top of the stack.
