“Seriously?” I glance up and find Nate Wesley, star quarterback, looking down at me and then looking back up at the three idiots.
“You guys don’t have anything better to do than pick on freshmen?” he asks with raised eyebrows and his arms crossedover his chest.
They freeze at that.
Not out of guilt, but embarrassment. Nate is the captain of the team. If he thinks this is lame, then it’s lame.
“We were just messing around,” one mutters.
“Yeah, well,” Nate shrugs, “find someone who thinks it’s funny.”
They shuffle away, tails between their legs.
I watch them until they’re out of sight before I turn back to look at Nate. I find him already looking down at me with a look on his face I don’t understand, his eyes ghosting over my scattered art, and then back to my face.
For a second, I think he might say something, even help. But after a moment, he turns and walks away without a word.
I sit there for a second longer, kneeling on the cold floor, before collecting the rest of my pages with sweaty hands.
Assholes.
By spring, the art room has become my sanctuary.
It’s quiet after school. I like it best that way, when the noise of the day has faded, and it’s only me, my paintbrush, and the hum of the music Ms. Price leaves on throughout the day.
She says she likes the company, and I think she understands that I don’t want to go home yet.
This room is the only place I can be myself, whoever that is.
Ms. Price is different, with her baggy clothes and long ginger braid, her voice somehow rough and kind at the same time.
She’s not what you would expect a teacher from Rosehill to be, but still, she’s unapologetically herself.
I admire that about her.
She’s standing behind me while I work, watching my brush glide across the canvas. “This is excellent, Kavi. You’ve really improved this year.”
I glance at her with a smile and turn back to my painting of a woman sitting cross-legged, hugging her knees.
She’s hiding, but there’s a glowing quality to her, trying to break free from her shell, but something is holding her back.
“I think I understand how she feels,” I admit, and Ms. Price nods, like that makes perfect sense.
“You’ve got a gift.” She settles onto a stool beside me. “Not only talent, but empathy. That you can’t teach.”
I shrug, unsure how to respond to that. If it’s even true.
She leans forward, focused on my painting. “You ever think about teaching?”
“Teaching?”
She nods. “You’ve got the heart for it. And the talent. But the heart is what makes a good teacher, especially in a place like this.”
My first instinct is to scoff. Me? A teacher? In Rosehill?
“I don’t think people here would want someone like me teaching their kids.”
“Maybe not, but they don’t know you yet. Someday, they will. And you’d be exactly the person a kid like you needs to see standing at the front of the room.”
