Page 8 of Read With Your Heart

Lesson 5

Eyes are the window to the soul.

[Tricia]

It’s almost the end of my first week back to school, and the sun is dipping down in the sky. I stayed late to organize for the next week and comment on first week letters. It’s been good to see Trent’s younger brother every day. He comes to my room to wish me good morning, pops in near lunch to wave or stops by before heading home. Each day, I make sure he has a lunch and visually scan him for signs of stress at home. Does he look showered? Are his clothes clean? He’s learned to be rather self-sufficient, but I like to think I’ve been a guiding force in some of his survival over the years. Unfortunately, I know most of his hurts can be covered by clothing, and even then, some bruises run deeper than skin. He wears a bright, brave face when I see him and doesn’t mention Trent.

Each day this week, my neighbor has graciously woken me with the roar of his motorcycle. Thankfully, the SUV driven by the younger girls living with him has remained parked in the street, allowing me the parking space next to my house. I often wonder who the girls are. The older one could be a much younger girlfriend based on the hourglass shape of her body. While she looks young, I have no idea about the age of my neighbor. The few times I’ve caught him in profile or with his head down, I couldn’t get a read on him. He could be twenty or forty. I wasn’t a good judge of such things.

I’m packing up for the evening in my classroom—finally—when I hear something in the room next to mine. I assume it’s the night shift custodial crew, and I look forward to seeing Pasqual, the older Italian man who greets me each evening with Italian I can’t decipher. Hitching my bag over my shoulder, I scoop up a set of journals for tonight’s bedtime reading and head to the door. I flick the lights off, then exit into the wide, dark hallway and turn back to lock my door. The lights don’t activate until movement triggers them, and I don’t see Pasqual’s cleaning cart, but I hear desks shuffling again in the room next to mine.

Stepping up to the door, I notice movement within the classroom. Someone crouches between the row of desks as if looking for something. The body disappears, and I decide to investigate. I find the door unlocked, which is surprising, and then reach inside, easily hitting the light switch.

The person stands, blinded momentarily by the florescent illumination and the shock of getting caught. In his hand, he holds a pink notebook pressed to his chest, but he’s dressed head-to-toe black, and he’s definitely not a student.

My eyes narrow. Do I know him?

“Jesus,” he hisses, lowering his head and the notebook to his side.

“What are you doing in here?” I ask, using my best teacher voice.

“I was just leaving.” He moves up the aisle of desks, but I stand firmly before the door. He stops when he notices I haven’t moved, and he tips his head.

I focus on his face. He looks vaguely familiar. The eyes, gray and intense. The clean jaw, which is sharp and etched as if cut from granite. Dark hair, cut close to his head.

Is he the man I ran into in the alley? It can’t be him, can it? I’d been drinking the other night before rushing out of the bar to avoid Trent, so I’d make a terrible witness as I hadn’t gotten a clear enough image of him. Is it a fluke this man looks similar to what I remember? I hadn’t seen my savior again, and I’d just assumed he must have been a lingering tourist. The summer season was almost over in Elk Lake City.

“What are you doing?” I repeat, glancing down at the notebook in his hand.

“My sister left this behind and said she needed it tonight.” He chuckles to himself like it’s a joke, like he isn’t breaking into a school building.

I should ask who his sister is, but instead, I question, “How did you get in here?”

He tilts his head and gives me a sly smile. “Don’t think you really wanna know that, pretty lady, do you?”

Pretty lady?

“You can’t be in here, and how do I know you need that for your sister?”

“Know many thirty-five-year-olds wanting to steal a pink notebook?” He holds up the book and jiggles it before him.

“Maybe I should call security.” It’s a bit extreme for sheets of paper attached with a metal spiral, but I set my stack of notebooks down on the nearest student desk and rustle through my bag for my phone. I don’t want to start slipping down the path of every teacher’s nightmare—school bombs or a deranged shooter—so a quick call to security should clear this up.

“Now, wait a minute. Let’s not do anything foolish here.”

His statement surprises me. I finally have the phone in my hand, and I’m ready to press the buttons when his fingers encircle my wrist. Instantly, I still. It isn’t him exactly, but I don’t like to be touched unaware as I am. My eyes leap to his, finding them brilliant, metallic, and a bit intimidating.

“Don’t touch me,” I hiss, the warning stronger than necessary. He quickly releases his fingers, keeping his palm just off my skin. However, he’s already marked me. My wrist burns from the heat of his touch, and a tingle ripples down my arm with something unfamiliar but not unwelcome. His head tilts again, questioning my tone.

“Take it easy,” he says, keeping his voice soft. His eyes search mine, but he isn’t going to find anything in them. He won’t be able to read my history in them. I’ve been good at keeping my secrets deeply masked inside me.

“Step back,” I warn, and he takes an exaggerated step back and straightens his body. In all honesty, he could race past me and escape out the door before I even say English literature. He’s much taller than me with an athletic build, like a basketball player with long and lean muscles that still look thick in his jeans and leather jacket.

His eyes hold mine.

“Just calm down,” he says, almost teasing me.

“You’re breaking and entering,” I tell him as though I’m an expert in such activity. My overreaction is a result of my racing heart.