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I don’t understand what guys see in her.
She’s a slut.
I want to see her face when the teacher dearest goes away. Seems like she likes being used.
With every word I hear in the hallway, I walk faster, trying my hardest not to drop my head in shame and hide. I did nothing wrong.
There are some who don't tell me anything bad, some even smile at me politely when I pass them by. But this is high school where you're branded with the people you hang out with. And that's why no one wants to be near me. Who would want to be called ‘that girl's friend'?
“Let’s talk about metaphors, today,” Elijah says to the class. “Writing is about painting a picture in the reader’s mind. We use words to make people see and feel what’s in our mind. And for this, we use metaphors often. Give me a few examples you can think of,” he adds.
I look around. It seems like no one has any idea. Biting my lip, I sit silently just like others.
"No one? Okay, then it seems like today's class will be a short one because I want you to search for examples. Show me you're interested, okay?" Elijah says in an authoritative voice.
"Evangeline, please give us a few examples, so others know what they're looking for," he says, and I look at him with widened eyes.
“Eli- Mr. Richards, I-” I start, but he smiles at me.
“Don’t be shy,” he pushes.
With a sigh, I nod. “Feeling blue can be one of the most commonly used. The sea of grief, waves of pleasure, rollercoaster of emotions, light of life… is that enough?”
His eyes shine brightly with pride, and I can't help but smile at him.
"Very well, Evangeline," he says and turns to others. "Now you know what you're looking for. Don't come to my next class if you won't have some examples in your pocket," he says and dismisses the class.
"Evangeline?" he calls out just when I'm about to leave the classroom like the others. I feel the pressure of judgment in others' gazes, but I force myself to ignore them as I walk toward Elijah's table. He looks like a GQ model as he stands against his desk, arms crossed over his broad chest.
“Yes, Mr. Richards,” I murmur.
He comes closer to me, the proximity of his body makes my heart beat faster, but I try to refuse the need to take a step back.
"Evangeline, I know you're a good writer, and I know you'll be a great one as the time passes. But I don't want you to keep silent in my class. I know the dynamics in this school sucks, but it doesn't have to be the same in here. When you step into my class, this is your sanctuary, okay?" he says with a voice sweet and intense as hot chocolate.
I feel tears well up in my eyes with his words. My sanctuary. That’s exactly what I need in this school.
“Thank you, Mr. Richards” I whisper.
He touches my chin and lifts my head up to look at him. I'm so stunned by his unexpected touch, I look at him like a deer in headlights. He's so close. So close his air is mine.
"I know writing is your passion, Evangeline. I can see it in your eyes. Don't let others take that away from you. And believe me, this will pass. Once it does, you'll have everything you dream of," he tells me. His lips touch mine while he talks like a ghost of a caress. His hands move on my arms until he rests them on my waist. My breasts rubbed against his hard chest, and my knees almost buckle. He chuckles softly, and his lips press against mine for a short second. I can't even decide if it really happened or just my imagination. He smirks when I let out a mewl like sound before adding, "And it's Elijah."
Oh, my heart. Just get a grip.
I lick my lips like I can taste him. He moves his nose on my jaw as I bite my lip.
Is it a fucking dream?
It can’t be real.
"Let's go home," he whispers, and I nod, trying to suppress my smile. But I can't stop the gasp that escapes from my mouth when he rests his hand on my back and pulls me to his side as we walk out of the classroom. The skin under his hand tingles, I feel the warmth of his touch radiate from that small space to all over my body. He doesn't take his hand away until we reach his truck. When we do, he opens my door, and I have to beg my heart to slow down a little.
I've read about ‘butterflies in the stomach,' but the way my heart beats can't be caused by butterflies. It feels bigger, stronger. Like my heart will escape from my chest. It's kind of scary actually, but also addictive as the excitement blossoms inside me.
On the ride home, the music from the radio is filling the space even though I don’t listen to it. All I keep telling myself to get a grip and not make my crush on him worse.
“Do you like pasta?” he asks out of the blue.
