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Seriously?
“So I’m not imagining it,” I say loudly. “You are actually avoiding me, then?”
He looks flustered. “Of course not. No, I just remembered that I… I need to go shopping.”
“Right. At 9PM at night?”
“Just need some essentials. Have a good evening.” He starts to walk down the stairs. As I watch his retreating back, irritation simmering inside me, a memory sparks in the back of my head. I suddenly remember the first time I met Luke.
I was fourteen at the time. A shy, perfectionist high school student. It was a lunch break, and I’d just been brought to the headmistress’s office after one of the prefects saw that the sleeve of my blazer was fraying. At most schools, this wouldn’t be a big deal, but at a private school as posh as Emery High, I may as well have committed a crime.
Our headmistress, Mrs Martins, was an evil woman. She acted as sweet as a lamb in front of our parents, but she treated the students awfully. I hated her. After I was brought up to her office, she shouted at me for almost ten minutes straight. I was on the brink of tears when the door to her office swung open and a man stepped inside.The memory blooms in front of my eyes.
“Amy, do you want to pick up some lunch — oh.” He looks between us.
Mrs Martins straightens. “This is Layla Thompson,” she sighs. “She’s in Year Nine, and she’s apparently still incapable of dressing herself.”
Frowning, the man steps further into the room. I stare at him, a bit stunned. He’s gorgeous. Tall and young, with high cheekbones and deep grey eyes.
“Hi Layla,” he says quietly, studying me. “I’m Luke. I’m one of the English teachers.” He glances at Mrs Martins. “What’s going on?”
“I was just explaining to Layla the importance of wearing the school uniform correctly,” the headmistress bites out. “Look at her blazer. It’s disgraceful. This school has a reputation of excellence to uphold, and we can’t do that if our students are running around looking like street urchins.”
Luke steps forward, studying the frayed sleeve of my blazer. I shiver as his fingers trail lightly over the fabric, not touching me. “I see. You’ve worn this to death, haven’t you, Layla? You should get your parents to buy you a new one.”
“They can’t afford it,” I mutter, my cheeks burning. “I’m on a scholarship. It only covers tuition.”
Luke goes still. “Ah. I see.”
Mrs Martins sighs dramatically. “Seriously? We’re paying your school fees, and they can’t even shell out a few hundred for a new uniform every couple of years?”
I look down, humiliated. “I could fix it myself, if I could use the school sewing machines. I asked the textiles teacher if I could do it in class, but she said no.”
“Absolutely not!” Mrs Martins blusters. “I can’t have my students walking around in patched-up clothes. Tell your parents to pick up another shift, or put it on a credit card. This is ridiculous.”
Luke frowns. “Come on, Amy, let’s not put a family into debt over a jacket.” He studies my sleeve. “You think you could fix this yourself?”
“I’ve been hemming my clothes for years,” I say. “I’m really good at it.”
His grey eyes flash to mine, and my stomach flips. “You wear a lot of second-hand clothes?”
I flush. “They’re cheaper.”
He nods. “Very smart. You’ll do well in your economics classes, I’m sure.” He straightens. “Well, in that case, we’ll just give you permission to use the sewing machines during lunch breaks.” He picks up a piece of paper from Mrs Martins’ desk and scribbles a few words on it, handing it back to me with a smile. “There you go, Layla. If your textiles teacher asks what you’re doing, tell her Mr Martins said it was okay.”
I take the note, wide-eyed. “I… Mr Martins? You’re Mrs Martins’ husband?” I glance at the headmistress, who is scowling at me. How did such a nice man marry such an awful woman?
His eyes soften. “Yes. Amy is my wife. I really lucked out in that department.”
Mrs Martins — Amy — huffs, picking up her coat. “Whatever. Let’s get lunch, then. Layla, if I see you in here again, you’re getting a detention.” She saunters to her office door.
Luke smiles at me gently. “Ignore her, she gets crabby when she’s hungry. I guess I’ll see you in a few years, Layla. My office is in the West Wing if you need anything, okay?”
“Okay,” I croak, clutching the permission slip as he holds the door open for me to leave.
I watch Luke heading down the stairs, blinking back the memory. My throat squeezes. “Luke?” I call after him.
“Hm?” He turns back to look at me.
