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Mr. Fitzwilliam and Twill nodded.
“She doesn’t need any of you old farts telling her what to do,” Millie hollered. “Or forcing her to do something she doesn’t want to do.” She aimed a death glare at Wilson, and he had the decency to look a little ashamed.
“Come on, Millie,” Mr. Fitzwilliam said. “You’ve been trying to get them together for over a year now. Aren’t you the one who brought Poppy to class?”
“That was me,” Wilson said, raising his hand.
This time Gladys and Mrs. Adams glared at him, and he lowered his head like a puppy who’d just piddled on the living room rug.
“Well, Millie’s the one who keeps drawing all the dirty pictures to get them in the mood for romance,” Mr. Fitzwilliam said. “Heck, we all have. I haven’t doodled this many peckers since high school.”
Theo said my name and everyone hushed. He pointed to the paper in my hand. I stood as tall as I could and turned toward him. I watched him take in every detail: My hands reaching for his, my fingers grasping the air. His hands balled in a fighter’s pose with the Xs facing out, creating a rigid end to the empty space between us. I’d drawn it from several angles, like a rendering of a sculpture, recreating his intricate tattoos with each. My hands aren’t as distinctive, but anyone who knew me would see them and know.
Theo stared at the sketch for a good thirty seconds before he cleared his throat, the sound booming like a firework in the quiet room. “Excellent work, Poppy.”
“For the love of Pete,” Twill said, throwing his hands in the air. “What’s the problem, Theo? I know we’re not supposed to assume things, but I caught you with enough girls under the bleachers to figure you like women. And Poppy is perfect for you.”
Theo took a deep breath. “Does anyone else want to share their work?”
Everyone glared at him.
“OK,” he said, walking to the front. “Tonight, we’re going to work on color mixing for shading.”
“Red and yellow makes orange,” Gladys shouted. “We got it. Now what do you have to say for yourself, Theo?”
“Enough,” I said. “I’ve presented my sketch. Let’s move on.”
“Is that what you want, Theo,” Wilson said from the back. “For Poppy to move on?”
Theo gripped the table in front of him so hard his fingers whitened.
“Of course, he doesn’t,” Esther shouted. “I can’t hear half the time, but I’ve got the eyesight of an eagle. That boy is beyond smitten. We’ve all seen the way he looks at her.”
“Then what’s the problem?” Mr. Fitzwilliam asked.
“Right now, seven seniors who can’t mind their damn business,” I snapped, storming to the back of the room where I grabbed my bag, tossed the sketch at Wilson, and stomped out.
I ignored everyone I passed in the hallway and pushed through the glass front door. The frigid night air stole the breath from my lungs but did little to cool the full-body flush of embarrassment. I climbed into Tallulah, slammed the door closed, and threw my bag into the passenger seat. I banged my head on the steering wheel and took a few deep breaths to slow my heart rate before I drove.
A gentle tap on my window interrupted any hope I had of finding my Zen.
“What!” I yelled, looking up. Theo stood beside the hearse, my sketch in his hands. I lowered the window and waited.
“This is a plan for a sculpture,” he said, surprising me.
“It is,” I replied.
“It’s brilliant,” he said. “Evocative.”
“Um, thanks.”
“It’s also wrong,” he said, leaning into the window and handing me the sketch. “It looks like I’m fighting you.”
“Aren’t you?”
He shook his head. “Can I sit with you for a minute?”
I shrugged like my heart wasn’t about to beat out of my chest and tossed my bag into the back.