seats, excitement thrumming through their veins.
All of them except for her.
The girl in the back.
The one with the blonde hair and bone white flesh. The walking contradiction who looks like a
porcelain doll but dresses like a gothic cartoon character. Her eyes are just like one too. The biggest,
bluest, most haunted eyes I’ve ever seen.
She is an artist’s muse if I ever saw one. Tragic.
To say that I have not noticed her would be a lie. She is the only thing I seem to notice in this class
anymore.
The lies she draws and paints with her hands. Trying so hard not to try at all.
It nags at my curiosity. And I haven’t been curious about anyone or anything in a very long time.
She is a dance major. Ballet, specifically, which makes sense upon one glance at her delicate body.
But here she sits, in my art classes, always so rapt with whatever piece of advice I have to offer. She
never talks to anyone. Not even me. But she is always listening. Observing. Trying so hard to conceal
that excitement thrumming through her own veins.
There is a bored expression on her face at present, her eyes bouncing around the classroom. A
ritual she always performs. Checking to see if anyone is watching her. If anyone is onto the secrets
she keeps inside.
But they never are.
Only me.
The last person in this room who should be observing her this way. My student.
She is my student.
I remind myself of that for the thousandth time, even as my eyes move over her black leggings and
shredded tank top.
And then as if she can feel my eyes on her, she looks up and meets my gaze.
I remain seated at my desk to conceal the evidence of the reaction that simple look produces in me.
When all of the students have settled into their seats and I have their attention, I open up the lesson
plan on my desk and clear my throat.
“Let’s begin.”
Chapter Three