School Ties

by Tamsen Parker

  His dark blue eyes look startled over his shoulder. I can’t believe I did that. Like he’s a college buddy I hang out with and not one of my students. Could I be any more unprofessional? But after a couple of blinks, a slow smile spreads across his face and he nods. “Yeah. Later.”

  I back out, hoping not to trip over anything. When I’ve hit the threshold, I round the corner, slide down the wall and mash my hands into my forehead. “See ya?” Why don’t you ask him back to your place for some gin and juice, Erin? God.

  After berating myself, I move on, making small talk with the boys. There’s a kid, Bruno, who can do some amazing stuff with clay. I watch him at the wheel for a few minutes, demurring when he offers me a shot.

  “I’m not dressed for it and besides, I need to keep an eye on you boys. I know your goal is to get me elbow deep in clay and then set the place on fire.”

  “Naw, we like you, Miss Brewster. If it were Mr. Jeffries? Maybe.”

  I ward off my nod of sympathy. Conrad is the kind of teacher who’s difficult to appreciate in the present. When students come back, they’re able to express how much he taught them. But while it’s happening? They’d rather bludgeon him with a hockey stick. I cluck at Bruno and shake my head. “Now, now, Mr. Diaz.”

  “Hey, I’m not the one who brought up arson.”

  “Fair. But get back to work.”

  A skinny punk kid with hair that falls over his eyes is working in the photography lab when I stop by, looking at proofs and groaning over the Sex Pistols. And not in a good way.

  “What’s the matter, Monsieur Gerreaux?”

  “None of them came out. None of them!” His usually light French accent is weighted with frustration, and he holds his hands like he wishes he had a cigarette in one and a glass of Burgundy in the other. Perhaps if he were at home, he would have.

  “Can I look?”

  He thrusts the magnifying piece at me and stalks off to grab his water bottle from another worktable. I bend over the sheets, examining the photos through the glass. He’s right, they’re mostly black. Except . . .

  “What about this one?” I tap on the image and he strolls over, hand on his black-jeaned hip.

  “What about it?”

  “Could you try lightening it up? Maybe shorten the exposure when you print? You won’t get the whole image, but this shadow might brighten up and you’ll be able to see more. Maybe on these two as well,” I say, indicating the images on the next line.

  “Maybe.”

  “Worth a few sheets of photo paper?”

  “To have something to show in class? Yeah.”

  “Give it a try. I’ll be back in ten to see how it’s going.”

  I wander until it’s eleven and everyone’s trickled back to their dorms except for Shep and Gerreaux. My suggestion had worked, and Jean-Philippe’s been going mad experimenting on timing to reveal fractions of the shadows in the photographs.

  I persuade him to pack up his stuff, promising he can have at it again tomorrow night. When he’s done, he slings his pack over his shoulder and wishes me a good night on the landing.

  I head up to the studio and Shep’s still perched in front of his bottle drawing. It’s done, and it’s beautiful. Who knew you could make a pile of glass contain that much . . . I don’t even know what to call it. It looks alive, despite being anything but.

  “Lights are going out, Mr. Shepherd.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  His tone is irreverent so I don’t get irritated. I correct the boys—Miss Brewster, please—because “ma’am” makes me feel ancient, but from him it feels like friendly teasing. As close as I can get to flirting without feeling like I’ve crossed a line.

  Shep

  I’ve been done with this drawing for twenty minutes and I’ve got a stack of flash cards to memorize for AP Physics before I go to bed, but I’ve gotten into the habit of waiting for Erin’s duty to be over to walk her across campus. Not that she’d let me if she knew that’s what I was doing. I’m hoping if I don’t make it explicit, she’ll let me get away with it. So far, so good. This is my favorite time of day.

  Putting my pencil down on my easel, I wish I were wrapping up a palette full of oils, but my dad had made it clear he wasn’t going to work a minute’s worth of overtime to pay for my “prissy ass hobby. What the fuck do they put in that paint, anyway? Fucking gold dust?”

  I hadn’t bothered to explain that in some cases, yeah, the stuff that goes into the paint is pretty freaking valuable. So I’d dropped Oils III and wheedled my way into Drawing IV, not having taken Drawing III. I think I’m holding my own. From the way Erin looks at my drawings, like they’re actual works of art, I don’t care.

  I tug my coat on and we walk out together.

  “So, tell me something.”

  “About what?” Her big brown eyes look up, wide and curious. I want to say, “About you. Tell me anything about you. What’s your favorite movie? How do you make your hair smell like that? Why do you like Will Chase?” But those are questions I’m not allowed to ask. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “A brother. Caleb. He’s ten.”

  “Do you guys get along?”

  “Yeah.” The corner of my mouth curves up, thinking about him and his sheepdog hair and his goofy laugh. “Not always, but mostly he’s pretty cool.”

  She nods, her mouth tightening up into a bow. “I used to—”

  Her lips close around the word and I want to coax her open until I can reach inside and pull out whatever she was going to say. She’s always locked up so tight, like she doesn’t think anyone would want to hear what she has to say, or like she’s not allowed to say it. Those are the words of hers I want. The secret ones she’s afraid to say out loud. “You used to what?”

  She shakes her head, looks down at the ground and crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t want to tell you. It’s embarrassing.”

  It’s like she’s protecting herself, like I might turn her words back on her and hurt her with them. I wouldn’t and I want her to know.

  “You know I won’t tell, Erin.” Her name’s slipped off my tongue without thinking and my face gets hot. I’ve just made it very clear I don’t always think of her as just a teacher. But she doesn’t scold me. Instead, she blushes, unless I’m imaging that by the lampposts strung along the path.

  “Fine. I used to pretend I had a brother. That he’d gone away but that he was going to come back for me. That I wasn’t alone.” Her expression’s gone from embarrassed to sad and lost. Maybe she’s still waiting. She seems to remember herself then, smoothing her hands down the sides of her pants before she picks up the pace and says in a canned light kind of way, “His name was Felix. He was quite dashing.”

  I want to stop and hug her, hold her close until she’s not lonely anymore. But I can’t. I can’t. I shove my hands in my pockets so I won’t reach for her. I try to think of something to say, something that won’t make her more self-conscious but let her know I heard her, that I’ll keep my promise. My chest squeezes tight around the words. “I’m sure he was.”

  Erin

  It’s the mid-semester art show and study hours at the studio have been more crowded than usual. It’s meant less time spent checking in with Zach Shepherd. Shep. Not that he needs me to check in. He works independently, not bugging the boys who’re slogging away but happy to take a look at a drawing or a painting if someone is struggling.

  He gazes at the oil paintings and sloppy palettes with longing. Why is he taking Drawing if he likes to paint so much? I know from faculty chatter he’s on full scholarship and most of his academic and athletic supplies get paid for through a special fund. Maybe it doesn’t cover art supplies? If you know what to look for, you can tell his family doesn’t have money, although he’s better at hiding it than most.

 
I traipse around Turner, holding my cup of punch. It’s Friday night. There’s a better turnout than you might expect for an art show, but the boys are generous with one another. Everyone’s clad in dress code, and some parents have shown up, a few from far away, including Gerreaux’s parents all the way from France. Speaking of . . .

  “Miss Brewster!”

  “Monsieur Gerreaux, nice work. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” He’s beaming with pride and for good reason. I’d overheard his instructor saying he should enter his project in the state competition. I bet he’ll place, too. The photographs as a set are stunning. He’s set them up so your eye is drawn to the tiniest differences in each print. As your gaze follows along, you’re left feeling like you’re being led through a dark forest at someone else’s mercy and shown precisely what they want you to see. It’s frustrating and thrilling at the same time. Or at least it is for me. I don’t know what anyone else sees. So often I’m left feeling like I don’t live in the same world as everyone else. “Miss Brewster, these are my parents.”

  I’m greeted with a murmured “Bonsoir, mademoiselle,” from both of them and though I extend a hand for a shake, they kiss me on the cheeks. My reply of “bonsoir” is met by a stream of rapid French. Gerreaux mercifully interrupts to explain that I don’t speak French. Much, anyway.

  “Jean-Philippe has told us you gave him the inspiration for his project,” says Madame Gerreaux.

  “Oh, no. Just a nudge. That’s all they need most of the time. Your son is very talented.” I chat with them for a few minutes until Jean-Philippe tugs them away to look at one of his roommate’s sculptures.

  I wend my way through the crowd, stopping to look at each project. I loved coming down here when I’d visit my grandfather. It was my own personal museum. Now I’m here, pride swelling in my chest as I walk among the works they’ve put their angsty, testosterone-fueled hearts into. I’m biased, having seen how much (in some cases literal) blood, sweat and tears have been poured into these pieces, but I think they’re amazing.

  I’ve saved a particular corner of the building for last, knowing what and who I’ll find there. When I’ve had my fill of the rest of the show and done my best art show chatter—The composition! The dimensionality! Reminiscent of Donatello or whatever other Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle comes to mind!—I make my way to the alcove where Shep and a couple of boys from his class have hung their work. I’ve averted my eyes for the past few days though I know what’s going to be there. I’ve seen all of Shep’s drawings from class, so there won’t be any surprises, but it’ll be fun to see them on actual display.

  I tease myself before turning the corner and an anticipatory smile creeps over my face. I’m such a dork. A silly, stupid, inappropriate dork to get so excited about seeing my secretly favorite student’s high school art project. Be that as it may, my breath still catches and I come up short when I swing into the nook.

  Shep

  I’ve been waiting for this all night. For her. For every “congratulations” I’ve received, for every hand of someone’s eager parent I’ve shook, and for every time a teacher has asked me something about one of my drawings, I’ve kept an eye out for Erin.

  The show is closing in fifteen minutes. I’d almost given up but in some back corner of my brain, stupid hope held out that she’s like a kid saving the best for last, and maybe I’m her best. I’m such an arrogant douche bag. But when the purple herringboned shoe peeks around the corner, I’m on high alert. If I’d stayed in Shamokin, I don’t know that I would’ve ever learned what the fuck herringbone is, but here I’ve acquired more knowledge about preppy attire than I’ll ever need to know. Tweed, popped collars, Nantucket red. Even if I didn’t know what that pattern was called, I’d know those shoes anywhere. I stare at them at least once a week because they’re her favorites, and I stare at her feet so I won’t stare at her face. Or other things. But she’s here and I can’t wait to see the look on her face.

  Her ready smile melts, her chin wrinkles and her eyebrows fall, shadowing her brilliant brown eyes. Confused is not what I was going for. She stands there looking like she might drop the cup of punch she’s holding. It’s tipping and I don’t want her to spill on her shoes and ruin them. I reach out and right the flimsy plastic, not able to help the contact with her soft skin when I do.

  Her eyes fly wide to mine and her wrist that had been drooping snaps up in a reflex. The cup I’d been trying to steady gets crushed between us as she turns, spilling bright red liquid down my white dress shirt and blue-and-red-striped tie. Shit. Guess I’ll be throwing a load of wash in tonight and hoping it doesn’t stain. I have one extra shirt, and it’s nice to have a cushion in case I can’t get laundry done on a Sunday. But if this gets ruined . . .

  “Oh, god, Shep. I’m so sorry!”

  Shep? She’s never called me Shep before. It’s always Mr. Shepherd. I’d let her spill a rainbow of punch on me, have to do laundry every day, if I could hear her call me that again.

  She’s grabbed a handful of napkins from a pillar nearby and is sopping up the washed-out blood color that’s seeping through my undershirt to my skin. Jesus Christ. I’ve stopped breathing, and I’m standing stock still as that stupid pillar. If she doesn’t stop touching me . . .

  I grab her wrist and clear my throat. “It’s okay. Miss Brewster, it’s okay.”

  Even though I’d like to shove her up against the nearest wall, drag her hands over her head and kiss her silly, another teacher, Mr. Connelly, has walked into the alcove.

  “Had a collision, I see?”

  “Yes. God, I’m so clumsy.”

  I drop Erin’s wrist and we step back from each other. Erin backs into the pillar and almost spills what’s left of the napkins and a bowl of popcorn. She’s not usually clumsy at all, but it’s a convenient excuse.

  “This building with all its nooks and crannies isn’t helping,” Mr. Connelly says. Then he launches into a lecture on how the original building was built the year the school was founded and has been added onto so many times there are at least half a dozen architectural styles incorporated into it. I bet he can name every single last one of them.

  He’ll yammer on about this for another twenty minutes. I don’t want to abandon Erin to his boring spiel, which I’m sure she knows already, but, “I should rinse this out. I’ll be right back.”

  I hurry to the nearest bathroom and strip to my T-shirt. If I button my jacket over it, you can barely see the red. I hold my button-down under cold water and most of the juice comes out under the stream. It might be salvageable. When I’ve done all I can do, I walk back out. Mr. Connelly’s gone but Erin’s still there, staring, no cup in her hand.

  I toss my shirt under a bench and wipe my damp hands on my dress-code khakis.

  “Do you like them?”

  She turns to me, hugging her elbows and a sweet smile on her face. That’s better.

  “I do. I’m sorry about earlier, I . . . I was surprised.”

  I nod. I knew she would be. It’s part of why I did it. I wanted to surprise her.

  The drawings I’ve tacked up are half the sketches she’s expecting: the glass still lifes, the other object studies we’ve been working on, a few perspective exercises. But the rest of them, they’re fleeting postures. A hand holding a piece of chalk, the grip of fingers surrounding a dining hall tray, the rounded brim of a baseball hat under the bright sun of a soccer game. I’d had to cull them carefully from the sketchbook I keep wedged between my mattress and the bedframe. Not that the rest are scandalous—Erin dresses conservatively and I don’t chance putting the less-chaste images of her I have in my head to paper—but someone would be able to tell it’s her.

  My favorite is one of her heels lifting out of the backs of her shoes as she stretched to reach the top of the board because she’d filled up the rest of it. The definition of her calf muscles and the tiny constellation
of freckles to the left of her Achilles tendon . . . I can’t be the only one who’s noticed, and there aren’t so many feminine ankles around here. These, though, are innocent. Could be anyone. But they’re not. She knows it and I know it.

  She opens her mouth to say something, when Will Chase swings around the corner. His face lights up when he sees her.

  “Miss Brewster. I wasn’t sure you’d be here. You spend all your time down here as it is. I thought you’d be bored of this stuff by now.”

  The face he makes implies he’s bored already.

  “I’ve seen a lot of it before, but not everything. They’ve all been working so hard. Some of them must’ve been working right up until the show, putting on finishing touches. And some of them,” she says, sneaking me a glance, “have been keeping parts of their projects tightly under wraps. Everything’s great.”

  She means it, too.

  Mr. Chase checks his watch and stares too long at Erin. “Mr. Shepherd, it’s getting on curfew. You should help the other boys clean up and then get back to the dorm. Don’t want to be late for check-in.”

  The clock on the wall confirms. I’ve got ten minutes before I have to be up at Ford unless I want a slap on the wrist for being late. I’m tempted to stay here, though. I don’t like the way he’s looking at her. I might do my damnedest to keep my thoughts about Erin Brewster pure and chaste from afar, especially in public, but Will Chase sure as fuck doesn’t. He tears his eyes off her long enough to look down his nose at me, even though we’re about the same height. I might even have an inch on him.

  “Yes, sir,” I bite off, grabbing the half-full bowl of popcorn and the napkins Erin didn’t grab in her haste off the pillar. A few steps later, Erin’s voice chimes in my ear. “Well done, Mr. Shepherd. A pleasant surprise.”

  The slight emphasis on the word “pleasant” dulls the sharp stab of annoyance at Will Chase’s interruption of something I’d been looking forward to for weeks. What a lame-ass fantasy life I lead. Doesn’t he get enough of her already? He chats her up in the dining hall, walks her toward her classroom after lunch and who knows? He probably invites her to his apartment to “watch a movie” or “read some poetry.” Goddammit. Why does he have to steal one of the only times I have a legitimate excuse to talk to her? I blow a breath out my nose so I don’t sound pissed off when I say this, because I’m not. Not at her.