Page 6 of The Love of My Next Life
My classes arewhat I expected. AP this and AP that. The same faces I see every semester, have seen every year since 9thgrade, with a cast of the same teachers. When you only take AP and honors classes in a small school, your circle doesn’t change much.
I have lunch with Claire, which is nice. I narrowly avoid a not-so-accidental collision with Sam that would have resulted in my white blouse covered in ketchup, which I consider a win. Usually, I’m not that lucky. But it’s the last class of the day that has me bouncing in my ballet flats.
Senior free period.
I’ve got more than enough credits to graduate with honors. Because of that, I’ve earned the coveted free period. Dad thinks I’m using it as a study hall. I didn’t correct him.
I head to the back of the building, toward the arts wing, and the closer I get, the more relaxed I feel. I pass the gym, the sound of squeaking tennis shoes slips through the doors, but I keep my eyes in front of me. In the cooking class, it smells like charred cake. The clanking of tools can be heard coming from the shop and wood working classes. But it’s the scent of paints and clay and charcoal pencils, and the sound of a classic rock song drifting through the door at the end of the hall that has all of my attention.
I’m practically skipping by the time I reach it.
It’s not a study hall. Not at all. It’s way better.
“Lennon,” Mr. Billings—or Hank, as he wants us to call him—greets me from his place at the back of the room. His flannel sleeves are rolled up and his arms are splashed with clay water as he sets up the pottery wheel. He’s my favorite teacher. Has been since freshman year, though I’ve never actually taken a class with him.
“Hi, Hank!” I chirp. “Thank you so much for letting me spend my free period in here this semester.”
“Of course, Lennon.” He grins, showing off coffee-stained teeth through a rusty red beard. “I’ve already set you up a station in the corner,” he gestures to an easel next to a table, and on the table, I see brushes and watercolors piled on top. “But you can move it to wherever.”
I walk toward my station.
“Oh, no, this will be perf—” I start to say, but I’m cut off when a familiar boy with ripped jeans and messy curls comes lumbering out of the supply closet behind Hank. My smile drops from my face. Macon has two bricks of gray clay in his hands, and when he spots me, his eyes narrow.
“Oh, Lennon,” Hank says, “I forgot to mention that you’ll be sharing the period with Macon this semester.”
My earlier fondness for Hank goes up in flames. He’s Judas now. Brutus. Traitor. Allowing the enemy to taint my sacred space. I’ll never forgive him.
“Youearned a free period?” I snarl, and watch as Hank’s face twists up in surprise at my tone while Macon’s transforms into a cocky grin. He’s always liked bringing out the worst in me.
“What if I said I just wanted to spend time with you?”
He’s taunting me, his voice sarcastic, as if the idea of anyone wanting to voluntarily spend time with me is hilarious. My mouth tightens and my eye twitches. His smile flattens.
“Don’t worry, Leonard. You won’t even know I’m here.”
I roll my eyes and turn to my station, foregoing the stool at the easel and sitting instead at the table.
“Is this going to be a problem,” Hank asks slowly. I want to say yes. I was under the impression this would bemytime. I don’t even look at him when I answer.
“No, sir,” I say curtly, just as Macon drags out a “nope.”
I do my best to tune them both out.
I focus on the paper in front of me and let music from the stereo be the only sound that my ears register. I want to free paint today, so I use a smaller sheet of watercolor paper and don’t bother sketching anything first. I sort through the tubes of paint, select a few colors that call to me, and pluck out a couple brushes. My earlier irritation with Hank cools a bit when I realize he’s already set me out two jars of water and a roll of paper towels.
I maneuver all the supplies until they’re arranged in an arc around me in the way I prefer, then take a brief moment to appreciate the clean, fresh set-up. I smile softly, but as I reach for a brush, my skin prickles with fire, and I whip my eyes to Macon’s side of the room.
Sure enough, he’s watching me with a furrowed brow, eyes the color of the hottest flame. I cock my head to the side and study him for a moment. Macon is sitting in front of the pottery wheel and Hank is sitting next to him. Hank is talking about something, gesturing wildly to the wheel and the clay, and Macon nods but doesn’t take his eyes off me.
Is Macon learning how to make pottery?
He raises a dark brow, then flicks his eyes down to his side. My eyes follow and I release a sigh of irritation when I see what he wanted me to see.
His middle finger.
Macon is flipping me off. He issucha child.
I turn my attention back to my work, and I don’t look at him again for the rest of the period.
