Elara
The soft rasp of my chair across the classroom floor as I slumped into my seat would have been the sound humiliation had.
My body was aflame at every nerve.
His lips were still tangible.
That was the worst aspect—not the murmurs already circulating around the room, not the way my cheeks burnt like I had been tattooed, not even the hollow throb Mark had cut into my chest. It was the recollection of that kiss. The manner in which it hadn't felt incorrect. It had felt inevitable.
With my nail I tracked ancient carved initials, keeping my gaze fixed on the worn wooden desk in front of me as though they may ground me to reality.
This was a nightmare. This has to have been a nightmare.
Miss Vance? I recoiled.
My name's sound, his voice wrapped around it, sent shiver down my spine unconnected to dread.
"Yes," I croaked hardly above a whisper.
The classroom went silent.
I could feel everyone turning toward me right now. Hungry, inquiring, expectant.
"Would you like to introduce yourself?" Mr. Thorne asked calmly.
I gulped. Raised my head slowly.
His expression was painstakingly neutral, yet his eyes, those impossible gray eyes, were darker than earlier, turbulent and impenetrable. I would have thought he felt nothing at all if I had not kissed him myself.
I knew better, though.
"I'm... Elara," I remarked. "Elara Vance."
Few children nodded. Like it was a half-formed whisper already, someone in the rear murmured my name.
Mr. Thorne nodded. "Thank you; you might sit."
I was seated already. Seconds later, the bell rang piercing and relentless, sealed my fate. The first class started.
Mr. Thorne swung to the board and began sketching the course, his writing neat and steady. His voice was professional, smooth, and quiet. Every phrase was just placed.
Like nothing had transpired, like I hadn't kissed him in front of half the school less than an hour earlier.
I should have been calm. Instead, my chest hurt.
I tried to concentrate. Actually. But the words blended and slid past me like smoke. My gaze followed his every movement. Every time his eyes wandered the room, something within me tightened, ready for effect.
Once, just once his gaze locked with mine.
The tie between us broke tight.
The room seemed to shrink; the air thickened till I could barely breathe. My heart stilled then sped. I felt… exposed. Like he could see straight through me, beyond my shame and rage, down to something basic and trembling.
He then averted his eyes. Exactly that.
The pain stayed on long afterward. The gossip had teeth by lunchtime.
Chloe blocked me the moment I sat down, her tray dropping with a thump into the seat facing mine.
"Okay," she exclaimed, eyes wide. "You'll tell me everything."
With no hunger left, I poked at my food. "There's nothing to say."
She scoffed. "Elara." One half of the school believes you kissed Mark's twin. The other half believes you kissed a replacement teacher. And Bethany, too, She pitched her voice down. "—is sobbing in the girls' restroom."
Something terrible and pleased flared in my chest as a result of that. Good.
I shared everything with Chloe. the kiss, the classroom, the cheating.
By the time I finished, she was staring at me as though I had admitted to murder.
"You kissed your teacher," she said slowly.
"I had no knowledge," I barked. "He doesn't have the appearance of a teacher."
"That is not the defense you might think."
I grunted and slammed my forehead on the desk. My life is gone.
Chloe said, "Not exactly." "People have short attention span. This too will fade away.
I questioned that. Particularly when Mark quietly sank into the chair next to mine.
"Elara," he said softly. "We have to talk."
My guts turned. I sprang abruptly, chair scraping loudly enough to attract notice.
I responded, "No." We don't.
"Ela... I stepped away.
As I passed, his hand skimmed my wrist and closed too long for half a second. Anger, dread, something almost wild flared inside of me.
I said, "Don't touch me." The words came out cooler than I had anticipated.
Mark recoiled as though I had slapped him. I never turned back.
The rest of the day turned into a jumble of sideways glances and half-heard lectures. Every time I passed Mr. Thorne in the hall, my heart rate shot up. Every time I smelled something clean and earthy—rain and pine and something more somber—I felt dizzy.
I was tired by the final bell.
As I left, I sliced across the art wing longing for quiet. Sunlight streaming through tall windows, dust motes dancing like little stars, the studio was abandoned.
Here I took easier breaths.
Pulling out my sketchbook, I turned to an empty page and set my bag down. My hands reacted on intuition; charcoal brushed across paper.
A shape originated. wide shoulders. Clear eyes. A mouth I should not recall as vividly. I froze in place.
I closed the book as though it had burned me.
"What is not correct with me?" I whispered. The solution did not materialize.
Something else, however, did. A rumble. low, far-off. Like a growl carried across the wind.
My head went gradually up. The hairs on my arms stood.
I approached the window and looked out toward the tree border the school grounds. Dark and thick, the forest loomed, shadows twisting together in a way that tightened my chest.
I felt like something moved. And then it had vanished.
I laughed unsteadily. "Get a handle, Elara." Still… I crammed myself fast.
I didn't recognize Mr. Thorne till he spoke.
"Are you all right?" I leapt, almost dropping my bag.
He stood in the doorway, jacket draped over one arm, face painstakingly controlled. He appeared taller at close quarters. More concrete. The air around him seemed charged, just as before a lightning hit.
I said, lying, "I'm fine."
His eyes moved to my notebook and back to my face. Something illegible passed over his characteristics.
"Good," he said, "Head home before it dark."
His voice ran with worry, slight but unmistakable.
"I can take care of myself," I said, harsher than needed.
"I'm sure you can," he said. "Still."
The term stayed.
Neither of us moved for a moment.
"Sorry," I spat out. "Earlier about; I had no idea."
"I know," he replied. instantly. Too fast.
His jaw closed like he was holding back something.
"This circumstance," he said, "cannot recur."
Heat swamped my cheeks. "It wasn't— I didn't—"
He said gently, "I'm not accusing you." "I'm establishing a boundary."
The way he uttered something caused my chest to ache.
I spoke, "I get," even though I doubted I did.
He once nodded. Gave way.
That odd warmth flamed again as I passed him, curling low in my tummy and causing me a shiver.
He took a gasp. Just just barely.
I never saw back.
I dreamed of the woods that evening.
Heart thumping with excitement rather of dread, I ran barefoot among moonlit trees. Every sense was vivid and sharp as sound and aroma dominated the air.
I wasn't alone.
Something large, powerful, defensive moved next to me.
When I woke, my heart was racing and my sheets were twisted about my legs.
Outside, the moon glowed full and bright.
And something ancient woke somewhere deep inside of me.