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The spit in my mouth dries to a crackly glaze.
It’s the man from the club on Saturday. The married man. The man I hoped to never see again.
CHAPTERSIX
CONNER
Fuck.
Words leave my mouth without bothering to register in my brain. The faces in front of me act as my guide, letting me know whatever they’re hearing is on par with expectations.
I catch Emilia from the corner of my eye and my gaze swivels around like there’s a magnetic pull.
Don’t look at her, you fucking idiot.
Great advice.
Easier said than done. She’s seated in the first row.
I cue up a textbook reference on the overhead, then find my eyes drawn to her bent head, trying to tease meaning from her posture, her style of dress, the way she has a pen poised to take notes.
My bewilderment, myshock, ebbs as my eyes drink their fill. After she left, I thought I’d never see her again. Now, here she is, just as enticing as when I left her in my bed.
Yes. Here. Ready to derail your entire life on your first day.
With a jolt, I understand I’m not looking any longer, I’mstaring.It takes all my effort to drag my gaze away, to focus on the whiteboard projection.
A tick in my throat steals my attention, making me lose my place on the page. I offer the class a smile and joke, and some of them laugh as I wrestle my concentration back to my job.
I knew today would be hard. Not just because it’s my first lesson at my first ever teaching post but because these kids are in their final year. They’ll have noses well attuned to bullshit, and coming from the money they do, they’re not above making a ruckus if things don’t go their way.
Not that I think the head would fire me off their say-so, but things could get very frosty and adding another layer of tension isn’t ideal.
I cue up a long passage, set them to reading, and sit in my chair. The class plan is in front of me but it’s obvious the pupils don’t stick to their assigned seating. My head buzzes so hard from shock that I can’t focus enough to even find her name.
Emilia. I know it was. I even listed her that way in my phone.
Except the ID card was for a twenty-three-year-old. It’s not her real name.
As the class list blurs in front of me, I can’t work out which one is her. I bring up the online classroom portal and start scrolling through the register, but it doesn’t offer me any further clues.
Why isn’t there a picture attached to each file? That would help. Doesn’t this school know that most people are visual learners?
Or give me an old-fashioned roll call. I suppose when the school earns the amount of money this one does per pupil, nobody cares if they make it to class.
The students shift around, whispered exchanges letting me know they’ve finished reading. I stand, cueing up the question guide for them to access on their computers.
Once the last person is finished, I take them through the list, quickly getting involved in an argument about nominative determination and how could any of Dicken’s characters choose their own paths in life when they were so clearly destined to be exactly who they were.
Not really on the curriculum but it’s my first day. Nobody can blame me for being rattled.
I force myself to walk past her desk, making sure that I spend an approximately equal amount of time in each aisle of the class, working on instinct because most of my brain is in flames.
If it wasn’t for the mistake sitting in the front row, I might find the class refreshing if still challenging. The calibre of students appears high and even those obviously bored by class aren’t distracting the rest.
It could be the money. Or years of discipline.
Whatever the reason, I’m grateful that on top of my darkest thoughts, I don’t have to contend with wise cracks, pranks, or anything to test my nerves.
