Page 10 of The Echo of Regret

“You make it look so easy.”

I glance up at Helene, who has come to the front to watch me, and I give her a small smile.

“It takes time. You’ll get there. Just don’t expect more from yourself than what you already know how to do, until you feel confident doing it.”

Her nose scrunches up and her brows furrow. “Huh?”

I hide my smile at her response, pulling the clay gently upward and outward, forming the curved sides of the bowl.

“Pottery skills are layered. Practice the basics over and over until you feel like you have a really good handle on them. Then move on to something new. You’ve been at this for a few weeks now. Can you think of anything you need to work on?”

She pauses for a second, thinking it over. “I think I need to get better at centering.”

I nod. “Great idea. Maybe try centering at a higher speed.”

Helene watches me for another beat or two as I perfect the edges of the bowl, then she returns to her workstation. I can’t help but smile to myself. She didn’t really listen to me when I was suggesting that same bit of advice to the class before, but she finally heard it when I was gently nudging her toward figuring it out herself.

Like I said, little weirdos.

Once I’m finished with my bowl, I wire my piece off the bat and set it on a table in the middle of the room as an example. Then I return to my wheel and begin working on a vase. I continue glancing up, checking in on everyone over the course of the remaining 30 minutes of class to make sure they’re working well with their clay, answering questions as they come.

When I was first approached about teaching a ceramics class for the summer school students, I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly fell out of my head.

The absolute last thing I would ever want to do with my time is teach, and teach teenagers at that. Teachers are supposed to be gentle and thoughtful and have an internal desire to build up the next generation of people.

Those are not my skill sets, but Principal Cohen basically begged me to do it—apparently Cedar Point High School needed another art class to offer during the summer or several students who were one art unit shy of what they needed for graduation wouldn’t be able to collect their diplomas and go to college. It sounded like a made-up story to me, but I figured the three-hour class twice a week would basically be a chance for me to get paid and use free supplies to test out new stuff.

And it was. It was also a really cool way to spend some of my time over the summer. Sure, there were a few little shits who just wanted to mess around, but I met two very sweet girls who were interested in art, and I got to teach them how to do something new, something I love. It was a pass/fail art elective, so nobody needed to be graded and everyone just got to explore working with clay and water and a wheel. Watching them get better throughout our 6-week session was gratifying in a way I didn’t know I could feel.

So when the principal asked if I was interested in transitioning the class into a 12-week elective during the fall semester—and promised I’d still only have to teach twice a week—I said yes. Now, we’re a month into the semester, and I guess I’m technically a faculty member at my alma mater.

It’s a wild thing to say considering all the trouble I got into when I was a student.

“Alright everyone, spend the last few minutes of class cleaning up your workstations. Most of you saw me up here making a vase. That’s what you’re going to be doing next week, so make sure you’re here on time.” I glance at Johnny as he passes by me, taking his phallic mound of clay to the clay heap. “I’m looking at you, mister. I’m not going to repeat the stuff I say at the start of class again. You need to be here at 2:30 with your butt in that chair. No more dawdling. Got it?”

I wince internally. Did I just say no more dawdling?

Johnny gives me a charming grin, oblivious to my internal critique. “I aim to please, Ms. Ventura.”

I shake my head and begin cleaning up my own station, saying goodbye to the students as they wrap up and trickle out of the studio, eager to take off. I don’t blame them; I remember being just as eager.

When the door shuts behind the last student, I let out a sigh and glance around at my classroom. The airy space is significantly larger than we need for such a small group of students, but it means everyone gets plenty of space, which is nice.

Cedar Point High School has an enrollment of around 500 students. The campus isn’t that big, but it was designed to expand with anticipated city growth over the next 10 to 20 years. Even though ceramics was originally only supposed to be a temporary elective over the summer, I was given a full-size classroom in the annex alongside the other art classes.

It’s where our current class is located as well, and I really love it. Unlike my own shed, it has huge windows and lets in lots of natural light. We get to prop the doors open and use outside space if we need it because we’re at the back of campus adjacent to a long stretch of cement and grass. It’s beginning to get a little too cold for that now, though, and the doors have stayed firmly closed over the past week. Even so, it’s still such a bright, airy place to work.

Sometimes I wish I could bring my projects here, and on more than a few occasions, I’ve considered it. But it would be such an inconvenience to have to drive over here every day, and I can’t be sure I’ll be teaching this class again in the spring.

I’m locking up the studio when I hear my name.

“Heading home, Ms. Ventura?”

I smile at the sound of Sam Rush’s voice, and I turn to look in his direction. “You know I hate when…” But my words die on my tongue when I see who he’s walking with.

Son of a bitch. What the hell is Bishop doing here?

“…when you call me that,” I finish, the playful lilt to my comment gone in a flash.

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