Page 23 of Ladybirds

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, in fact, it does. It’s poetry. It’s meant to be spoken—to be heard,” he stresses. An odd look of determination hardens his gaze. “Pull out your book.”

“Fine.” She rolls her eyes, but fishes the textbook from her bag and turns to the page. “‘Morning and evening,’” she reads, “‘maids heard the goblins cry: “Come buy our—’”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m reading it out loud!”

“That’s not a reading, it’s a butchery!” He seems legitimately appalled. “Slide it over. Honestly, your subpar education has never been more apparent.”

“Feel free to haunt my past English teachers instead,” she grumbles, pushing the textbook to the edge of desk pointedly.

“And be forced to correct them all day? Hardly.”

“You correct me all day.”

He brushes her off. “Completely different. Now,” he taps a finger to his ear pointedly, “listen.”

He reads it, start to finish; his voice a rhythmic melody of vowels and consonants strung together into something even her ears find beautiful. There’s a purpose in the way his tongue curls around each word; a reverence. When he speaks the final line, his eyes settling on her, Sara finds her mouth has gone dry.

“Do you hear it?” he asks. “The difference?”

She nods, fingers twisting in her lap. She hates that she has to take a moment to find her voice. “Yeah.”

His finger taps, soundlessly, on the page. “It’s more than just words on a page. There’s music and meaning there.”

It dawns on her then—the lack of teasing, the brightness in his eyes. “You love it.” He withdraws, taken aback, and she shakes her head. She gestures to the book. “The, um, poetry.”

That’s why he goes to her classes. That’s why he refuses to stop. No wonder she never saw him… antagonizing her was never the reason he came. She wonders if he frequents the other literature classes as well.

Glancing at the page, he straightens. “I have... an appreciation.”

It’s more than that, but she doesn’t push. Pushing feels too much like curiosity, and she’ll be damned before she lets him think she’s interested in anything having to do with him.

Chewing lightly on her bottom lip, her eyes scan over the page. The way he read it… it’s hard to deny the truth of his interpretation. “It’s really about that?”

He shrugs. “Obviously there’s more to it—and the case could be made for other interpretations, I’m sure—but sexuality is certainly a prevalent theme.”

The urge to ask for further explanation is so real, she has to bite her tongue. He’s right, she does need help, but the thought of asking for it makes her recoil.

What would he ask for—what would he take—in return?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sara’s not sure how it’s possible, but somehow her art history professor makes the class as boring and tedious as her literature class. Thank god her math teacher was at least entertaining. Which, considering the subject, is both surprising and almost ironic (not that she’s complaining).

She tries to focus on what Mr. Kent is saying, but she finds her attention faltering. There’s just something about his voice—the listless, steady way in which he speaks—that makes every lesson sound as dry and tasteless as stale bread.

Really, really stale bread.

But at least most of the art was pretty.

Painting has never been her thing (she doesn’t have the patience for it), but she can appreciate it. The core values of what makes an image great is the same despite the medium—color, composition, lighting, movement. There’s a reason this class is a requirement for her Bachelor of Photography degree. Unlike her English and math requirements, Sara totally understands how the material is relevant to her career path. She’d even go so far as to say it’s interesting. Or would be, if the person teaching it was literally anyone else.

In her bag, her phone vibrates—the sound muffled, but still loud enough for the surrounding students to glance over. Sara wonders if it’s just because they’re as bored as she is. It’s probably a really bad sign that she almost (almost) wishes Seth would crash the class like he did the first few weeks, but apparently he finds her professor as dull as she does.

The vibrating stops long enough for Sara to doodle a flower on the corner of her notebook before starting up again. She frowns, feeling her classmates’ eyes as she reaches into her bag and silences it. A glance at the screen shows an unfamiliar number, but it’s the same as the one that called a few seconds before. It’s probably just another scam call—she’s been getting a lot more of those lately—but it’s weird that they called right back when she didn’t answer.

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