Page 5 of Taming His Teacher

Most of the boys aren’t hard to read, but I can’t get a handle on the guy behind those dark blue eyes. I can’t bring myself to think of him as a boy, either, convenient as that might be. There are boys who look as old as he does—they won’t stick out as obvious freshmen when they head to college next fall—but none of them share the same maturity or…gravity that Shep does.

Gravity is a good word for it. There’s a density to him; the stoicism, the intelligence. These are the things on my mind as I walk across campus to Turner for study hall duty.

Turns out dark room duty is a sweet gig. The artsy kids are easy, not getting too rowdy. Plus they have better music than the jocks. Give me the nerd emo, the ironic eighties and the occasional Korean or Icelandic pop over hardcore rap or death metal any day.

I wander since no one else is on duty here. There’s no need for them to be. The only things of interest or value are down in the photography and clay studios, which are side by side, a quirk of the topography. I hang out here during sports period for the kids who’ve got their off-season and want to catch up on their work or are doing an independent study, and after dinner, I supervise study hours. All the boys have a note, usually a semester-long pass that allows them to come down here, whereas the other kids have to stay in their dorms, the lounges, or the library for study hours.

My fondness for dark room duty has nothing,nothingto do with the presence of a certain senior who has a penchant for pencil sketching. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I wander into the second-floor studio where Shep keeps his things at an easel in the back. He’s wearing a beat-to-shreds T-shirt he must’ve gotten his freshman year because it’s too small. Mostly he wears a paint-splashed button-down over a T-shirt because Turner is notorious for its screwed-up HVAC system. But not tonight. Tonight, the fine lines of him are revealed by the thin cotton.

Shep always shows up here around nine and stays until I lock up for the night at eleven. He must do his other homework before and save his drawing for last. I used to do that in college, save the best for last.

He’s working on a still life tonight, a set of glass bottles set up on boxes. Not knowing much about drawing, it looks pretty hard to me. So many different curves and angles, the light reflecting off multiple surfaces. While he doesn’t have to deal with color, it being greyscale, he does have to show the differences in shade. The whole thing makes my brain go staticky.

I walk up behind him, shuffling my feet so I don’t startle him. He doesn’t turn, but sits up straighter and I smile. He knows I’m coming.

“You’ve made a lot of progress since last night, Mr. Shepherd.”

“Yeah. We had time to work on it in class. Mrs. Germaine had some suggestions on that angle I was having so much trouble with.”

“She’s a good teacher. She taught me how to draw in three dimensions when I was a kid.”

“She did?”

“Yeah. You know my grandfather was a teacher here, right?” He nods. Of course he knows. Everyone knows. I like the mantle of Kent Brewster’s granddaughter, but I’m grateful we’ll never be compared by the same students. It’s bad enough to be stacked up against the impossible yardstick by the faculty and staff. “You would’ve just missed him, but I used to spend summers here. A lot of the faculty have known me since I was a baby.”

“That must be awkward.”

“Sometimes. Like when Mrs. Hawley brings up how I dyed her dog pink during a curriculum meeting.”

Shep laughs and it kindles something in me. He doesn’t laugh a lot, not real laughs. I don’t know how he gets away with being so serious and still being so well liked by his peers.

“Mostly, I like it. I like it here.”

“Me, too.”

We stand there, me with a hand in my pocket and him set on the edge of his stool. We don’t have to say anything else. Even though there’s something about him that makes me feel safe. Like I could say anything. Which is why it’s probably better if we don’t. Instead I watch him smudge in some shadows, and wonder how he knows how to do that.

After a few minutes, I figure I should continue my rounds. I leave with a nudge of my elbow to his shoulder. “See ya.”

His dark blue eyes look startled over his shoulder. I can’t believe I did that. Like he’s a college buddy I hang out with and not one of my students. Could I be any more unprofessional? But after a couple of blinks, a slow smile spreads across his face and he nods. “Yeah. Later.”

I back out, hoping not to trip over anything. When I’ve hit the threshold, I round the corner, slide down the wall and mash my hands into my forehead. “See ya?”Why don’t you ask him back to your place for some gin and juice, Erin? God.

After berating myself, I move on, making small talk with the boys. There’s a kid, Bruno, who can do some amazing stuff with clay. I watch him at the wheel for a few minutes, demurring when he offers me a shot.

“I’m not dressed for it and besides, I need to keep an eye on you boys. I know your goal is to get me elbow deep in clay and then set the place on fire.”

“Naw, we like you, Miss Brewster. If it were Mr. Jeffries? Maybe.”

I ward off my nod of sympathy. Conrad is the kind of teacher who’s difficult to appreciate in the present. When students come back, they’re able to express how much he taught them. But while it’s happening? They’d rather bludgeon him with a hockey stick. I cluck at Bruno and shake my head. “Now, now, Mr. Diaz.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who brought up arson.”

“Fair. But get back to work.”

A skinny punk kid with hair that falls over his eyes is working in the photography lab when I stop by, looking at proofs and groaning over the Sex Pistols. And not in a good way.

“What’s the matter, Monsieur Gerreaux?”

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