Page 6 of Taming His Teacher

“None of them came out. None of them!” His usually light French accent is weighted with frustration, and he holds his hands like he wishes he had a cigarette in one and a glass of Burgundy in the other. Perhaps if he were at home, he would have.

“Can I look?”

He thrusts the magnifying piece at me and stalks off to grab his water bottle from another worktable. I bend over the sheets, examining the photos through the glass. He’s right, they’re mostly black. Except…

“What about this one?” I tap on the image and he strolls over, hand on his black-jeaned hip.

“What about it?”

“Could you try lightening it up? Maybe shorten the exposure when you print? You won’t get the whole image, but this shadow might brighten up and you’ll be able to see more. Maybe on these two as well,” I say, indicating the images on the next line.

“Maybe.”

“Worth a few sheets of photo paper?”

“To have something to show in class? Yeah.”

“Give it a try. I’ll be back in ten to see how it’s going.”

I wander until it’s eleven and everyone’s trickled back to their dorms except for Shep and Gerreaux. My suggestion had worked, and Jean-Philippe’s been going mad experimenting on timing to reveal fractions of the shadows in the photographs.

I persuade him to pack up his stuff, promising he can have at it again tomorrow night. When he’s done, he slings his pack over his shoulder and wishes me a good night on the landing.

I head up to the studio and Shep’s still perched in front of his bottle drawing. It’s done, and it’s beautiful. Who knew you could make a pile of glass contain that much… I don’t even know what to call it. It looks alive, despite being anything but.

“Lights are going out, Mr. Shepherd.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

His tone is irreverent so I don’t get irritated. I correct the boys—Miss Brewster, please—because “ma’am” makes me feel ancient, but from him it feels like friendly teasing. As close as I can get to flirting without feeling like I’ve crossed a line.

* * *

Shep

I’ve been done with this drawing for twenty minutes and I’ve got a stack of flash cards to memorize for AP Physics before I go to bed, but I’ve gotten into the habit of waiting for Erin’s duty to be over to walk her across campus. Not that she’d let me if she knew that’s what I was doing. I’m hoping if I don’t make it explicit, she’ll let me get away with it. So far, so good. This is my favorite time of day.

Putting my pencil down on my easel, I wish I were wrapping up a palette full of oils, but my dad had made it clear he wasn’t going to work a minute’s worth of overtime to pay for my “prissy ass hobby. What the fuck do they put in that paint, anyway? Fucking gold dust?”

I hadn’t bothered to explain that in some cases, yeah, the stuff that goes into the paint is pretty freaking valuable. So I’d dropped Oils III and wheedled my way into Drawing IV, not having taken Drawing III. I think I’m holding my own. From the way Erin looks at my drawings, like they’re actual works of art, I don’t care.

I tug my coat on and we walk out together.

“So, tell me something.”

“About what?” Her big brown eyes look up, wide and curious. I want to say, “About you. Tell me anything about you. What’s your favorite movie? How do you make your hair smell like that? Why do you like Will Chase?” But those are questions I’m not allowed to ask. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“No. Do you?”

“A brother. Caleb. He’s ten.”

“Do you guys get along?”

“Yeah.” The corner of my mouth curves up, thinking about him and his sheepdog hair and his goofy laugh. “Not always, but mostly he’s pretty cool.”

She nods, her mouth tightening up into a bow. “I used to—”

Her lips close around the word and I want to coax her open until I can reach inside and pull out whatever she was going to say. She’s always locked up so tight, like she doesn’t think anyone would want to hear what she has to say, or like she’s not allowed to say it. Those are the words of hers I want. The secret ones she’s afraid to say out loud. “You used to what?”

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