Page 14 of The Order

I leave out the part where I shoved Colton to stop the delay.

“Serves the woman right. She should know better than to be that deep into our sector. Although, I'm sure those two boys didn't help the situation. I am not the fondest of Josh or his list of violations.”

“You're telling me.”

She closes the message, finally pulling her attention back to me. I reflect on the older woman's frail figure once more. The image paints my mind in fleeting moments.

“She didn't deserve what they did to her,” I blurt out without thinking. Mrs. Auburn pauses, her face pulling into a look of confusion. Her brows crease inward, forcing her face into an expression I rarely see on her.

“Theyalwaysdeserve it, Forest,” she says, placing her hand atop my own.

I shove away my regrets, letting them melt away with each roll of her thumb over my knuckle.

“You’re right. I’m just shaken up, is all.”

A voice clears behind us, jolting us away from our tender touch with one another. Mrs. Auburn’s light, genuine smile leaves her face, replaced with a look I have never seen on her before. Her relaxed demeanor goes rigid. Her once slumped posture is now as straight as one of the pencils in her hair. Her hand, once on my own, now clasps her other so hard her knuckles are white. Her eyes are narrowed like a cat's. Any love radiating off the woman has washed away like rain down a storm drain.

She's cold, distant, and utterly closed off.

Where has this side of her always been?

“Speak,” she snaps.

My hair rises once more, only prompting me to turn my head to meet his stoic expression.

His eyes are dead set on the once lively art teacher.

“My name is Fallan Markswood. I’m the student that was picked for the transfer program this year. My schedule said my first period was art.” He scans the plethora of items in the classroom. “I assume this is it,” he finishes. His voice is just as deep as I remember it. I can still hear his blatant threat in the back of my mind. He shuffles, crossing his arms while he waits for her to respond.

“Clearly it is,” I pipe in, answering for her. His eyes finally reach mine, narrowing with a look I can only describe as hate.

A section of the room is taped off, housing a few older desks for any Unfortunates taking this class. Older art supplies lean against the wall. Worn and used canvases consume the space, leaving little room for anyone's things behind the tape.

“As you know, you have a section in the back of the room. My broken easels and canvases are under the sink. We have a few paints ready to go next to the new ones. Take what you need, then do your best to silently work in the back and leave my other students undistracted,” Mrs. Auburn finally says.

Unlike our first encounter at the tram, he offers no pushback as he moves past us, keeping multiple feet between us. He's silent with each of his motions. Fallan slings his bag over his desk, propping up the slightly less worn canvas he has chosen against it. He precisely picks out his color palette, steering away from the brighter colors. His palette is filled with a variety of blues and purples.

I return to my seat, pulling my canvas away from Mrs. Auburn's desk. She looks distraught. Her hands run through her hair repeatedly to soothe herself. Because I never had to worry about an Unfortunate in the classroom, having my desk right before the line never seemed like an issue. Now, all I can do is regret it with each movement of his body from behind me.

“What's the prompt?” Fallan’s voice questions. Once again, he is speaking with no permission.

Mrs. Auburn is too preoccupied with her drawing to notice. I'm glad she has already found a way to deal with our unexpected visitor.

“You know those murals in the hallway before you came in?” I whisper, turning to meet his hateful gaze.

He nods.

“We get to replace those this year. The students in this class create something and then the best canvases get chosen out of the lot.” As hard as I try to force the hate in my voice, it simply won't show.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of getting a civil conversation with an Untouchable?” he whispers under his breath. I narrow my eyes, letting my frown visibly grow.

“Go to hell,” I snap, letting my foot hit his desk to jolt whatever stroke he was attempting on his canvas from behind the shield of his bag.

Keeping my body forward, I try to direct my anger-filled thoughts toward the man. Without turning around, I sense a smirk pulling over his lips.

Grabbing my brush, I let my anger direct itself to my work. My hands become less gentle with each stroke. The lively pinks now blend into more aggressive shades of red. Like a gunshot in the night, the bell's loud chime almost causes me to drag my brush across the length of the canvas. Even Mrs. Auburn's precision is disrupted by the noisy clamor of students entering their first-period classes.

Josh’s large body barrels through the classroom door, stumbling into others as students fill the vacant classroom. Josh looks to the back of the classroom, holding his bag with delight. Noticing the Unfortunate, he decides to avoid his regular seat and chooses the one closest to Fallan and me. Rae stumbles in behind him, scrunching her nose at the sight of Josh and an Unfortunate so close to me. I force my bag into the seat beside me, stopping Josh from getting closer. The other students whisper about the new eyesore in the back of the classroom. Fallan’s eyes remain on his canvas, not once lifting away to acknowledge anyone. He is genuinely focused on the strokes for whatever it is that he’s creating.

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