Sweet Nothing(13)

The next morning, I fling open my classroom door just as the bell rings for first period. My white pencil skirt is twisted around so that the tag’s in the front, and the white silk blouse I’ve paired with it clings to my skin like plastic wrap. Oh, and I didn’t realize until after I left my house that I’d accidentally grabbed a black bra instead of the nude bra I’d meant to wear. Show and tell on the first day.

On the bright side, only one of my turquoise suede pumps is giving me a blister on my heel the size of the Grand Canyon.

“Okay, guys. I’m running a little late this morning, so give me a second to get settled,” I announce to the room full of seniors. The guys wear perfectly pressed khakis, white button-downs with the Allford Academy crest on the pocket, and ties. The girls wear similar button-downs and pleated plaid skirts, most of which look rolled up at the waist.

I’m irritated and embarrassed, and just want to press Rewind and start this day again. I’d started to doze off just as morning light had nudged its way under my door. Promised myself I’d get in a quick power nap before my shower. An hour later, I’d woken up to the sound of Gwen banging on my door.

The students find seats and fall silent, staring as I dump my bag and travel mug of lukewarm coffee on my desk.

“Just… talk amongst yourselves, okay?” They don’t.

I twist my skirt around and brush my bangs away from my forehead, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the white lacquer desk. My coat of crimson lipstick was a half-assed attempt at looking pulled together. I’m almost grateful there wasn’t time for more makeup. With my luck, it would have melted off by now. Awesome first impression, Elliot. They totally respect you.

“Well, if you’re not going to talk, you could at least take a look at the syllabus for the class.” I yank open my desk drawer and pull out a stack of papers. When I lift the first syllabus from the stack, the edge of the paper slices deep into my thumb, leaving a scarlet slash.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath. I suck the tip of my thumb, feeling like a little kid who’s already flunking the first day of kindergarten. Maybe I can’t do this. Maybe I don’t belong here. I want to turn on my one functioning heel and walk out.

“You look like you had a late night.” A floppy-haired kid who looks like he stepped out of an Abercrombie catalogue calls from the back of the room. He loosens his tie, a half-smirk playing over his lips.

“Why, because I spent less time on my hair this morning than you did?” The words are out before I can stop them.

Hoots and claps sweep through the room, and the kid’s cheeks go bright red. His smirk hardens into a thin line.

“Ooh, burn.” A stunning girl with long blonde waves and too much eye makeup for 8 AM announces from the front row.

“Okay. Okay. Settle down.” What am I doing, ridiculing a student? I’m acting like a kid myself. That can’t happen again. Even if he did deserve it.

“I think we need to start over.” My pumps are killing me, so I kick them off and nudge them under the desk. “I’m Elle Sloane, and I’ll be your instructor for Introduction to Economics.” I hand the stack of syllabi to the blonde. “What’s your name?”

“Violet. But I go by Vi.”

“Vi, could you hand these out? Thanks.” I sit on the edge of my desk. “So, you probably know that this is my first year at Allford. Dr. Wesley, who has been teaching this course for the last ten years, decided at the very last minute not to return.” Something about his wife having health problems, though Dr. Goodwin hadn’t elaborated when he’d called me just six days earlier. I hadn’t asked questions. The job offer was the escape I’d been looking for.

“A few things about me: I studied business and econ at NYU.” The more I repeat it, the easier the lie becomes. “Anybody planning on applying there?”

A few hands, and one that stays raised. It’s another guy sitting in the back row. I brace myself.

“Yes, um…”

“Josh Marville.” The kid beams a giant white smile my way. A smile that practically screams politician. I give it ten years before I see his name on a sign in somebody’s yard. Another six before the hooker scandal.

“Josh. Question?”

“How old are you?”

I glance at the clock. 8:04. Four minutes down, 41 to go. “Josh, if you can tell me how knowing my age would enhance your study of economics, I’m happy to provide it for you. But otherwise—”

“I just mean, you look really young. But like, in a good way.” A couple of the guys in the back snicker behind their notebooks.