“I went to the service station to get his beer when I hit the corner of a stand.” I shrug, but there’s a twinge of pain when I do.
“He didn’t…” he pauses when Conner passes by our table with his chair. Conner’s eyes cast down on us before he heads to the table with many cups of paintbrushes. When he is out of earshot, Andy leans in and whispers, “He didn’t hurt you?”
“No,” I lie.
I hope my concentration masks my lies enough for Andy to believe them. If he doesn’t, I also have an eyewitness account of me bumping into a stand at the service station. But do I want Conner to be more involved? He is too curious now, and we only had one encounter.
“All right,” Andy submits. “What are you drawing?”
“Uh, the desk,” I answer, then point my pencil to where Mr Rogers sits. He reads “Get Me Out of Here”, which I find to be an interesting title. “You?”
“My pencil case,” he says. I arch my brow at his response. “I know, but I’m feeling lazy because I’ve been up all night.”
I grip my pencil tighter, and the pressure of the lead draws a dark line over the rough sketch. “Why were you up all night?”
“I had an Ancient History assignment IforgotI had at the end of this week,” he says with a roll of his eyes.
“Ah,” I say, half-smiling. “Good luck.”
Andy snorts a laugh.
We work without disturbing one another. But I seem to focus more on Conner than I should from the corner of my eye. His words grate inside my mind, causing a spike of fear to draw across my chest.
For the first time, I eagerly wait to escape art class.
5
CHANGE
The End is Where We Begin [Thousand Foot Krutch]
Samantha walkswith me to the bus stop. Hers comes thirty minutes before mine. I wave at her as she races to her bus, Dylan tagging along after her. Samantha’s parents have work and won’t be home until later this evening. They will make the most of that opportunity.
I sit across from Wylan, who is lying on the bench. He has his hat covering his face, and I wonder if he’s sleeping.
He takes the same bus as me because he smokes weed every day and doesn’t want to drive in case he gets pulled over by the police. They rotate around this area often—the crime rate is higher here.
Andy lives twenty minutes away from me, but he drives home every day. He lived on my street, but they moved after the third incident with my dad. His parents had had enough and found a rental further away.
I remember the day they were leaving. I thought about asking Andy’s mum to take me with them. But I worried about Dad’s potential reaction as I watched their car drive away.
The sun burns across my back, and my cheeks flush from the heat. Sweat accumulates from exposure to the raw, ferocious sun. I want to take off my long-sleeved shirt and wear the spare shirt I keep in my bag (in case of an incident in Art), but the fear of the bruises on me crushes that thought into the ground.
Instead, I reach inside my bag to grab my sketchbook when a white Toyota Corolla parks at the bus stop. My eyes widen when Conner winds down his window and leans across. His smile broadens when he notices me sitting on the bench. “Hey, Noya! Wanna lift?” he calls as if we’re best friends.
A few people focus on his voice and then turn, paying attention to me…actually seeing me.
Mortified, I shake my head.
The bus stops behind Conner’s car, and the driver blares the horn, and it echoes throughout the front of the school. Even from here, I see the driver glaring at the car while he slams his palm against the horn.
But Conner doesn’t budge. Hazel-green eyes fixate on me. “I’ll wait all afternoon,” he says, and I know his words are factual.
I stuff the sketchbook into my backpack and rise, slinging it over my left shoulder. From all the commotion, Wylan tips his hat up and watches me. I smile apologetically at him, knowing Conner’s scene is why he’s awake from his stoner nap.
The group of students steps aside as I grow closer. Their watchful gazes are like laser beams scrutinising my entire appearance. They are the reason I’m rushing towards Conner’s car.
A cool breeze sweeps over me as I slide into the car. The air-conditioning blasts against my flushed, fiery face, feeling like rain after a year’s drought. I place my bag down at my feet, and Conner pulls away from the bus stop as I close the door.