Scratch that last part. I haven’t felt giddy in over five years, not since I’ve lived in this god-forsaken state.
However, the tinge of panic doesn’t go unnoticed as I see Aspen’s expression as I stand up and walk to the front of the classroom. Her eyes go wide and cheeks flush pink. A small part of me feels guilty she’s so embarrassed, but I find it freaking adorable. Ellie’s whispering in her ear and Aspen looks like she’s about to die.
I really should leave the poor girl alone. Clearly she’s not a social person, but I just can’t help myself.
“Aspen Evans…” I call out because I want an excuse to look at her again. And hear her voice.
That voice.
It’s so small and smooth that I’m afraid she’d float up to the ceiling if her six-inch heels weren’t weighing her down. I hadn’t expected her to stand up, but she does. I should tell her we don’t have to be so formal in this class, but I can’t deny getting the opportunity to get a better look at her.
Once introductions are over, I hand out the syllabus and repeat my typical mantra. Look over the syllabus carefully. Don’t skip my class. Don’t be a lazy participator.
I make sure to look around at all the students so I don’t get caught staring at her. Although that’s where my eyes are directed since Ellie’s once again whispering over to Aspen.
“Do you have a question, ladies?” I really don’t appreciate students talking when I’m talking, so I make sure I’m firm just so the rest of the class knows I’m not to be taken advantage of.
Ellie’s quick-witted response takes me off guard, and I really have to fight to hide the smile that wants to spread wide across my face.
I need a second to breathe, so I put the students in groups for their first exercise. I start numbering students off into groups of five, but when I come across Aspen’s seat, she’s gone. I look around and catch her just as she’s running out the door.
I finish grouping everyone and hand out the worksheet I want them to start on. I wait a few minutes to see if she returns but worry I’ve embarrassed her. When she doesn’t return, I decide to go after her.
I’m not exactly sure what I expected to see when I found Aspen, but it wasn’t this. I know an anxiety attack when I see one. I’ve experienced them myself, but she’s…she’s a mess. It seems unfair that such a beautiful and talented woman has to suffer this way. From the outside, I never would’ve guessed she held this kind of pain.
I don’t believe her in the least when she says she’ll be fine. I want to comfort her, wrap my arms around her so she doesn’t have to handle it alone. But I barely know her and it’d be highly inappropriate given I’m her professor. I tell her to take her time and wait anxiously in the classroom for her to come back.
When the groups finishes, and everyone is seated again, I discuss what I want them to do next. Although I was able to look at their portfolios beforehand, I want to see how well they each do with a shortly timed assignment. They all grab their supplies and sit back in their seats except Aspen. She stays standing.
It’s hard to not notice her as it is, but now I’m able to watch her while she draws. She moves her hand so effortlessly as her eyes follow every stroke her pencil is making. I walk around the classroom silently watching, but I stop just behind her as she begins to shade in her outline of a tree trunk. I can’t tell which number from the questionnaire she’s drawing from, but just the intensity of her focus tells me how important it is to her.
She grabs her putty rubber to lighten an area near a branch when she finally senses my presence behind her, but I tell her not to stop. I could watch her draw for hours. Just the simple act of watching her eyes and body captivates my attention to the point that I forget we aren’t alone.
Students begin filing out at exactly eight p.m. They have plenty of time left to work on their project before it’s due, but that doesn’t stop the wave of sadness that overcomes me as I watch Aspen pack up her supplies and leave. Her portfolio is so somber, but in person, she radiates light. She’s friendly and gives off that carefree vibe on the surface, but when she’s lost in her work, her persona changes into something completely different.
I’m just not sure what that is yet.
I pick Natalia up from school every day in between my classes. She was able to continue attending the same school after she moved in with me, but it hasn’t been an easy transition. She’s been getting into trouble for talking back, pushing girls in the locker room, and even throwing food in the cafeteria.
They’ve been pretty sympathetic given her situation, but she’s still had to do detention after school multiple times. I know there’s nothing I can say that’ll help her feel better or give back what’s been taken from her. I know there’s nothing I can do that’ll change it either. And that guts me.
“Hey, Short Stuff,” I say as she hops into the passenger side. “What number?” I ask her every day after school. It’s a rating system from one to ten that I came up with to so she’d talk about her day.
She tosses her backpack into the backseat and scowls at me.
“If you’re expecting me to read your mind, this could take a while.”
She huffs at me. “It was an eight…” Which means her day was going quite well. “Until Cooper Turner spit on me.” So much for that.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Oh, for fucks sake.
I turn and angle my body toward her. “What happened?”
She hands me a piece of paper that was concealed in her palm. “Here.”
I take it and pull it open. My eyes move quickly over the note, and I gasp.
“Natalia Hampton!” I’m biting my lip to avoid bursting out in laughter. “You said what?”
“I said he had an itty, bitty penis and that must be why he’s such an obnoxious airhead.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s compensating for having a small—”
“Not that! Why did you say that?”
“Well, it’s not a lie.”
“I don’t think talking about those body parts in school is appropriate.”
“Whatever.”
“So now what? You have another week of detention?”
“I guess. I don’t know why Mrs. Fields got so upset. He’s the one who spit on me!”
“Before or after?”
She frowns and it’s all the answer I need.
Tonight she has her therapy appointment, so I wait outside the room for forty-five minutes while Dr. Kingston tries to teach her ways of dealing with her feelings by using a healthier outlet. Six months of therapy later, and we’re still trying to help her manage the way she acts out.
Not that I can really blame her, though.
Once her session is over, we drive home, and I start browsing in the kitchen for something to make for dinner.
“Shit, I forgot to go grocery shopping,” I mumble as I stare at the half-empty orange juice container and Chinese takeout boxes in the fridge.
“You shouldn’t swear.”
I slam the door shut, not realizing she was behind me. “You shouldn’t creep up on people,” I tease, spinning around to her sitting by the breakfast bar.
“Grandma says swearing is the devil’s voice.”
“Well, you should ask Grandma what whiskey is then.”
“I already did,” she responds matter-of-factly. “She says it’s the Lord’s blood.”
I snort. “Grandma’s a liar.” I begin opening cupboards and digging through boxes of food.
“I know.” She grins. “So what are you making? Or should I say…burning?”
“You know…for an eleven-year-old—”
“I’m almost twelve,” she interrupts.
“Whatever. For an almost twelve-year-old, you have quite the smart-mouth.”
“I prefer gifted.”
“I prefer it shut.”
She narrows her eyes at me and sticks her tongue out.
I opt for pizza delivery instead of cooking until I get to the grocery store again. And even then, I’ll probably grab frozen pizzas and boxes of mac ’n cheese.