Page 12

“I’d like you to write an essay for me on how your mother’s drinking makes you feel. Really . . .” He paused, gave it a moment’s thought. “Pour all your heart and emotion into it. Strike to the bone. Understand? I wantallof your emotion. Don’t leave anything unsaid.” His hand touched her shoulder again, and a jolt shot through her body. She liked it, hoped he’d never move.
But a moment later, it was gone. Cool air filled the space between them. A slam of a nearby locker brought her back to real life.
“Yes, sir,” she murmured. “I won’t leave anything unsaid.”
“Good. Now get to class. Keep under the radar. Don’t lookfor trouble.”
That night, Jocelyn set aside everything—even eating dinner—to write. And write she did. Every time she paused, she remembered the way Mr. Sawyer had looked at her, the way her skin lit up when he touched her—thinking about it, goose bumps sprang up all over her body. She forced her focus back to the task at hand and let emotions pour from her. Words flew from her keyboard like nothing she’d experienced before.
The following day, she waited until after school, then went to Mr. Sawyer’s classroom. She knocked quietly on his door, and he opened it immediately, like he’d been waiting for her to arrive.
His dark eyes studied her. “Yes?” he asked curtly.
“I have it.” She held up the sheaf of papers, neatly stapled together. “The assignment.”
“Good.” He opened the door, allowed her entrance. Jocelyn took a few steps in and paused, feeling a thrill run up her spine when she heard the loudclickas he engaged the lock on the door behind her.
Her stomach swam, but not with nerves this time—withexcitement, even if she didn’t fully understand why. Shedidknow this meant they couldn’t be interrupted. That she, alone, would receive his attention until he dismissed her.
Mr. Sawyer stepped in front of her—right up in her space. Like sunshine, he made her warm, and she wanted to bask in the glow.
She lifted her paper. He looked at it but didn’t take it from her hands. Instead, he turned on his heel, went back to his desk, perched on the edge, and studied her. She blushed under the intense scrutiny. And suddenly, she remembered how much truth she’d put in the paper she’d written. How much of herself—her cringeworthy, true self—she’d written into each page. What would he think of her after he read them?
Her mouth opened—she was goingto tell him that, actually, she should edit it one last time, or that she’d realized she forgot something or—
“Please kneel, Jocelyn.”
Her body froze.Kneel?She laughed nervously. “You’re joking, right?”
But there wasn’t a trace of humor in her teacher’s face. Mr. Sawyer pushed off the desk, rising to full height, which now seemed taller than she’d ever noticed. “I will not repeat myself, Miss Burton. When you’re in this classroom, receiving my help, you’ll do as I say. Is that understood?”
“Uhh . . . yeah.”
“The word isyes, notyeah.”
“Oh. Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir.”
He smiled, and Jocelyn’s eyes locked with Mr. Sawyer’s once again. A shiver ran up her spine—not the creepy-crawly kind, but the kind that comes from a surge of excitement pulsing through your body. She liked the way he looked at her. She liked having his sole focus, as being the object of attention was an honor rarely bestowed on her.
“Very good. Now . . . right there.” He pointed to the floor next to a desk. “Kneel, keep your eyes down, and read the essay to me aloud.”
Again, she almost questioned him—why did she have to kneel? But his face was stern, and he was waiting, so instead, she swallowed her words. After all, she’d come here. She wanted his help and had agreed to write this thing. So she couldn’t back out now.
The hard laminate floor was cool against her knees. She cleared her throat, traced the first printed words with her eyes. Was she really going to do this?
“‘My first memory of my mother . . .’” she began. And suddenly, she was reading. Remembering each moment she’d written into this essay, how alone she’d felt. All the nights she’d cried herself to sleep,wondering if when she woke, her mother would be home. And if she was home, if she’d still be alive, or if she’d have killed herself with alcohol and drugs. Before she knew what was happening, Jocelyn was sobbing through her words, hot trails of tears streaking down her cheeks, no doubt marring the eyeliner she’d put on just for Mr. Sawyer.
Eventually, Jocelyn got through all six pages. She read the last line, the last words, and stifled back a last sob, embarrassed at herself—how weak she was, how she couldn’t even read the paper she’d written aloud without turning into a baby.
Mr. Sawyer remained at his desk, unmoving. Watching her. There was a gleam in his eyes, something that made her think he liked the essay—but then his jaw hardened.
“Where are you supposed to be looking, Miss Burton?”
She instantly bowed her head again, looking back at the floor, at her inked pages covered in splotchy tears.