my face out discreetly earlier for stray ink or anything else that would have caused embarrassment, but found nothing.
"I have a question for you," he said, tipping the chair off the floor and looking at me down the bridge of his nose.
"Fire away."
"Why do I irritate you so much?" His face was open and patient, watching for my explanation.
Lainey had now turned towards us, her china doll face wrought with confusion, openly watching our conversation like she had stock in it. I remembered her words about going ballistic if anyone got near Henry, and I had no doubt that she meant it.
"What gave you that idea?" I asked, avoiding Henry's inquiring, curious eyes. Something about his stare seemed both intimate and knowing. I was mortified that he had caught on; I didn't think I acted that obvious. But judging my actions had become hard, now that I felt so removed from them.
"Just had that feeling," he continued, unfazed. "But I think you'll get used to me, now that we'll be spending our afternoons together." It seemed as if he enjoyed that idea. Or perhaps he was playing with me like a toy on a string. I felt hopeless to tell the difference.
"Funny how that turned out," I said softly.
My eyes flicked to Lainey again, whose face was scrunched so much at the center she risked imploding. That would be interesting to witness. Henry swung back around before I could respond again.
With the moment broken, I felt a wave of guilt crash over me. How could I be worrying about boys when I had no idea where Jenna was? Or even if she was alive or...I felt seeped in selfishness. I stared at the shiny copy of Van Gogh's Arles bedroom on the wall, until the orange and cyan started running together. I blinked. I could practically hear Jenna whispering, "What about me?" in my ear. But then of course I really would be nuts.
I breathed in sharply through my nose, shutting my eyes and detaching myself from the feeling as much as possible. It was a talent I had discovered recently, and while I knew it probably didn't fall under the healthy coping category, it worked to keep me functioning.
The teacher, Ms. Vore, came down the aisle, passing out black sketchbooks. I had nearly forgotten I still had class to sit through. Ms. Vore had replaced the batty, purple Mumu wearing art teacher from last year. I always assumed dressing like a carnival fortune teller was part of the job requirements, but this lady looked normal. Stylish even, her hair pulled up in a smart bun, and wearing a well-fitted black vest over a white oxford shirt.
As soon as she began to speak, she won my approval.
"Your sketchbooks are the window to your creativity," she said, rubbing her hands together, her eyes excited as though she were a student herself. "I'm going to give you assignments to complete in them, but I also want you to feel free to doodle whatever you want when the urge strikes you. If you fill up one book, I'll give you another. Just let yourself loose on the pages."
She launched into a demonstration of different types of shading on the board, alternately putting down her chalk and picking up a dog-eared book that she held up and swooped around so everyone could see. I paid close attention, hoping that my art skill could magically improve.
While she had perfectly okay skill, it didn't seem like she was the best artist ever, either. Which I found endearing, compared to the effortless talent my father had. Ms. Vore seemed to have more appreciation than talent.
"All of these people spoke through their art," she said, admiring the colorful pictures from her book upside down. "There's no reason you can't do the same. It's very freeing to explore various techniques. You might be used to acrylics, for example, and find a whole new world can be created with oils."
The class breezed by, the only one other than History to seem faster than the hour allotted. Ms. Vore stood in front of her desk as we walked out, smiling and saying goodbye. She even knew some of the other students' names already.
I felt tired after school, but not as hopeless as I had expected at the beginning of the day. All of my teachers were fine, save for English and Geometry, and I would make it through, if I kept my head down and kept going. Time had become the