Sweetest in the Gale - Olivia Dade Page 0,36
entire length of the class. As I observe, I will evaluate your performance based on criteria outlined in the memo you should have received via e-mail about the mentorship program last month. If you need another copy, I can forward one to you.”
“I don’t need one.” Her lips quivering, she shook her head. “Shockingly, I managed to keep track of the memo.”
Ignoring her impertinent choice of adverb, he continued. “After class, assuming you don’t have to leave for any necessary meetings, I will share my observations with you, and at the end of the week, I will write my initial evaluation, which, once approved by Principal Dunn, will be sent to you. After next week, we will meet monthly to discuss your progress or lack thereof. Other observations may occur, based on necessity. Any questions?”
If he’d expected her to be cowed by his blunt speech, intimidated into silence by the prospect of his judgment, he would have been disappointed. If anything, those hazel eyes of hers had brightened further, alight with…challenge? Amusement?
“Of course I have questions.” She propped her elbows on her desk and rested her chin on her entwined, paint-flecked fingers. “How long have you been teaching, Mr. Burnham?”
His frown pinched his brows. “Twenty years last fall. How is that relevant? Are you concerned I have insufficient expertise in pedagogy to serve as your mentor?”
“No,” she said, one of her little buns now sagging only half an inch above her left ear. “I was merely curious.”
To return her question in kind would not indicate curiosity of his own, but instead provide necessary context for his mentoring efforts. Professionalism demanded more information, and he was always, always a consummate professional.
“And yourself, Ms. Wick? How many years have you been a teacher?”
“Twenty-four.” Her gaze remained solely on him, and he found himself shifting beneath its keen sharpness. “Before this, I taught near D.C., but I wanted to move closer to my parents. I’m an only child, and their health is getting more precarious by the year.”
Fortunately, she’d answered the question he wouldn’t have allowed himself to ask: Why did you change schools?
“Any other concerns or queries?” If not, he intended to perform a preliminary inspection of her room and evaluate her organizational system and abilities.
“Oh, countless. But we have plenty of time for those.” She smiled at him, very slowly. One might almost have called the expression smug. “That said, I should probably warn you about the unit we’re starting next week.”
He merely looked at her, waiting for whatever had prompted that mischievous curve of her pink, pink mouth.
Her explanation didn’t provide any clarity. “We’re tackling three-dimensional representation of objects and scenes and discussing the intersection of art and public service.”
That all sounded completely, laudably appropriate and professional to him. So why—
“Specifically,” she continued, “we’re studying Frances Glessner Lee’s mid-century efforts to advance forensic science through her Nutshell Studies of Unexplained Death. Then the students will create their own educational dioramas, upon topics of their choosing.”
Unexplained death? What the hell?
She waved a casual hand. “And, of course, I’ll bring in an example of my own work as further inspiration.”
He blinked at her, still stuck on the unexplained death bit. “Your…own work?”
“During summers and in my spare time, I create and sell my own dioramas.” Her smile was no longer merely smug. It was now a wide, gleaming, toothy taunt. “If I didn’t enjoy teaching so much, I might consider doing my dioramas full-time, since I’ve amassed an appreciative audience for my work.”
This. This was why she was pleased, why her rosy cheeks glowed so cheerily. He could tell that much, but he still didn’t understand why.
And she wasn’t offering him the necessary context. Not this time. Oh, no, her soft lips were pressed shut as she waited for the question. Waited for him to break.
Ten minutes ago, he’d have sworn he never would. But that stupid, wispy bun was almost touching the flushed tip of her ear, and the blue streak above her mouth was mocking him, and her delighted grin plumped those round cheeks, and he had to ask. He had to.
“What—” He cleared his throat, studying her file cabinet as if it held vast importance in his eventual evaluation of her teaching. “What is your work, specifically?”
She didn’t answer until he met her gaze again, and he didn’t know whether to admire or despise her for it.
“Murder dioramas,” she said.
As soon as he noticed he was gaping at her, open-mouthed, he snapped his jaw shut.
Deep breath. Raise an eyebrow.