Sweetest in the Gale - Olivia Dade Page 0,44
shared each work station, and space was tight. He’d deliberately placed himself at the very end of his long table, right next to the diorama, to leave Poppy’s kids as much room as possible. But no one had moved to claim the open space or even bothered to deposit an overflow of supplies there.
Maybe she’d previously told them not to spread out on his table. It was the closest one to her desk, so maybe she reserved it for her sole use. Or maybe the students were simply too terrified of him, not in a fun way, to share the space.
Or maybe—
He could swear some of the Goth softball players kept looking at the table. Not him, not the diorama, the table. In fact, Tori was saying something to her pale-powdered friend right now, in between glances at the faux-wood surface. In response, the poor girl blanched even further, her black-lined eyes round with horror.
Casually, Simon got to his feet and wandered closer.
“I mean…” Tori said with a shudder. “Can you believe it?”
“I—” The other young woman clapped a hand to her belly. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Tori corralled a nearby trash can with her boot, nudging it toward their work station. “Here you go. If you have to hork, keep it as clean as possible.”
Very practical. Simon was growing fonder of Tori by the minute.
“I’ll never be able to use that table again.” Nausea apparently conquered for the moment, the pale girl wrinkled her nose. “Not without picturing what happened…there.”
He couldn’t deny it any longer, even to himself. He really, really wanted a full explanation for Mildred’s departure, because some of his imaginings were…
Well, he’d clearly seen one too many blood-soaked dioramas.
Just as Simon was mentally urging the Goth girls to elaborate, elaborate, they caught sight of him and hurriedly turned back to their dioramas-in-progress.
“So as I was telling you,” Tori said a bit too loudly, “art often serves a crucial societal role when it comes to dissemination of important information.”
“Why, yes,” her friend affirmed. “I remember you saying that very thing only moments ago, as we discussed our class objectives for the day.”
No point in lingering, except for the sheer entertainment value of their faux-conversation. He wasn’t going to get any more information out of them.
Accordingly, he returned to the diorama and studied the booklet containing witness statements, looking for information he hadn’t properly registered the first time. But no new clues stood out to him. Not a surprise, given his lack of—
Poppy gasped loudly, and his head jerked up.
He knew exactly where she was. Of course he did. If she was within sight, part of his attention never, ever left her.
“Ms. Wick, are you—” a tall young man with thick-framed glasses was asking, but she was already striding toward the classroom sink, her forehead pinched in seeming distress.
Simon intercepted her along the way. “What happened?”
“I’m fine, Demetrius. Don’t worry,” she called over her shoulder, and then answered Simon. “Hot-glue-gun burn on the back of my hand. I just need to—”
With a flick of his wrist, the water was running and set to a cool temperature. He guided her right hand beneath the spray, pulse hammering in his ears.
A reddening blotch marked the spot of her injury, visible even through the streaming water, and he scowled at it.
“Simon.” Her voice was low and gentle. “To an art teacher, hot-glue-gun burns are basically badges of honor. They’re inevitable and nothing to be concerned about.”
His scowl only deepened. “You’re in pain. Do you need to see the nurse?”
“No, Simon.” Her hand moved, and suddenly he wasn’t supporting it anymore. Instead, she was holding his, as if comforting him. “No. It’s already feeling better. But I’ll cover the spot with a bandage, if that would make you less worried.”
If that would make you less worried.
The utter ridiculousness of his reaction—his overreaction—struck him in that moment, and he dropped her hand as if he’d been scorched himself.
Despite her minor injury, she was in complete control of herself and the situation, while he—he—
He wasn’t. He wasn’t in control of himself.
Spinning away from her, he hurried to the classroom door. “I’ll get you a bandage from the nurse’s office.”
“But I—Simon!” She was calling out to him, trying to flag him down, but he pretended not to hear or see. “I already have ban—”
The door shut behind him, and he forced himself to walk, not run, away from her.
When Simon returned toward the end of the period, a fresh box of bandages in