air inlets and bells so if supposedly-dead people woke up in the grave, they could save themselves. My other coffin will be a miniature of that invention. It’ll show a woman safely climbing out of her grave, only half-dead, instead of all-the-way dead.”
Stacey frowned thoughtfully. “Did you consider including zombies in your diorama?”
“Of course I did.” Tori tossed her braids over her shoulder. “But Ms. Wick said zombies were insufficiently educational, and thus did not meet class objectives.”
There were many, many things he could say in response to Tori’s diorama, but Simon confined himself to one. The truth, however inadequate.
“Impressive work, Ms….” He trailed off, uncertain of her last name.
“Walker,” she supplied, then shook the hand he offered. “I’ll probably be in your calculus class next year.”
“Good,” he said, again with perfect honesty. “I look forward to it.”
Then he fled back to his accustomed table, before either she or Stacey could inspire further nightmares.
A few moments later, Poppy found him taking notes on his legal pad. “You doing okay, Mr. Burnham? You look…I don’t know. Kind of pale and nauseated?”
Her usual buns were slipping from the top of her head, but she was wearing a dress today, for some unknown reason. Rust-red and silky-looking, the material suited her coloring, and the hem flirted around her knees in a distracting way. The garment was also stained with fresh smears of paint and glue, which was exactly why she should have been wearing her jeans instead.
Although he’d been studying her almost nonstop, she’d been cautious around him the entire period. Meeting his eyes for fleeting moments before looking quickly away. Keeping her distance, so they never quite found themselves within arm’s length of one another. Addressing him with all the formality due a colleague.
He understood why, and if he had anything to say about it, that professional reserve would disappear within the next hour. But it still made him want to snatch her into his lap and thread his fingers through her hair and yank her mouth to his.
“Tori described her diorama,” he told Poppy.
She nodded. “Ah. That would explain your expression.” After eyeing him carefully, she strode over to one of her cabinets and returned with a handful of blank paper and a freshly sharpened pencil. “I am absolutely certain you’ve already written your evaluation, so today’s observation is simply a formality.”
He dipped his chin in acknowledgment.
In fact, he’d drafted the praise-packed evaluation Wednesday evening, and was prepared to send it to Principal Dunn as soon as the school day ended. The notes he’d been taking on his legal pad weren’t about Poppy’s teaching talents, manifold though they were. They were his thoughts about Mildred’s disappearance, and about the murder in miniature currently sitting on his table, approximately eight inches to his left.
He’d solved the mysteries—he hoped—last night, but wanted to order his thoughts before presenting his findings to Poppy.
She set her stack of paper in front of him, then handed him the pencil. “Since you’re done with your evaluation, why don’t you distract yourself from the prospect of being buried alive by drawing something?”
“I’m—” He winced. “I’m not much of an artist, I’m afraid.”
“It’s not about the result, Simon.” Her voice was gentle. “It’s about the process. There’s literally no way for you to be wrong, as long as you try. Just…express yourself.”
Her warm fingers trailed along his shoulder as she walked away, and he clenched his eyes shut. Thirty more minutes, and they’d be alone. He could keep control that long. He had to.
By the time the final bell rang, Simon had finished his drawing. Such as it was.
In one of their early conversations, Poppy had said she couldn’t predict the contents of her students’ hearts or the subjects that consumed their innermost thoughts. That applied to him too, he imagined.
One glance at his paper, which now lay face-down on the table, and she’d know his heart. His innermost thoughts.
He wanted her to know.
As the students filed from the room, he helped her clean up. Then he sat down at the table again and waited for her to venture near.
She fiddled with paperwork on her desk. She typed something into her laptop. She fussed over a splotch of paint on one of the student chairs.
She was nervous.
“Poppy…” At the sight of her right bun, now sagging a millimeter above her ear, he had to smile. “Come here.”
Without turning to him, she shook her head. “I just need to…”
She couldn’t even finish the breathless sentence, and she still didn’t come