The Dare - Elle Kennedy Page 0,92

goodness for glue sticks. I’ve only had to wash glue out of one girl’s hair today. Mrs. Gardner banned liquid glue after a major catastrophe led to three emergency haircuts. I’ll never understand how kids manage to constantly find new ways to attach themselves to each other.

“Miss Marsh?” Ellen raises her hand at her desk.

“That’s looking good,” I tell her when I come around the room to her seat.

“I can’t find a mouse. I looked through all these.”

At her feet there’s a pile of mangled magazines and torn loose pages. All month Mrs. Gardner and I scoured Hastings for unwanted magazines. Doctors’ offices, libraries, used bookstores. Thankfully there’s always someone trying to pawn off thirty years of National Geographics and Highlights. Trouble is, when you’ve got more than twenty kids all reading about a mouse, the rodent supply tends to get a bit thin.

“What if we draw a mouse on some colored paper?” I suggest.

“I’m not good at drawing.” She pouts, shoving another stack of loose pages to the floor.

I know the feeling. As a kid I was a high-strung type-A perfectionist who tended toward the self-critical. I’d get a grand design in my head and then lose my shit when I couldn’t materialize it into being. I’ve been banned from several pottery-painting places in Cambridge, in fact.

Not my greatest moment.

“Everyone can be good at drawing,” I lie. “The best thing about art is that everyone’s is different. There are no rules.” I pull out some fresh sheets of colored paper and draw a few simple shapes as an example. “See, you can draw a triangle head, and an oval body with some little feet and ears, then cut those out and paste them together to make a collage mouse. It’s called abstract—they hang stuff like that in museums.”

“Can I make it a purple mouse?” Ellen, the girl wearing a purple hair scrunchie and purple overalls with matching purple shoes, asks. Shocking.

“You can make it any color you want.”

Delighted, she gets to work with her crayons. I’m moving to another desk when a knock sounds on the classroom door.

I look over to see Conor peeking through the window. He’s picking me up today, but he’s still a few minutes early.

He pokes his head inside as I walk over. “Sorry,” he says, glancing around. “I was just curious what you looked like in a classroom.”

There’s been a lightness to him this week. He’s smiling again, always energetic and in a good mood. It’s a nice side of Conor, even if I know it can’t last. No one is this happy all the time. And that’s okay. I don’t mind grumpy Conor, either. I just can’t help taking pleasure in knowing some part of his positive attitude is because of me. And sex. Maybe mostly sex.

“Am I different?” I ask him.

Conor gives me a lingering examination, from top to bottom. “I like your teacher clothes.”

I won’t lie, I did go a bit overboard at the start of the semester with a whole Zooey Deschanel vibe. Lots of retro skirts and primary colors. I guess in my head that was the part I wanted to play, because it’s important when you walk into a room where you’re outnumbered by tiny creatures twenty-to-one that you display confidence. Or they’ll eat you alive.

“Yeah?” I say, doing a little twirl and curtsy.

“Mmm-hmm.” He licks his lips and shoves his hands in his pockets, which I’ve come to learn is his way of trying to hide a semi while he’s thinking dirty thoughts. “You’re keeping that on when we get home.”

That’s another thing that’s crept into our vocabulary. Home. His place or mine, when we’re going to either one, or spending the night, it’s always home. The distinction between them has blurred.

“Miss Marsh,” one of the girls calls to me. “Is that your boooooyyyyyyfriend?”

The rest of the class answers with oohs and laughter. Fortunately, Mrs. Gardner is out of the room or I would’ve made Conor leave, asap. This close to my final evaluation I can’t have her thinking I’m not focused on the kids.

“Okay,” I tell him, “get out of here before Ms. Caruthers next door calls security on you.”

“See you outside.” He plants a kiss on my cheek and winks at the kids watching us.

“Go.” I all but slam the door in his face, smothering a smile.

“Miss Marsh has a boyfriend, Miss Marsh has a boyfriend,” the kids chant, growing louder and more excited in their taunting.

Dammit, if they keep this up, Ms. Caruthers will