“Cadence? Will you hang back a minute?” Mr. Connelly asked as students shuffled out of the room.
I nodded and stayed in my seat. I wasn’t sure why Mr. Connelly held me back. After he bought me lunch several weeks back, he all but ignored me everywhere at school. I realized my silly fantasy about him was just that: a silly fantasy. He wasn’t interested in me, and I’ve no idea why I got it in my head that he was. I kept thinking about that look from Highway 28. Actually, I was consumed with that look. I know I didn’t make it up, but he had a girlfriend. Case closed.
Once the room cleared, Mr. Connelly closed the door and pulled the shade over the window. I thought I heard the faint click of the lock. He walked back to his desk and reached into a drawer, pulling out a wet wipe. He walked over to me and kneeled beside my desk.
“May I?” he asked.
I gave him my hand automatically, and he took it, wiping gently, tracing the lines of my palms.
“I see a very promising future,” he said, staring into my hand.
“You read palms?”
“Oh, yes,” he replied.
“And when did you start reading palms?”
“Just now.” He smiled up at me. And there it was. The look that suggested he saw something in me that I didn’t. Something magnetic that compelled him to touch me at school when he knew he shouldn’t. There. I knew I didn’t imagine it!
I smiled back.
He looked down at my hand once more. “I see a happy woman.”
“Why is she happy?” I asked.
“Because she’s no longer attending Crestview High,” he replied.
I laughed, and Mr. Connelly continued cleaning my hand until there was no trace of flour left. I let him repeat the process on my other hand. I knew my face flushed scarlet, and I thought it would catch on fire for what he did next.
He folded the wet wipe to a clean side and brought it to my cheek. I had forgotten that I rested my face in my hands during the middle of class. I closed my eyes on reflex, something I did when I was little and Mom would wash my face. I stayed frozen like a statue while Mr. Connelly swiped my other cheek, dragging the wet wipe slowly and softly along my jaw, from the tip of my chin all the way to my earlobe.
I shuddered involuntarily and instinctively grabbed his hand.
“I’m ticklish,” I breathed, clutching his hand on my face.
“I’m sorry,” he replied.
I opened my eyes to see him studying me. I couldn’t stand the intimacy of the moment and searched frantically for something to say.
“What’s your girlfriend’s name?” I asked.
“What girlfriend?”
I furrowed my brows, and he grinned.
“Why did you tell the class you had a girlfriend?” I asked.
“Because that’s what they wanted to hear,” he replied. His stare was piercing, and I tried to think of something less intimate to discuss.
“Why do you have wet wipes in your desk?” I asked.
“You know you’ll be okay,” he replied, ignoring my question.
My breathing came faster, and I couldn’t hide the rapid rise and fall of my chest. I wished it were winter and I was wrapped in a heavy coat, but even then, I feared he would be able to see my chest pound—my delicious, terrifying panic.
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”
I squeezed his hand, and he opened it, cupping my cheek with the used wet wipe. I should have laughed at how silly it felt, but I knew it was only because he was trying to caress my skin, and the wipe was in the way.
“You’ll be late for class, Cadence,” he said, and as if his voice were the signal, the bell rang, shattering the enchanting moment. He stood up and walked to the trash can, tossing the wipe before turning to face me once more.
“I have wet wipes in my desk because I never know when I’ll need them,” he said.
“Oh.”
“I can make them stop,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“The . . . bullying.”
I grabbed my books and stood up.
“No. There’s nothing you can do,” I said, walking to the door. “They’ll grow tired of it eventually.”
“It’s not right,” Mr. Connelly said. “I can do something about it.”
“No, Mr. Connelly,” I said. “Please don’t. You’ll only make it worse.”
He looked angry, but not with me. He looked angry because he knew I was right. There wasn’t really anything he could do. He remembered high school. He knew the rules, fair or unfair.
“Let me give you a late pass,” he said, walking to his desk and scrawling his signature on a pink slip of paper. I took it, unlocked the door, and slunk out without a word.
I stared at my hands in every class for the rest of the day replaying Mr. Connelly’s ministrations. He had to know it was inappropriate. Why would he touch me like that? And why did I let him? I could have said no. I could have walked away. But I didn’t want to. I wanted him to clean my hands, to say kind things to me, to make me laugh. I realized that Mr. Connelly was one of the only nice men in my life right now. Did he sense that? And was he taking advantage of it?
***
“I’ve got a proposition for you.”
I watched a tall girl with long black hair plop her lunch tray carelessly on the table across from me. A few of her steamed vegetables flew out of their container, landing in front of me with a wet plunk. I looked down at my own vegetables and decided I wasn’t hungry.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I’m Avery,” she replied, opening her chocolate milk. She grinned and took a swig, then got right down to business. “Okay, so I’ve been watching you the past few weeks.”
“Creepy.”
“Totally, but just hear me out. I’ve been watching you, and I know you don’t have any friends. I know what’s going on with you.”
“You do?” I shifted nervously in my seat.
“Mmhmm. You made a huge mistake and got in major trouble with your parents, and now they won’t let you do a thing, right? They won’t let you out of their sight. Am I right?”
“Um . . .”
“You can’t drive. You can’t go anywhere except school and church. I’ve seen you at church, by the way. People keep asking when you’re coming back to youth group.”
“Never,” I replied.