“It’s so interesting,” she said. “Such wonderful angles. I’d love to draw you sometime.”
That’s how I ended up at her studio the first time. She uses it on occasional weeknights, too, so I told my parents I had a study group at the library and took off for Boston. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alive as I did that night, every nerve humming while I sat beside her on a wooden bench as she sketched. She kept putting down her pad and pencil so she could touch my cheek or my chin, making slight adjustments to my pose. Nothing else happened then, or since, but it feels like it’s only a matter of time.
I’m not clueless. I know she’s engaged, and my teacher, and older. Only by seven years, though. My aunt and uncle have a ten-year age difference, and nobody cares. I mean, yeah, they met when Uncle Rob was thirty-five and Aunt Lisa was forty-five, and they didn’t work together or anything like that, so I get that it’s different. But are people supposed to abandon potential soul mates just because of a few socially constructed complications?
Not that my dads would ever see it that way. Like I said, I tell Wes an abnormal amount of stuff—but not this. Even if I’d been tempted, I’d have known better after Carlton College fired that professor for sleeping with his student.
“They’re both adults, though,” I’d said, thinking about Lara and my own eighteenth birthday coming up next spring.
“There’s a power differential between teachers and students,” Wes pointed out. “It’s why we have a policy in place.” Then his lips thinned. “Even if we didn’t, I will always question the judgment and motives of an adult who gets involved with a teenager. Wrong is wrong.”
I know that’s what everyone would say. And it’s how I feel when I pass Coach Kendall in the hall, and he gives me a cheery greeting even though I don’t play any sports and he barely knows me. Wrong is wrong, I think. But then I get a text from Lara that makes my entire body flood with warmth and happiness, and I wonder, Is life really that black-and-white?
Lara breaks into my thoughts by clearing her throat. She adjusts her baseball cap over her blond waves, and I realize I’ve probably been staring dopily for a good thirty seconds. I tend to do that. “So what’s going on, Cal?” she asks. “Why the urgency, and more importantly, why aren’t you in school?”
Ugh. I hate when she talks to me like I’m just a random student. “I skipped with a couple of friends,” I say. Her eyes pop, and I quickly add, “Don’t worry, they’re not here. I ditched them in Boston so I could meet you, because…” Then I trail off, not sure what to say next. She’s acting so normal, like she has no clue about what happened to Boney. And granted, the news just broke and it’s her day off, but…he died in her studio. That’s what you lead with, Cal, I think, but the words won’t come. Instead, I find myself asking, “Where were you this morning?”
Lara’s brow creases with mild impatience. “I told you. I took a ceramics class.”
“But you said…last night, when we talked about getting breakfast today, you said you’d be going to the studio after.”
“Right,” she says, sipping her drink. “Then a spot opened up last minute, so I took it.”
I wait a beat to see if she has more to add. I’m starting to feel uncomfortably warm, and roll my shirtsleeves up higher. “Well, as it turns out, I was at the studio this morning, and—”
“Hold on,” she interrupts, frowning. “You were at the studio? Cal, you can’t do that. I’m sorry I disappointed you this morning, but you can’t just come looking for me. Especially with your friends in tow. What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t looking for you,” I protest. Although…maybe, in some corner of my brain, I was. Is that why I suggested getting coffee near the studio, or stopping by the art supply store? Because I was hoping to catch a glimpse of her? I push the thought away and add, “That’s not my point. My point is that Boney Mahoney was there, too.”
Lara blinks, confused. “Who?”
“Boney Mahoney. Brian, I mean. Brian Mahoney, from school.”
It feels weird to admit now, even to myself, but when I first saw Boney walking through that door this morning—I was jealous. All I could think was that he was there because Lara had asked him to be. Boney’s not her type, I thought, but then it hit me that nobody would ever consider me her type, either.
Before I could get too moody about it, though, everything went straight to hell.
“Oh, sure, okay,” Lara says, but she still looks puzzled. “What about Brian?”
I take a deep breath. I can’t believe I have to be the one to tell her, but—“He died this morning.”
“Oh my God. Really?” Lara’s hands fly to her cheeks, her eyes widening. “Oh, how awful. What happened?”
I swallow hard. I don’t know how to deliver the rest of the news, except to blurt it out. “I’m not sure yet, but from what they’re saying on the news, he was killed. Injected with some kind of drug, maybe. In your studio.”