Chapter 6
Gabriel drummed his fingers on his desk impatiently. She was in the school. When he'd interviewed with the school board on Friday he'd detected her scent, faint but familiar in the hallways. It had been fairly easy to get the substitute position, as teachers seemed to be in short supply. He had never been a teacher, but he had a glowing (but fake) resume to impress the school board. His employment was conditional on passing background checks, but he wasn't worried about that. His background was squeaky clean, and there were no official records of the work that he really did for a living. A few phone calls and a few favors called in, and he had plenty of references to verify his imaginary career as a high school English teacher.
By the time Gabriel entered the classroom for his first class behind the principal, the classroom had been awash in the sweet scent of lilacs and violets. The floral scent was absolutely intoxicating, and he wanted to immediately abandon this pretext of being a teacher. He was ready to sniff the students one by one to suss her out. But his mother's advice echoed in his head. Go slow and build trust. And strangely, Gabriel couldn’t pinpoint which girl in the class was the One, even when he walked around the room. Several of the girls were ogling him, their immature and hungry gazes sweeping over his body, but as he looked at each one of them in turn, he felt /nothing, he didn't feel any connection.
Shouldn't he just know? He had surely reached the epicenter of the "pull" on his soul, so why couldn't he pinpoint her? He had difficulty suppressing his frustration and keeping a calm, amiable face.
The bell rang, and the students shuffled out. The scent dissipated, but enough lingered just to tease him, and remind him just how close he was.
He taught two other classes, CP English and standard English. The students were obviously bored and uninterested. Mrs. Dexter's teaching style had been dry and dull. As he sat correcting assignments, he realized that most of the kids wrote the same kind of cookie-cutter essays, following some kind of formula that Mrs. Dexter must have taught them. They were academically correct but boring and unoriginal.
He picked up the next essay in the pile. It had been handwritten on college-ruled paper in small, neat cursive writing. He sat back and read, his eyebrows inching higher with each paragraph. Now here was a writer! He checked the title page to verify the name. "Honorera Talbot". It was thoughtful, original, a little provoking, and very well written. It was the kind of essay that universities were looking for. He took a pen and gave her an A, then added a note, "Please type and resubmit." He tried to remember which student was Honorera Talbot, but he couldn't recall. He had met too many young people that day to put names and faces together. Honorera was such a strange, old-fashioned sounding name, he would have remembered it if he had heard it.
He loosened his tie and reminded himself to be patient.
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There was something weird about her first-period English class. All the girls were whispering about how hot the substitute teacher was. Honorera also admired him from under the cover of her hoodie. She thought if a man was that good-looking, he was not going to be single and available, and he certainly wasn't going to be interested in some giggly high school kid. That didn't stop the girls in the front row from practically throwing themselves at his feet. Kara Goodnick was showing so much cleavage today, Honorera thought her breasts might fall right out of her shirt.
But the strange energy must be more than just his sexual appeal because she felt the tension in the air like the whole room was holding its breath in anticipation. When she glanced around, students were generally minding their own business, doing their work, or whispering with their friends. No one else seemed particularly affected by the atmosphere of the room. It couldn’t be just her, could it?
There was also an overpowering smell in the room, something warm and delicious, like hot caramel. Mr. Shepherd had a cup of coffee on his desk, and she wondered absently if the scent came from the coffee. She’d never cared for coffee before, but if it tasted half as good as it smelled, she might convert.
He was lecturing something about how the sixties hippy culture had influenced American writers, and she was half listening as she alternately doodled and took notes. Honorera felt uncomfortable and antsy. Maybe, she thought, I’m hypoglycemic. Maybe I need to eat something. That must be why the smell of caramel was driving her crazy. As he talked, Mr. Shepherd walked randomly up and down the aisles. She slouched down and covered her face as he approached her corner. She hoped he would just move on and ignore her. Instead, he tapped on her desk. "Excuse me, doodlebug. What is your name?"
The class snickered, and she shrank further back in her chair, her mouth clamped shut.
"That's Honorera!" somebody offered. "She never talks!"
"Honorera Talbot? Your last essay was extraordinary. Congratulations."
His unexpected compliment made her look up involuntarily, right into his face. She stared into his gray eyes and felt the strangest sensation. She was dizzy, she was sinking, the rest of the classroom was fading away. It was like falling off a cliff in a dream. She wanted to reach for him, touch him... Her hand actually started the motion.
She tore her eyes away and looked down at her hands, embarrassed. What the hell was wrong with her today?
She really needed to eat something. She felt close to fainting just then... and she thought she must be hallucinating. She thought for a moment that she'd seen something in Mr. Shepherd's expression, something needy and hungry.
He cleared his throat and continued up the aisle, picking up on his lecture about the younger generation finding their voice during the war protests of the 60s as though nothing had just transpired between them, reassuring her that whatever she thought she had seen, it was only her imagination.
When the bell rang, Honorera sprinted for the door with lightning speed, thanking God that if nothing else, she was fast. She went to the girl's restroom and locked herself in a stall. She still felt strange. Her head felt heavy, her stomach was churning, and she felt off-balance. She thought about going to the school nurse but decided against it. If she was really sick, they would call Uncle Tanner, and that would be a disaster.
She let herself out of the dingy stall and went to the sink where she splashed some cold water on her face. She looked at herself in the streaky mirror. Her cheeks were flushed like she had a fever. Her eyes were overly bright. The bruise on her cheekbone where Uncle Tanner had backhanded her in the kitchen was already fading into ugly shades of yellow and green. She dug around in her backpack and found enough spare change to buy a granola bar from the vending machine.
“It's just low blood sugar,” she told herself. “Everything is fine.”
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