Chapter 3
Iris
I’m holding the letter in my hands.
Three pages, handwritten and signed by Ms. Price. Vice Principal Holloway said she left it for whoever would take over the art room, a welcome note with advice from nearly forty years of teaching.
I can’t help but feel like she’s speaking directly to me.
At the bottom, she included her phone number and email, in case I ever need to reach out.
The thought sends nerves fluttering through me.
Of course I want to. Ms. Price shaped my whole life.
She’s the one who sent me the email in the first place, a notification from my old high school email, after ten years of no contact.
Just a link to the application.
But there’s a nagging voice in my head that wonders if she would approve of who I am now. She always seemed open-minded, and I think she knew, on some level, that I was different.
But it’s still Rosehill.
I don’t think many people here would accept me if they knew the truth.
The halls are quiet now, with most of the students already gone home for the day, so when I hear heavy footsteps, I look up.
I immediately wish I hadn’t.
He’s tall, with broad shoulders and chestnut brown hair. The kind of small-town handsome that makes you think he can fix your car and break your heart all in the same afternoon.
And he’s headed straight for me.
I look away, hyper-aware of everything about myself. The dress I almost changed out of, the makeup I applied this morning.
Can he tell there’s something different about me?
I fight the urge to turn and walk away, which would be anything but subtle at this point. Because when I glance back, he’s standing directly in front of me, looking at me with the prettiest blue eyes I’ve ever seen.
Close enough that I catch the warm scent of coffee and something faintly woodsy.
My stomach does a flip that I do not approve of.
“Hey,” he says with a kind smile that might have made my sixteen-year-old self want to believe in love, before I learned better.
The kind of love my heart still secretly pines for.
“I don’t think we’ve met yet,” he holds out his hand. “I’m Nate Wesley. Football coach, PE teacher. I heard we got a new art teacher and figured I should introduce myself.”
Nate Wesley.
I remember him.
I remember every interaction I ever had with him.
My mind plays them all back too quickly while I’m unable to say anything of substance back.
His lips start to turn down into a confused frown, but when he starts to put his hand back down, I reach out and take it.
His grip is firm, his big hands calloused and warm, and-
“H-hi,” I stutter out, shaking his hand for way too long. “Yes, I’m the new art teacher. Iris Patel. It’s nice to meet you.”
Please don’t recognize me.
Please don’t look at me and see him.
He smiles again, ignoring the fact that I’m making a complete fool of myself. “Well, Ms. Patel. Welcome to Rosehill. You got some big shoes to fill, Ms. Price was a good lady.”
The corner of my mouth turns up at the praise for my old teacher. “Yes, well. If I could be half as good a teacher as Ms. Price, I would be very happy.”
Why is he looking at me like that?
Why are my cheeks going hot?
He laughs, only an exhale of breath, but it still does something weird to my heart. “From the looks of it, you’re off to a good start.”
“Oh. Um. Thank you.”
He tips his head in acknowledgment and takes a step back. “I should probably get to practice before the boys start getting antsy.”
I nod, a touch too fast for it to look casual. “Right. Yes. Of course.”
He turns like he’s about to go, then glances back over his shoulder. “It was nice to meet you, Ms. Patel.”
The rest of the students file into my classroom as the final bell rings.
Last week, we spent most of our class time going over the syllabus and playing the introduction games the school encourages.
This week, we get to start.
I stand up from my desk and move toward the front of the room, smoothing the fabric of my skirt, praying that my nerves aren’t as on display as they feel.
You’ve got this, I remind myself. You belong here.
I glance at the bulletin board where I pinned up some of my own art, bright colors, abstract shapes, simple, but enough to set the tone for our first lesson.
Most of the students begin to quiet down, but a few don’t.
One of them pulls his hood up, and another lets out an exaggerated sigh the second I open my mouth.
“Good morning,” I say, higher than I would normally. “Last week was for us to get to know each other better, but today we’re going to start on some things I think you’ll all enjoy.”
In the back, one of the boys leans over to his friend. “Can’t believe we gotta take art,” he says. “This kinda shit’s for losers.”
It takes everything in me not to react.
“For those of you who are not happy to be here.” I keep my voice steady and my chin up. “I hope this class will change your mind. Art isn’t for any certain type of person. And if you can look past any previously formed opinions, I think that there will be something for everyone this semester.”
The boy yawns loud enough to turn heads.
Don’t let them get to you.
“Let’s start with something simple. On your desk, you’ll find a blank card and a pencil. I want you to draw something that represents you. It doesn’t have to be perfect. But it should be honest.”
A rustle of paper. A few groans. One of the boys in the back raises his hand with a smirk. “Can I draw a dick?”
He and his friends laugh.
Heat threatens to rise in my face, but I fight it with everything I have.
“If that’s what you want to represent you, then go ahead.” He blinks in shock, and a girl with pink hair giggles in the back.
I turn and continue writing the instructions on the board, but I can’t help it. I’m shaken.
I spent years dreaming of standing at the front of a classroom like this, but right now?
I just feel like a joke.
It was supposed to be different this time.
The teacher’s lounge smells like coffee and microwaved leftovers that makes my stomach turn while lights buzz overhead, too bright.
I sit at the far end of the table, hunched over a paper cup of tea I’m not drinking, trying to stop my hands from shaking.
I shouldn’t let it get to me.
They’re teenagers being stupid.
But their laughter echoes in my ears, taking me right back to being a scared kid, picked on relentlessly. I tried to be strong, but right now?
I don’t know why I even came back.
I take a deep breath and stare hard at my tea, willing the tears to stay put. If I cry, someone will see, and if someone sees, they’ll ask, and how am I supposed to explain—
“Rough class?”
I glance up to find another teacher standing in the doorway, coffee in one hand, leaning against the frame, with her curly hair pulled into a loose bun, looking at me like she knows exactly what I’m feeling.
“Sorry,” she says, stepping into the room. “I can leave if you want to be alone, but trust me, I’ve been there.”
I glance down at my cup. “Doubtful.”
She sits in the seat across from me. “I’m Layla. English teacher. Trust me, girl. If you think those little assholes care more about English than art, you’re sadly mistaken. All these kids care about is prom and football. That’s just how it is around here.”
“Iris,” I say, looking back up. “How’d you know I’m the art teacher?”
Layla shrugs. “You’ve got paint under your fingernails.”
I glance down, and she’s right. “Oh.”
“Plus, you kinda have an art teacher vibe. With the hippie skirts and dangly earrings.” She gestures toward my earrings.
I guess she’s right.
There’s a pause, but it’s not uncomfortable. She takes a sip of her coffee, studying me. “Want to talk about it?”
I shrug, but something about Layla, her inviting energy, makes me want to open up. “I had a rough class. Some of the kids were…” I trail off, biting the inside of my lip. “I don’t know. Rude. Dismissive.”
“Let me guess. Football players?”
I purse my lips. “How did you…”
“Because they’re always rude in art. Or English. Or anywhere a woman dares to ask them to reflect on something that doesn’t have a scoreboard.”
That drags a real laugh from me, quiet and sudden. I press a hand to my mouth, and Layla grins along with me.
“Yeah,” I exhale. “Exactly.”
She sets her cup down, taking on a gentle tone. “It’s not you, you know.”
“I know, but I still hoped today would go differently.”
“Of course you did.” She pauses. “First real class?”
I nod.
“You’re gonna be fine. Better than fine, actually. Hell, if you made it through your first Monday without crying in the bathroom, you’re already ahead of where I was.”
And hey,” Layla leans in, “Football guys aren’t all bad, y’know? Coach Wesley’s a good guy, and if they keep giving you a hard time, he’ll handle it.”
I ignore the flutter in my chest at the mention of Nate.
“I met him last week,” I say, not exactly the truth, but no one needs to know that. “He seemed nice.”
“Oh, he is.” She smirks, “Good in the sack too.”
I open my mouth and then close it again, trying to find the right words to ask the hundreds of questions suddenly going through my brain at that revelation.
“Are you and Coach Wesley…?”
“God no. Ew.” She holds her hand out, showing me a very nice ring. “That’s what the word is around town. I’m happily married.”
I ignore the sudden wave of relief I feel at the knowledge that they’re not dating.
“He seems sweet.”
Layla’s expression turns curious. “You like him?”
I choke on my tea. “What? No! I mean… no. How could I? I just met him.”
“Mhm.” She doesn’t press, but a knowing look that I don’t like stays on her face.
“I’m glad I met you,” I say, hoping to change the subject. “I was starting to wonder if I made a mistake taking this job.”
“You didn’t.” Her voice is firm. “You belong here, Iris. And if anyone makes you feel like you don’t, you send them to me.”
I look at her, surprised by the sincerity in her tone. “Thanks, Layla.”
“That’s what work wives are for,” she says with a giggle, and I can’t help but join in.