Chapter 6
CHAPTER
“Oh my God, that’s exactly what she sounds like.”
Jocelyn shut her locker, laughing at a joke Lucas had told.
They weren’t a thing —but a few weeks back, they’d fooled around.
Even though Lucas’s home life was shittier than hers, he always seemed to have a smile on his face.
Jocelyn appreciated that quality more than most girls her age, who were focused only on looks.
She found Lucas unconventionally handsome, with his shaggy hair, prominent nose, and wiry frame.
“I gotta run,” Lucas said. “My class is at the other end of the building, and Dickson locks the door if you’re one second late. I already have detention twice this week.”
“See you later.”
Jocelyn had finished packing her books into her book bag when she felt a presence come up behind her, just before a heavy palm wrapped over her shoulder. Somehow, she knew who it was.
“Hello, Jocelyn.”
“Hi, Mr. Sawyer.” She turned to look up at him. His presence made her feel calmer. And yet nervous, too. How was that possible?
He lifted his chin down the hall. “Who was that?”
“Lucas.”
Mr. Sawyer was silent, yet the tension set in his jaw spoke volumes. He was waiting for more.
“He’s just a friend.”
The muscle in his cheek ticked.
“My . . . ummm, friend is sort of hanging around with him. He was looking for her.”
Mr. Sawyer’s face softened. “Keep your focus on your schoolwork. Not boys.”
Jocelyn nodded. “I do.”
He smiled. “Good. How are you today?”
Her insides grew warm. No one ever cared to ask how she was doing.
“I’m okay.” The memory of how she’d felt alone in the classroom with him the other day hit, and she lowered her gaze to stare at his shirt.
A crisp button-up, ironed, neat. It made her realize she should be trying harder, in her slightly rumpled secondhand clothes.
“Good. I have an assignment for you.”
She couldn’t help it—her eyes shot up, meeting his, wide with curiosity, excitement. But she immediately grew nervous that she might disappoint him. “Okay.” Her voice was tentative.
“I’d like you to write an essay for me on how your mother’s drinking makes you feel.
Really . . .” He paused, gave it a moment’s thought.
“Pour all your heart and emotion into it. Strike to the bone. Understand? I want all of your emotion. Don’t leave anything unsaid.
” His hand touched her shoulder again, and a jolt shot through her body. She liked it, hoped he’d never move.
But a moment later, it was gone. Cool air filled the space between them. A slam of a nearby locker brought her back to real life.
“Yes, sir,” she murmured. “I won’t leave anything unsaid.”
“Good. Now get to class. Keep under the radar. Don’t look for trouble.”
That night, Jocelyn set aside everything—even eating dinner—to write.
And write she did. Every time she paused, she remembered the way Mr. Sawyer had looked at her, the way her skin lit up when he touched her—thinking about it, goose bumps sprang up all over her body.
She forced her focus back to the task at hand and let emotions pour from her.
Words flew from her keyboard like nothing she’d experienced before.
The following day, she waited until after school, then went to Mr. Sawyer’s classroom. She knocked quietly on his door, and he opened it immediately, like he’d been waiting for her to arrive.
His dark eyes studied her. “Yes?” he asked curtly.
“I have it.” She held up the sheaf of papers, neatly stapled together. “The assignment.”
“Good.” He opened the door, allowed her entrance. Jocelyn took a few steps in and paused, feeling a thrill run up her spine when she heard the loud click as he engaged the lock on the door behind her.
Her stomach swam, but not with nerves this time—with excitement , even if she didn’t fully understand why. She did know this meant they couldn’t be interrupted. That she, alone, would receive his attention until he dismissed her.
Mr. Sawyer stepped in front of her—right up in her space. Like sunshine, he made her warm, and she wanted to bask in the glow.
She lifted her paper. He looked at it but didn’t take it from her hands.
Instead, he turned on his heel, went back to his desk, perched on the edge, and studied her.
She blushed under the intense scrutiny. And suddenly, she remembered how much truth she’d put in the paper she’d written.
How much of herself—her cringeworthy, true self—she’d written into each page.
What would he think of her after he read them?
Her mouth opened—she was going to tell him that, actually, she should edit it one last time, or that she’d realized she forgot something or—
“Please kneel, Jocelyn.”
Her body froze. Kneel? She laughed nervously. “You’re joking, right?”
But there wasn’t a trace of humor in her teacher’s face. Mr. Sawyer pushed off the desk, rising to full height, which now seemed taller than she’d ever noticed. “I will not repeat myself, Miss Burton. When you’re in this classroom, receiving my help, you’ll do as I say. Is that understood?”
“Uhh . . . yeah.”
“The word is yes , not yeah .”
“Oh. Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir.”
He smiled, and Jocelyn’s eyes locked with Mr. Sawyer’s once again.
A shiver ran up her spine—not the creepy-crawly kind, but the kind that comes from a surge of excitement pulsing through your body.
She liked the way he looked at her. She liked having his sole focus, as being the object of attention was an honor rarely bestowed on her.
“Very good. Now . . . right there.” He pointed to the floor next to a desk. “Kneel, keep your eyes down, and read the essay to me aloud.”
Again, she almost questioned him—why did she have to kneel? But his face was stern, and he was waiting, so instead, she swallowed her words. After all, she’d come here. She wanted his help and had agreed to write this thing. So she couldn’t back out now.
The hard laminate floor was cool against her knees. She cleared her throat, traced the first printed words with her eyes. Was she really going to do this?
“‘My first memory of my mother . . .’” she began.
And suddenly, she was reading. Remembering each moment she’d written into this essay, how alone she’d felt.
All the nights she’d cried herself to sleep, wondering if when she woke, her mother would be home.
And if she was home, if she’d still be alive, or if she’d have killed herself with alcohol and drugs.
Before she knew what was happening, Jocelyn was sobbing through her words, hot trails of tears streaking down her cheeks, no doubt marring the eyeliner she’d put on just for Mr. Sawyer.
Eventually, Jocelyn got through all six pages. She read the last line, the last words, and stifled back a last sob, embarrassed at herself—how weak she was, how she couldn’t even read the paper she’d written aloud without turning into a baby.
Mr. Sawyer remained at his desk, unmoving. Watching her. There was a gleam in his eyes, something that made her think he liked the essay—but then his jaw hardened.
“Where are you supposed to be looking, Miss Burton?”
She instantly bowed her head again, looking back at the floor, at her inked pages covered in splotchy tears.
“That was very good,” he said. And her pulse quickened. He thought her writing was very good . “But,” he bit out, “you need more discipline. Stay on your knees. Eyes down.”
She waited for further instructions, but there were none.
She didn’t dare look up, but she could hear him, moving about the classroom, jostling things at his desk.
Five minutes passed, then ten. Fifteen, twenty.
Her knees ached, her palms were sweaty, and her throat felt swollen.
More than anything, she wanted to stretch her legs out, just for a moment of relief. But still, she stayed there.
She wanted to please Mr. Sawyer.
Eventually, shoes came into view. Shiny, leather, expensive-looking ones. So much nicer than her grubby sneakers.
“Jocelyn, stand up.”
She wobbled as she rose, a steady hand on her elbow keeping her from toppling over. Mr. Sawyer gently touched her cheek, and she nearly flinched in surprise. But when he stroked her skin with his thumb, she leaned into his palm. It felt so good, like he cherished her.
“You are beautiful, Jocelyn. Do you know that?”
She didn’t believe him, but she didn’t want to challenge his words, either.
“You did very well today. I’m very happy with your efforts.”
“Th-thank you,” she managed. Inside, she felt like she was trembling. Or was she trembling on the outside, too? Shit, she didn’t want him to see. But still, his hand on her remained steady. Whatever he saw, he liked. And she wanted him to like her.
“I look forward to next time.” His words were soft. She waited, hoping he’d say more, hoping he’d say when “next time” might be. Instead, he reached into his pocket and took out something small, something shiny. “I have a gift for you.”
“For me?”
His warm voice cooled, turned clipped. “Don’t be an echo. Be a voice, Jocelyn.”
She wasn’t even sure what that meant, but she didn’t want to ask and sound stupid. “Okay.”
“Okay what ?”
“Okay . . . sir.”
Mr. Sawyer placed a small pendant in the palm of her hand and closed her fingers around it.
“Good girl. You may go.” He went to the door, unlocked it, and opened it for her.
But as she approached, he put his arm out, stopping her from passing.
“Next time, you will not question my instructions. Do you understand?”
Jocelyn nodded. “Yes.” Mr. Sawyer continued to stare at her until she realized what he was waiting for. “Yes, sir ,” she added.
He removed his arm, allowing her passage, but caught her eyes one last time. “Good. Because in the future, Miss Burton, failing to obey will have consequences.”