Chapter 7. Liam
News travels fast at Aspire. Today, the news is "new goth hot art teacher, young as fuck, but maybe a MILF."
She's late. Ten minutes past the bell, and the classroom is already a riot.
The room used to be a gym, or a storage shed, now an art room, the largest room we have, as art is mandatory for every degree as a form of therapy.
It has long wooden tables and benches. Smells of paint and glue.
I love that, actually. For some reason I'm obsessed with the smell of glue and paint.
The supply caddy is full of blunt pencils, chewed-up erasers, ancient watercolors, and mismatched markers.
Jack is already drawing on the table. Not paper.
He is such a badass for that, and Ethan would have his ass for it too.
He's sketching a perfect rendering of a cock and balls, except the balls are shaped like the planet Saturn.
I'm already giggling. Miles, beside him, is reading an ancient biology textbook that's been rebound with silver duct tape.
Harry is using scissors to cut an eraser into the shape of a tiny gun.
Ethan sits at the back, arms folded, that green-eyed flatline of disapproval radiating at all of us.
I should be hyped. I love art. I love any class where they let you use your hands, and the expectations are so low that breathing in the right direction gets you a passing grade.
But instead, I'm jumpy. She was hired after Mr. Pearson, Shadow, got transferred, eventually being revealed that the reason was for "inappropriate conduct," which is a hilarious understatement for what actually happened.
They said he got transferred but we know what really happened.
And now we get a new totally punk rock teacher in his place.
It's weird, I don't usually expect good things to happen, so I'm nervous. Word is, she has purple hair.
This is how a facility full of boys acts before a new teacher comes in: like hyenas at a petting zoo.
The door swings open. Everyone goes silent for one beat.
She walks in, clutching a battered canvas bag and a stack of portfolios. And it's immediately obvious that the rumors didn’t even do her justice, she's exactly what people have been saying, and more.
She's short, her jeans are the color of blood, absolutely coated in dried paint.
Her t-shirt is ancient and soft, black with a faded vintage Joy Division cover screen-printed on it.
Her boots are scuffed black. And her hair, holy shit, it's true.
Not just purple, but a hyper-saturated grape, short and chopped in all directions.
Her eyes are ringed in black. Her ears have tiny, mismatched earrings. She radiates energy.
"Good morning," she says, like the fact that it's 10:13 AM and we're all off the rails doesn't even register.
"Sorry I'm late. Two things: one, you can call me Vikki, Victoria, or Ms. Sparks, whichever is easier.
Two, if you ever have to wait on me again, feel free to start without me.
Art is free. Unlike you all." She grins at her own joke and I laugh, loud. I can't believe she said that.
It is an absolutely legendary opening. The whole room erupts. We're not used to teachers with a sense of humor.
Harry, of course, is first to test her. "Do we get extra credit for making something about you, Ms. Sparks?" His eyebrows bounce up. "Because I think I could do a pretty sick portrait of your…"
He doesn't finish. Vikki drops her bag on the table and walks straight to where he's sitting.
"If it's a sketch of my boobs, make sure you get the left one a little bigger," she says, tapping the breast in question through the thin band tee, then leans down and looks him dead in the eye.
"That's the one with the piercing." She turns to the room.
"Anyone else want to check, or are we good? "
Some of the boys snicker. Some are genuinely floored. Harry is not used to being outmaneuvered. He recovers quick. "No further questions, ma'am."
"Excellent." She slides a box of colored pencils down the table with more force than necessary. "Color something that isn't a penis. Unless you have some deep, unresolved feelings about them. In which case, let's unpack that together."
Jack's head is on the desk, snorting. I can't stop grinning.
She addresses the class: "Alright, today is a free period.
Draw something. Paint something. If you have a project going, finish it.
If you want to start over, do that. I'll come around and see what you're working on.
" She sets herself at the front, but walks the aisles as she says it, peeking at what's going down on paper.
Harry, still recovering, mutters to the kid next to him, "She's like someone crossbred an art teacher with a punk rock babysitter." Which is, honestly, not wrong.
The room settles into a hum and a lot of talk, but she doesn't seem to mind. Some people are doing nothing but most start trying to do art. Brushes go into water, Jack starts fresh on a real piece of paper, Miles just keeps reading.
Vikki roams the room and eventually leans over Jack's shoulder after five minutes. "Holy hell," she says. "Did you do that from memory?"
"Yeah," Jack says, not looking up.
"That's a perfect Batman," she says.
He hesitates. "I just like superheroes." He points at his Batman tattoo on his neck. She looks genuinely amazed.
She crouches so she's eye-level with him. "I see the shading. You know how to blend with pencil already?"
Jack blinks, unsure if it's a trick question. "I guess? I watched YouTube videos before I got here. Been drawing since I was a little kid."
She whistles, impressed. "You have real talent, kid. When you're done, can I hang this on the wall?"
"Hell yeah," he says, flushing red.
Vikki nods, and she moves on.
She pauses by my side, scans my sketch, which is supposed to be Ethan but is more like a human-shaped blur at this point. "Who's that?"
I freeze. "It's not anyone. Just messing around."
She gives me a sly smile. "Okay, if you say so. The jawline is very specific. And the scowl. It's good, though. Try shading under the cheekbones. Give it some structure."
She shows me, just once, her hand guiding mine on the pencil, then gives it back. The contact is brief but I wasn't expecting it, and I'm not going to pretend I didn't love it.
She moves on to Miles.
He's got a blank page and is just staring at it. Vikki sits on the edge of the table.
"You drawing, or you just thinking really hard?" she asks.
Miles shrugs, eyes still on the page.
She tilts her head. "What do you like drawing?"
"Biology diagrams," he actually answers, surprising all of us.
She nods, then pulls her phone from her pocket and scrolls for a second. "Here," she says, and shows him a cross-section of a seed pod, so detailed it looks like an alien life form. "Want to try drawing it? You can make it big, abstract, whatever."
Miles nods, takes it, and starts sketching, still silent, but now focused. He's probably the only kid in this whole facility who'd touch a phone responsibly and she seems to know it somehow. Maybe it's his aura.
Ethan is the last stop.
He's got nothing on his desk except a closed notebook and a sharp pencil balanced on top. He watches her approach the way a lion might watch a zookeeper who is new to the job.
"You're not drawing," she says, not accusing, just stating a fact.
"If it's okay, miss, for a free period, I'd rather do something else," he replies. "Never saw the point in trying to do art."
"That's fair," she says, deadpan. "I never saw the point of trigonometry, but the world kept spinning anyway. If you want to use the time to do other homework, that's fine. Just don't distract anyone else."
Ethan nods. I'm not sure if he's impressed or he doesn't approve of that. In my opinion, she's impressive as fuck.
She goes to the whiteboard and starts writing, but before she gets two words up, one of the shittier residents, a guy named Nick who has a big, crooked nose and only one eyebrow, decides to make his move.
"Hey, Ms. Sparks," he calls out. "Is it true you used to be a stripper? 'Cause my boy here says he saw you dancing in Queens."
Every eye turns to her, some boys laughing.
She turns, not concerned at all. "You ever seen a stripper in real life?"
He grins, thinking he's won.
She keeps going. "Because I can assure you, none of them look like me.
I don't even own a push-up bra, let alone the kind of heels that would send me straight to the ER.
But I admire the question. You really took a risk there.
" She walks over, so she's standing right in front of him.
"Do you want to see me strip? Or is this just you trying to look cool for your friends? "
Nick looks flabbergasted.
She lowers her voice, but the whole room can hear.
"Let me make something really clear. I survived four years of foster care, two years teaching kids more dangerous than any of you in juvie, kids who actually stabbed someone, and a whole-ass master's degree where my thesis was literally about dealing with boys who try to get a rise out of women teachers.
So unless you have something genuinely new and original, you can save your attempts for the next teacher, because I will send your ass to Mr. Griff's office faster than you can say 'sexism. '"
She turns to the rest of the room. "Anyone else want to try it? I have no problem sending disrespectful guys to the Hole. It's a lot quieter there, from what I hear. Otherwise, let's keep it above the belt. Metaphorically and literally."
Nobody says a word. A few heads go down, some faces flush red, but the energy in the room shifts instantly. She's not just in control, she's un-fuck-withable.
Jack catches my eye and mouths "Holy shit" with a grin.
Nick tries to recover, mumbling, "Sorry," but she's already back at the front, completely ignoring him.
I look over at Ethan, expecting him to be impressed. Instead, he's got that tight-jawed look, suspicion radiating from every line of his body. I remember what happened with Shadow. Ethan doesn't trust adults who act like they want to help. Especially in here.
The rest of the period goes by in a blur.
Vikki circulates, giving actual feedback, positive, specific.
She also tells people to shut up twice more and has to break up an argument between two guys, Robinson and Sammi, before it could become a fight.
But no one else challenges her and things go as smoothly as they can in here.
As the bell for lunch sounds, Vikki stands at the door, high-fiving any kid who will take it. Not everybody does. Some scowl, others give her mocking looks, but she manages a few high-fives.
When I pass her, she says to me, while looking at Ethan, "Tell your friend at the back he can sit this class out, but I'm going to keep trying. Everyone has an art form. Maybe his is intimidating people. Which is an art, in its own way."
"Yeah," I say, still grinning. Ethan's face is still blank. "He's got that down."
"Here, for you." Vikki hands Jack a reference book. "Study."
Jack holds it as if it's the Holy Bible and can't even muster the strength to say thanks.
I slip into the hallway, catch up to the others. Jack is practically floating, already flipping through the reference book like it's contraband.
"That was the best class I've had in this place," he declares. "Ever."
Miles, uncharacteristically, agrees. "She's smart," he says. "Knows her stuff."
I look back through the classroom window. Vikki is already cleaning up, humming to herself, boots tapping the floor in time to a song only she hears.
Ethan's waiting by the lockers. He gives me a once-over.
"People like her don't usually last here. Don't get too attached."
I want to argue, but I know him too well. It won't change his mind. I'd rather just see if she can actually survive us.
"You're being too bitter," Jack says. "Not every new teacher is going to be another Shadow." Miles actually nods. Ethan doesn't say anything but keeps his sour expression.