Miss, Do I Know You?

07 - Monday, October 5

"Chamomile? Great choice," I said, glancing at the wet patch on my chest. "And to think I almost didn't wear a bra today. You'd be seeing more than you probably should."

When I finally lifted my gaze to meet her unimpressed one, I found her also drenched in the liquid. The damage was way more grievous than mine, her book and cup held aloft, teardrops of tea spattering onto the floor.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

"I'm drenched in tea, Kayla. And from the way you're staring, I'm guessing it's see-through."

I tried to suppress my smirk and maintain eye contact. "Don't worry. I won't say anything about that tattoo on your chest."

Detaching the wet shirt from her body, she rolled her eyes. "Just stop talking."

"Take this." I slipped my jacket off.

"You're also wet."

"Trust me, I'm anything but," I muttered to myself. "I'm not exactly into my clothes being ruined, but you do you."

Her sigh echoed my words, yet the subtle twitch at the corner of her lips betrayed the ghost of a smile before she averted her gaze. "This just had to happen on the only day when I decide to wear my only white shirt."

"Shouldn't have been lurking around the corner then," I shot back. "If you were so intent on running away from me, why did you stand there?"

"Because you confuse me, Kayla."

The sentiment was mutual, dense and palpable in the air, her conflicting emotions radiating through. She was relentlessly striving to keep an arm's length away, yet beneath her impassive exterior, the struggle was as plain as day.

Matching her pace as she began to stride away, I lowered my voice to a hush, conscious of the people milling around us in the busy hallway. "Can we talk?"

"There's nothing to talk about."

"There's a lot to talk about. Like seven years worth of talking, Alex."

"It's still Miss Martin," she uttered, her stiff demeanor unflinching.

A puzzled frown crept onto my face as I wondered aloud, "How does one grow up to be so annoying?"

"Could ask you the same thing," she said to herself, fumbling with her keys. As soon as she unlocked her classroom, I slithered past her. "Yeah, sure," she sighed out. My presence was clearly unwelcome. "Why don't you come inside and make my day even worse?"

"Isn't chamomile supposed to relax you?"

"I think you're supposed to drink it, not soak it up through your skin," she retorted, sighing as she retrieved a sweater from her bag. "Can you just leave? I think I've made it very clear that I want to be alone."

"But why? It didn't seem that way days ago. All you wanted to do was talk to me."

"If you're so stubborn, at least turn around."

I complied by swiveling to face the door, her movements echoing in the silence. "There's no use in hiding your tattoo anymore."

"I don't care," she said with a sharp huff of air from her nose. "I'm just not so sure that my student should see me changing."

At the sound of her settling into her chair, I slowly pivoted back around, my brows drawn together in confusion. "You know that I'm not just your student, Alex."

The steel-edged sternness etched into her gaze was enough to inspire an instinctive retreat. "Do I have to repeat myself? Don't call me Alex."

Her unwavering adherence to the masquerade of formality confused me and clouded the years of familiarity between us. Addressing her as Miss Martin felt alien, a mismatched cog in our relationship, especially now as she stood before me—no longer a distant authority but the girl whose friendship had once colored my world.