The Art of Lying

Chapter 1

I think I had a nightmare like this once.

Hundreds of eyes on me as I enter a large room. I look down to make sure that I am not naked.

Nope.

I am still wearing a silky black shirt and a pair of dark gray trousers that hug my round hips. Yet, I instinctively pull the books in my arms closer, as if they are hiding my breasts from view. My clunky flat dress shoes echo, and my steps slow down.

It has been years since the auditorium was filled with more than one dozen students. I make my way to the dark walnut writing desk, meeting their fixed gaze. Their bodies are stiff and straight, almost as if they are waiting for an order.

Maybe they are. That is what they have been used to in the King's Legions. The war only ended one year ago, and most of the youngest members were stationed by the border. Now they have the opportunity to live beyond it. So why does all of this feel so wrong?

I relieve myself of the weight of the books and stand in front of the desk, leaning back against it, crossing one ankle over the other. My unruly dark and wavy hair bounces forward over my shoulder, reaching my waist.

One student in the second row flinches. Her brown eyes match mine, but her complexion is lighter, and one red scar drags down her cheek.

I sweep my eyes across them all.

Along one side, there are tall windows that stretch from the floor to the ceiling, pale light coming from a cloudy day in Erohal. The walls are refinished with oily brown paint and mounted with wall sconces that illuminate the room further with warm yellow bulbs. In the middle, a staircase leads to each row of joint desks and benches made from the same material as my desk. A sea of heads is pointed toward me unyieldingly.

I feel uneasy. A wave of force pushes against me, but I will admit that for the first time in thirty-four years, I cannot say or name what I am picking up from them. It is strong but hollow, almost like absence. It is haunting.

They all look similar somehow, and not only because they are wearing the gray and white uniform, made up of a shirt, a vest, and pants. They all have short hair, even if it varies in length; none of them has hair longer than their shoulders. One of them has a black leather eye patch. A couple of them have scars on their faces, necks, or hands. A few have crutches leaning against their desk.

Yet they all blend like a horde.

"Good afternoon, everybody. I am Zelia Ashcroft, your Creative Arts Professor."

About half of them murmur a greeting in response.

"In this class, we will discuss art on a foundational level but we will also dive deep into every field, from fiction to journalism, analyzing every medium for unleashing creativity." I walk around my desk and open a drawer, grabbing a stack of paper.

"In your final exams..."

I stop, suddenly staring at the papers in my hand. I feel like I am standing in some gravitational field, my head being pulled and pushed in different directions. My arm feels unusually heavy and, suddenly, I realize there is a small lump in my throat, and I know I am breathing, but still it feels like it is blocking my lungs.

A student in the corner of the front row speaks, "Professor Ashcroft?"

Her blond hair is shockingly light, almost white. It falls flat around her face, framing thin pink lips and sparkly blue eyes that are extraordinarily large and round.

I blink at her.

"You know what?" The words are coming out by themselves. I can't stop them. "This is ridiculous."

A few heads turn toward their classmates, creating a slow and fragmented wave as I look up.

"I am not doing this." I throw the papers down and shove the drawer closed before standing in the center. "Every student in this class has passed with flying colors. You do not need to take any exams or tests. At the end of this school year, I will mark you all with the highest grade."

The silence shatters like glass, and the entire auditorium buzzes with murmurs. I take a deep breath.

"Is this some sort of test?" a young man asks from the back of the room. He still has a buzz cut, but his brown eyes are warm, though his strong brows are drawn together in a serious frown. He is angry and frustrated, a beat of fear throbbing beneath his skin.

"No. It is not. No one in this room is required to show up to this class. There is absolutely no benefit for you to do it. But if you want to, the door is open."

"You can't do that," another student in the front row says uncertainly. He is not accusing me. He is almost asking.

"And yet I am doing it," I answer calmly. "I am not going to sit here and make you prove yourself to me through the works of artists who spoke the loudest against the impact and injustices of war, even if I do appreciate irony."

I soften before continuing. "If you want to learn about the arts, you can come back next lesson. I will teach you everything that you need and want to know, but I will not force it on you, and you will not force it on yourself."

"Then what will we do?" the woman next to him asks. Her brown hair almost looks red.

"Whatever the hell you want. In fact..." I take one step back and stretch one arm, pointing to the door. "I would like you all to leave right now and consider this."

Everybody is frozen, stuck in their place. I raise my brows at them and nudge my head toward the door.

The student with the buzz cut stands slowly, looking around, then grabs his backpack from the floor and walks down the stairs. He keeps his eyes on me when he passes, as if I might suddenly change my mind.

"That's the spirit. Be the leader," I say with a smile.

His shoulders sink as he disappears from view. A few more students stand and disappear. One more group disappears before half the room follows them, and finally the remaining students grab their things, whispering to each other, and a steady stream of people goes out.

It's only when the last few reach the door that I notice the figure standing by the door.

Oh shoot.

The woman is in a black corseted dress with black and red lace covering her collarbones, while the higher front hem reveals knee-length boots. Bright gray eyes study me furiously over those signature half-circle blue spectacles.

I should probably have run this by Principal Valery Jones first.