A bright yellow light erupted my daze. I groggily pushed myself off the ground.
"Guess your dad is here," Donnie murmured as he pushed himself off the ground as well. "Want me to tell Vera you left?"
I nodded and whipped out my notepad again. Thanks so much, I wrote. Hope I see you again.
"Yeah, me too," Donnie said. He waved me a goodbye and turned around. I smiled to myself when I watched him take out his flask again and gulp down whatever liquid he had in it.
I followed the blinding light until eventually my dad's familiar car came into view. I slid into the passenger seat, the familiar scent and confinement of being safe overloading my senses. I leaned my head against the seat and took a deep breath.
"Rough night?" He asked. I nodded.
"I can smell beer, but I can already tell you didn't drink, so I'll let this slide."
To be honest, I hadn't even thought about getting in trouble for being at a party with drinking involved. It's not like I could get grounded for much, anyways. I usually didn't do anything after school, nor do I use my phone often. There would be nothing to take away if I were grounded.
The rest of the ride was silent, and when we reached home, my head slammed down on my pillow so fast that I had forgotten to undress, and so I slept with my dirty, beer-stained dress and Converse on.
The next morning, my father set me up with an appointment for another therapist. He claimed it was mandatory, dealing with trauma and all. None of my sessions ever ended well. Talking about my mother didn't help me at all, but all the therapists seemed to think otherwise.
"Good afternoon," the middle-aged lady said, her strawberry blond hair firmly tucked into a bun. Her face was caked with makeup. She gave me a tight smile and gestured to the red cushioned seat in front of her, in which I slowly took. I felt her eyes watching my every move, inspecting my social skills. "I'm Patricia Gomes. You may refer to me as Patricia."
I stared back at her, completely silent and fiddling with my shaking fingers. I didn't like being alone in the room with her like this. It felt like the walls were gradually closing in on me. I dropped my gaze to the floor and focused on the tiny specks of sky blue mixed into the white fuzzy rug beneath me.
"How have you been coping?" She asked.
I shrugged nonchalantly and began to pick at the sleeve of my sweater. She had placed a paper and pen in front of me on her desk, but I hadn't touched it. I refused to communicate with her.
"Poppy." She urged, nudging the paper and pen to the tip of the desk. I shook my head at her, attempting to indicate that I would not talk about it.
"If you want to get better, you need to communicate with me. I know it is hard facing what is constantly pulling you down, but it's time you take a step out of your comfort zone." Patricia said calmly. I, on the other hand, was growing impatient. This session was a waste of time and money.
I angrily shot out of my seat and left the room, slamming the door behind me. My father was sitting in the waiting room, reading a magazine that probably bored him, due to the emotionless expression on his face.
"What happened?" He asked me, placing the magazine down and standing to his height. I immediately collided into his chest and began sobbing. He stroked my hair and let me cry into him for a while, until eventually we both left the place together and drove home, the session playing out the same way it always did.
Come Monday morning, I was an eager bundle of overwhelming emotions. The classes uneventfully and sluggishly blurred by, fifth period drawing nearer but simply not quick enough.
When it finally did, anticipation was radiating off me and I was sure others could feel it. My cheeks were flushed and my palms kept shaking, but it wasn't the symptoms of a panic attack. I was literally so excited to see Mr. Lee that I could not contain myself. Just seeing his face made my day a lot better.
"Hello Poppy," Mr. Lee greeted as I walked in, taking my usual seat in the back. I turned around and casually nodded in his direction, feeling the corners of my mouth lift into an uncontrolled smile.
"What are you smiling about?" He asked, a teasing snicker escaping his lips. Before I could think of an answer, a cluster of students noisily ambled into the room, their faces blocking Mr. Lee and I from seeing each other. I heard the faint sound of him clearing his throat.
When the students finally settled in their seats, Mr. Lee shushed them all and his eyes skimmed the classroom. They stopped on me for an extra five seconds, my heart fluttering between each second as if it were going to burst out of my chest and fly away.
"Hey everybody," Mr. Lee greeted the class casually, students responding in tired hellos or good mornings.
It was raining today, but only a slight drizzle. The humidity clogged up the room, causing it to feel stuffy and hot. My hands felt sticky on the desk, so I shoved them into my pockets. Mr. Lee's hair looked all over the place; his messy curls were cutely sticking up in different directions. He kept brushing a hand through it, which seemed to only make it more messy. I happened to like it when it was unkempt and disheveled. It made me think about what it'd feel like to put my own hand through it.
"We're only copying down a few notes today. The rest of the time will be yours," Mr. Lee announced as he shuffled back to his seat. He turned around and plugged a USB into the smart board, a faint chatter of students echoing around the classroom. I bent my elbows on each side and leaned my chin on my arms, looking up through my lashes as I glimpsed at his strong build. He was clad in black pants and dark, crystal blue shirt with a black tie. The color of his shirt happened to bring out his eyes drastically.
I felt my eyes fluttering shut, but I managed to keep my pace as we copied down the notes from the board.
"Poppy? Can you come over here for a second please?" Mr. Lee asked from his desk. He quickly glanced up at me, his black glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He had the ghost of a smile appear on his lips, but just as quickly as I noticed it, it was gone.
My heart pounded in my chest as I slowly made my way down the aisle of desks, the eyes of judgmental students burning invisible holes in me. I reached his desk and he motioned for me to walk around. I did as I was told until I stood next to his chair. I was so close to him that I itched to touch him. My hands were shoved back into the comfort and warmth of my pockets. My eyes darted around the room, nervously focusing on something other than the fact that he turned to look at me.
"Since you can't answer in class, I'd like you to answer these three questions on this paper right now. It doesn't have to be in a complete sentence, it's just to let me know that you understand the material." He gestured at the paper in front of him.
I nodded to indicate that I understood what I was doing. I went to grab for the paper so I could take it back to my desk to complete, but his hand stopped mine. "You can stay here if you want," he said quietly. "It'll only be a few seconds."
I nodded again, my breathing coming out in short breaths. He was holding a pencil, a pencil that I needed because mine was at my desk, along with my notepad. I focused on the paper, my vision almost instantly becoming fuzzy. I closed my eyes and stood there for a few seconds, my body feeling as if it were swaying.
How could I ask him for a pencil? I didn't want to go back to my desk to get my own because he wouldn't know what I was doing. I opened my eyes back up and helplessly stared at the pencil in his hand. Thankfully he hadn't noticed my almost panic-attack, for he was busily tapping away on the laptop to his right.
He looked up at me. "Do you need this?" He asked, holding out the pencil to me, an almost mocking smile on his lips. I nodded and he placed it in my hand, an enticing feeling shooting up my arm from his touch. His finger brushed against my palm before he pulled back.
I briefly read through the three questions, their answers coming to mind almost instantaneously. I shakily scribbled down the answers. As I was finishing my last sentence, my body leaned over on the desk so I could write neater.
Mr. Lee leaned his head over, his mouth so close to my ear that a shiver shot down my spine. The hair on my arms rose from under my clothing.
"You're more intelligent than you let on." He observed, his eyes scanning the paper as he read swiftly through my responses.
"Good job," he finished. "You're right with everybody else. You can sit back down now."
He raised his hand and pressed two fingers against my back, as if to hold me, steady me even. I wanted to pass out right then and there. How did he expect me to go back when his hand was on my back like that?
His hand was blocked by me, so no other student could see his hand on me. I looked around the classroom, all of them completely oblivious to our connection. His gesture was just a kind gesture, but all I could think was that it definitely meant more than that.
I quickly grabbed the pencil and jotted down a note on the side of the paper.
May I use the restroom?
"You may," Mr. Lee responded, his voice thick and husky. His hand was still on my back. I cleared my throat, as if to indicate my discomfort, which wasn't actually discomfort because it felt beautiful, and his smirk only increased into a smile.
I turned to look at him, and with his smile came two adorable dimples, one on each side of his perfect face. On impulse, I raised my hand to trace it with my finger, but completely pulled back in horror at the thought that I would have done something like that during class. I awkwardly cleared my throat.
I backed away from the desk and his arm fell to his side. But as I made my way around the desk, I swore I felt his hand brush against my stomach.
And when I made my way out of the classroom to use the bathroom, he was busily tapping away on his laptop again, as if nothing had happened, but his ghost of a smile that I did in fact see this time, told a whole different story.