"Alright, that's it for today, see you guys tomorrow."
The students began to file out of the classroom hurriedly, grabbing bags and brushes before bustling out of the door.
I heaved a heavy sigh, enjoying the solitude, but also reveling in the knowledge I had.
The students knew me as Mr. Hale, the art teacher. They didn't know Mr. Patterson, or Murphy, but they were people that were the reason I was there to teach. It was a dreadfully bittersweet irony, one that I thought about everyday.
Especially since I managed to lobby for the same exact art room he had, which was put out of commission after his death. I was granted special privileges for being a former student, and they allowed me to work there with reduced monthly fees.
I made sure to make it exactly like it was before, except for one small change: a painting framed and high on the wall behind his—my—desk.
It was the pastel sketch Mr. Patterson did of me on my first day of class. He left it to me in his will, and I obtained it after my 18th birthday. I had no choice but to use it for myself, to remind myself of my passion, and aspire to hang it up in my own art room.
I looked up at it for a moment, and took another deep breath.
"Mr. Hale," a voice sounded from the doorway. it was Sophie, my T.A. Her hazel eyes were wide and nervous, even though she had nothing to fear. It was honestly a hallmark of her personality, but she was perfect all the same.
She walked in to hand me a pink note usually associated with the community center's front help desk. She said, "This was left for you earlier, during your class."
I took it from her gingerly and said, "Thank you, Sophie. Have a great rest of your day."
She smiled, her nose crinkling before she walked out of the door.
I looked at the note and. . .
Heaved another heavy breath, this time in a gasp.
It was the constellation. My constellation. The one that. . .
I couldn't even think his name.
The note read:
"Friday?
-Love, Fucknut"
*****
FIN.