After Class

Chapter Two: More Than Words

By Friday, the entire female population of Preston Academy had developed a collective obsession with Mr. Blackwood's hands. Sam noticed it during third period, when Amanda Chen leaned over and whispered, "Watch how he holds the book when he reads." And now she couldn't un-notice it – the way his long fingers traced lines of text, how they wrapped around the spine of "The Great Gatsby" as if caressing it.

Sam shifted in her seat, trying to focus on Gatsby's description of Daisy instead of the way Mr. Blackwood's voice made each word feel like dark honey. Four days. It had taken exactly four days for her favorite subject to become both heaven and hell.

"'Her voice is full of money,'" Mr. Blackwood read, then looked up at the class. "What do we think Fitzgerald means by this?"

The usual hands shot up – the AP English overachievers who always had an answer ready. Sam kept her head down, sketching absently in the margins of her notebook. She'd drawn his hands without meaning to, and quickly scratched over the image.

"Ms. Wilkins?"

Her head snapped up. Mr. Blackwood was looking at her expectantly, one eyebrow raised. He'd loosened his tie slightly – navy blue today, with subtle silver threads that caught the light.

"I..." She cleared her throat. "I think it means her voice reveals her nature. Money isn't just wealth – it's privilege, carelessness, the ability to break things without having to fix them." The words tumbled out before she could second-guess them. "Daisy's voice promises everything but takes no responsibility for what it promises."

The silence that followed felt heavy. Mr. Blackwood's green eyes held hers for a moment too long, and Sam felt heat creep up her neck.

"Excellent analysis," he said finally, his voice softer than usual. "Responsibility – or the lack thereof – is a central theme we'll be exploring." He turned back to the board, running a hand through his hair. Sam noticed a few strands fall out of place, making him look younger, less polished.

The bell rang, and Sam stayed seated as usual, pretending to organize her notes while others filed out. It had become their unspoken routine – these few minutes of quiet after class, just the two of them existing in the same space.

"You have a genuine gift for analysis, Ms. Wilkins," Mr. Blackwood said, closing his copy of the book. "Your insights in class this week have been... impressive."

"Sam," she corrected automatically, then felt her cheeks flush. "I mean, you can call me Sam. When we're not in class, at least."

He studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Sam." The way he said her name made it sound like something new, something significant. "Have you considered joining the Literary Magazine? I'm taking over as faculty advisor this year."

She had considered it – extensively – since overhearing him mention it to another teacher on Wednesday. "I might," she said, trying to sound casual. "When are the meetings?"

"Tuesday afternoons, right after school." He leaned against his desk, crossing his arms. The movement pulled his shirt tight across his chest. "We could use someone with your perspective."

Sam stood, gathering her courage along with her books. "Then I'll be there."

"Looking forward to it." Their eyes met again, and something electric passed between them. Sam quickly looked away, her heart thundering in her chest.

She was almost to the door when he spoke again. "Oh, and Sam?" She turned, hoping her face wasn't as flushed as it felt. "Be careful with those margin sketches. They're quite revealing."

Her stomach dropped. Heat flooded her face as she hurried into the hallway, clutching her notebook to her chest. Had he seen? How much had he noticed? The idea was mortifying and thrilling in equal measure.

The weekend stretched ahead of her like an endless desert. Two days without seeing him, without hearing his voice dissect sentences like he was uncovering their secrets. Two days to try to talk herself out of whatever this was becoming.

But as Sam walked to her next class, she was already counting the hours until Tuesday afternoon.

Later that evening, alone in her room, she opened her notebook to a fresh page. Her pen hovered over the paper, then began to move:

Dear Mr. Blackwood,

She stared at the words, then quickly ripped out the page and crumpled it. Some things were too dangerous to commit to paper, even in the privacy of her own journal. Some feelings needed to stay buried, unnamed and unacknowledged.

But as she lay in bed that night, Sam couldn't help but remember the way he'd said her name, how his eyes had lingered on hers, how the air seemed to charge with electricity whenever they were alone. She thought about the Literary Magazine meetings, about having a legitimate reason to stay after school, about more moments in that classroom with just the two of them.

"Be careful," she whispered to herself in the dark, echoing his warning about the sketches. But she knew it was already too late to be careful. Whatever was growing between them – this fragile, dangerous thing – had taken root despite her best intentions.

As she drifted off to sleep, Sam wondered if Mr. Blackwood was thinking about her too, if he also felt the weight of these unspoken things between them. She wondered if he, like her, was both dreading and longing for Tuesday to arrive.

In her dreams, he called her Sam again and again, each time making it sound more like a confession than a name.