Bring Her Home

Katia

Mykhailo smiled, watching a flock of pigeons take off from a sudden gust, that same wind whistling through the edges of the time-worn window, brushing his hair from his face. A mug of caramel painted coffee sat neglected on his desk, clouding the window and turning the outside world a hazy grey. He shrewdly lifted the mug to his lips, blowing into the mixture before taking a sip.

Sterile sunlight bathed the classroom. Shoulders hunched, some students groaned as they pondered restlessly over the questions he had carefully picked out. They groaned at the implication of any work. He groaned in return, mimicking the temperament of his class. Mykhailo sat erect, fully aware that the deliberate difficulty of his exam had annoyed the students. However, he was determined to push the freshman students outside of their comfort zone and turn them into exceptional young people who embraced difficulties.

He turned his head momentarily in Katia's direction. Her hair was fair, so blonde in fact that when the light shone down upon her head, it appeared nearly white. As if sensing his heavy gaze, the girl looked up, the sun in her eyes making her squint. Shifting in her seat, she raised her hand—indicating she had finished her exam. His mouth soon gave up on the stoicism he had strictly projected and broke into a boyish grin. The teacher jumped up from his desk as he strode across the room towards her. "How was it, you did good?" He slid his hands down her shoulder, his fingers lingering along the bare flesh of her arm for a moment before he let go and stepped back.

"Yes, I think so," she stammered, her gaze falling to the floor. He opened his mouth, then, as if changing his mind about what he wanted to say, cleared his throat and took in her exam papers.

When it was time for the students to leave, the teacher stood up to dismiss his class—the legs of his chair screeching against the floor, causing everyone to flinch. Katia took her time, carefully making space for her things, while her peers rushed out the door. She didn't wish to go home to a lonely house where she'd have to wait till after midnight for her mother.

Having cleaned the board, Mykhailo stood beside her. Looking over her shoulder, she realised he could see her sketches laid out on her desk. She spun around to snatch them up, clutching them tightly to her chest.

"Your drawings?"

Her eyes were glued on her desk as she slowly nodded.

"Oh," he spoke so softly, it was almost humorous despite his huge figure. "I didn't mean to pry, but I'd never seen you drawing in class. Would you let me see more of your art?"

"'Course not." There was a slight crack in her voice, and upon sensing a glint of alarm, he backed away. Feeling as if she'd hurt him, she loosened herself and added, "They're just...not very good."

"Well, what makes art 'good' in your opinion?"

Katia hadn't seen that coming. It felt like a challenge. She never really thought about it prior to that moment, but she wanted to impress him.

"It could elevate you from being a mere observer to an experiencer."

He smiled; he liked that. Soon, his hands covered hers, wedging the piece of paper to the desk. He was close enough to hear her heart beating—a reason among many why he'd proceeded to grasp the single sheet of paper. She held her breath as he kept his eyes on her half-finished drawings, many sketches crossed out and redrawn.

"Do you have more that you could show me?" She hesitated a split second before nodding, cheeks flushed at the notion that someone—apart from her mom—was interested in her own illustrations. Could she even call them that? They were nothing more than overlapping distorted lines and ovoid shapes stirred up by her emotions, amongst the pastels and fine charcoal pencils. She flipped through the sketchpad and halted at her most recent one. A quote in the corner, written in clumsy Ukrainian letters, caught his eye.

CREATIVITY WILL SET YOU FREE

He said nothing for a while, and the brittle silence stretched like iced cords through the room. His words were not only engraved in her soul but beside every drawing. On every page, she'd repeat the words like they were a sacred mantra, and lose herself in her art. He didn't have to know that. He didn't need to find out. But he did, and he rested his hands over hers, elbows slightly brushing her chest. He didn't look up; his eyes still on the page, observing it further. She froze, her body suddenly stiff. The door was open, and a student passed, eyes glued to her phone. The clock hanging on the wall ticked away in unexamined obedience.

She thought it was an accident. Perhaps he mistook her hands for... what? What could he have possibly confused her hands for? She opened her mouth, unsure of what to say. Instead, she gazed at her fingers, cool and shivery, as his big hands closed around her soft ones. She expected him to realise the act and move. He must have expected her to react first. He hadn't applied pressure; she could've moved her hand if she wanted and walk away. But she said nothing. She didn't move. She couldn't even think.

"Very nice work, Kat," he whispered. "You have a gift. Just like me, you understand and appreciate true art."

Faces only inches apart, he looked into her eyes, and she realised his eyes weren't as dark as she'd thought. They had flecks of green as if someone had sprinkled grass into a cup of coffee. "You could show me some more tomorrow. After school." The stern edge in his voice made it sound as though it was more of a command than a suggestion.