Amy Inspired - Bethany Pierce [83]
Eli sauntered in from the adjoining classroom, whistling and carrying a slab of gray, wet clay in his equally gray, wet hands. He held the lump in both open palms, his elbows pressed into his hips for balance. Kicking a stool into place with his foot, he straddled an already dirtied wheel at the head of the table and, with more force than I had expected, smashed the ball of wet earth onto its center. He pumped the floor pedal, and the wheel began to spin.
With his elbows anchored on his knees, he pressed his hands firmly around the clay. It resisted, its irregular surface jostling his hands and his arms. He let his hands ride the dimpled contours of the clay, layers of silt slipping slick between his fingers. When he had caught the rhythm of the wheel, he leaned forward and braced his hands, every muscle in his upper arms tensing. The clay fell instantly into form.
He began to work the now-cylindrical tower of clay, forcing it flat into a disk, then up into a towering cone, higher and higher. Just when I began to guess what he was making, he pressed the materials down again into a nondescript pile of spinning earth. The appearance of concentration on his face was misleading. He wasn’t working: He was playing, content as a kid in a summer sandbox, his pant legs rolled up, his toes exposed in flip-flops. I loved him for his naked toes, for such a small and harmless rebellion. Let the rain freeze; he would have his private summer.
Without interrupting him, I walked quietly down the hallway, up the stairs, and back toward home. It was no good pretending: I’d wanted this man from the moment he stepped unwelcome into my living room, carrying everything he owned on his back. I loved him for every seeming defiance—the tattoo, the jewelry, the untamed wanderlust. Near him I began to believe I could share in his lightness, walk freely in and out of the constructs of my religion, my fears, and my habits, as if they were rooms I could quit with a few confident steps.
17
Eli came to my office the very next day.
I was kneeling on the floor, fishing for the grade book that had fallen behind my desk. He peered under the desk, startling me, and I hit my head on the keyboard tray in my rush to stand.
“Do you knock?” I asked.
“The door was open.” He helped me up. “Maybe I should have made an appointment.”
He sat exactly as my students did, facing me directly, the corner of the desk between us. He crossed his legs. He looked around the room.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been on this side of a teacher’s desk without being in trouble.”
I arched my eyebrow.
He smiled faintly. “Maybe this is no different.”
“How did you know I’d be here?”
“I was leaving the studio and saw your car.” He rubbed his thumb ineffectually against a spot of white paint staining the worn knee of his jeans. “So were you by any chance out by the studios last night? I thought I saw you out the window.”
I hesitated just long enough.
“It must have been someone else,” he rushed to say.
“Probably.”
Thankfully, Everett returned to the office. Eli said hey and shook Everett’s hand, a gentlemanly quirk he had with people he was particularly fond of.
“Anyway.” He slapped his knee, giving up on the paint. “Kevin and I are having some people over tomorrow tonight. I was wondering if you wanted to come.” He turned to Everett. “Both of you,” he added quickly.
A warning in my head told me to say no. “When?” I asked.
“Eight-ish.”
“Will there be student poetry, is the question,” Everett said.
“No,” Eli assured us. “There’ll be a film if we can get things rigged right, but no student poetry, I promise.”
I told him I would think about