Chapter Text
Larissa slams her laptop shut (perhaps a bit too forcefully), unable to focus on work. As emails sit unanswered in her inbox, she massages her temples, sensing the beginnings of a strong headache.
It’s silly, really. She doesn’t know why she’s even entertaining these thoughts.
She has hired a new art teacher in the middle of the school year, after the old one quit for a better position at a normie school (which may have caused Larissa to have a nervous breakdown in her office, as the news had been delivered to her right after she’d finished dealing with Wednesday’s newest stunt that ended with a student almost being eaten by a bear, sent and trained (???) by Wednesday after said student teased Enid Sinclair. Larissa’s nerves were paper thin by the time she received the art teacher’s resignation letter). It was a phone interview — the young woman’s references seemed decent, and she sounded nice enough over the phone (honestly, Larissa would have taken her no matter what — it’s not like people are lining up for a job at an outcast school in the middle of the year).
It’s when Larissa saw her for the first time she knew she was in trouble. The young woman (who is 28! — Larissa wishes the first number was a three instead of a two — only then would she not feel guilty for having the thoughts she had upon seeing her) was slightly flushed in the face from going up the numerous stairs leading to Larissa’s office, her coat and shoes wet from the rain outside. She carried a tube full of rolled up canvases and had a bright, if a bit nervous smile on her face (which Larissa found adorable). The thing that really captured Larissa’s attention, however, was the way she was dressed. It was a full on goth outfit — perhaps a bit more extravagant than appropriate for work — but she looked amazing in it. Larissa wondered if she should compliment it, but she couldn’t bring herself to.
“Abigail Hawthorne, nice to meet you,” the young woman said, extending her hand.
It was a combination of all the aforementioned things, as well as the way the young woman spoke to her — confidently, but softly — and the way she shook her hand (what a lovely, small hand), and perhaps a certain sparkle in her pretty eyes, that made Larissa instantly enamoured with her.
And now Larissa is here, in her office, at 5pm on a Friday, unable to stop thinking about a pretty, goth art teacher. She’s tired, stressed, and rather upset with herself for even having such thoughts about a 28 year old employee — especially now that she has so much work to do. She tries her best to focus, aware that the sooner she finishes her work, the sooner she can pour herself a glass of red and pass out on the sofa watching a shitty rom-com, but she simply can’t. Maybe she should take a walk to calm herself down, and then return to work? But then she will end up finishing even later. She needs to power through somehow.
Her headache is getting worse. She sighs, and rummages through her drawers to find some ibuprofen.
This is going to be a long evening.
You sit in a staff meeting, trying your best to refrain from doodling in your notebook — you are pretty sure that would be inappropriate and rude.
Staff meetings are a bi-weekly thing — every other Friday afternoon. It’s usually a short affair, a check-in — reports, discussing particularly problematic students (namely Wednesday Addams, even though a few other names pop up every now and then), complaints and concerns.
You are normally pretty bored during these meetings. Most teachers have a lot to complain about, as unruly teenagers with magical powers are not the easiest bunch to deal with — but you manage pretty well and are well liked among the students — even Wednesday doesn’t give you much grief. You have a suspicion that’s because Enid Sinclair said you were her favourite teacher, so Wednesday tries her best to behave — for Enid’s sake. You two also share a similar fashion sense, and Wednesday even complimented you on your outfit once.
Coach Vlad is complaining about students making out in the gym locker rooms. You honestly couldn’t care less — what does he expect teenagers to do?
You are bored beyond belief, so you decide you will sketch a little something after all. You pull out your notebook from your bag and look around, trying to be sneaky about it, hoping nobody will notice. You try to make it seem like you are taking notes.
The most interesting thing in these meetings by far is Principal Weems. You enjoy watching her as she speaks. The way she moves is very expressive — it makes you want to capture that in your sketchbook, to be kept forever.
You try not to make it obvious that you’re drawing her, but you doubt she would notice anyway. She barely ever looks in your direction, unless it is your turn to speak. She is rather cold towards you. With other staff she is her usual expressive self, but when you talk, she just politely nods. Sometimes she does a weird thing with her lips — almost as if she wants to purse them, and then stops herself. She was very friendly the first day you met, but since then she’s been rather distant. It makes you a little sad — does she dislike you? Have you done something to displease her?
You don’t usually care much about being liked or disliked. You’re used to spending most of your time alone — not necessarily preferring solitude to people, but somehow expecting it. You haven’t had the happiest youth. You were always an outcast (both literally and figuratively), pushed out of friend groups — and even if you aren’t treated that way anymore (not at all, not here), you somehow end up isolating yourself out of sheer habit. You’ve learned not to expect other people’s approval.
You really wish Principal Weems would like you, though.
You continue to work on your sketch — it’s starting to take shape. There is something special about Principal Weems, as if she was made to be drawn, made to be admired. You really try your best to capture her essence, wanting to do her justice.
Pretty would be a really dull way of describing her. She is magnificent, really — tall, glamorous, imposing, but there is also a warmth to her (especially when she talks to students — you can see she truly cares about them). Her face is very expressive, and she has a presence of a movie star. You once heard her laugh when talking to one of the teachers, and that loud, unabashed sound is now engraved into your memory forever. You wish you could pull a laugh like that out of her (even though right now you’d settle for her looking in your direction).
You are so engrossed in thinking about your boss and sketching that you barely hear your name being called.
“Huh?” you raise your head from your sketch and look up. The entire room is staring at you.
“Miss Hawthorne?” Principal Weems’ voice echoes through the meeting room.
“Yes, sorry, excuse me, uhm, I didn’t catch that.”
You close your sketchbook.
“I asked whether you have something to share with us. You are our newest staff member, after all,” Principal Weems says. She is looking directly at you. You can feel your cheeks getting warm.
“Uhm… not really, no. Everything’s been going pretty smoothly.”
You fumble with your sketchbook, trying to push into your bag without looking down. It falls on the floor with a loud thud. You leave it there, not wanting to be rude and duck under the table as she speaks to you.
“How is Wednesday faring in your lessons?” she asks, ignoring your clumsiness.
“Uhm… I mean, apart form the occasional mean comment, she has been pretty tame.”
You feel like you’re being grilled by a teacher in front of the entire class. Everybody is looking at you — some giving you doubtful looks, clearly not believing you about Wednesday. You are certain your cheeks must be bright red by now.
“Really?” she asks, incredulous.
“I mean, yeah.”
“And there’s nothing else you’d like to talk about?”
She definitely hates you, you are certain of it.
“No, not really.”
“Alright then,” she says, giving up. “I will see you all in two weeks. In the meantime, if you want to discuss anything else, you know where to find me. I wish you all a pleasant weekend.”
There are soft murmurs and rattling of chairs as other teachers get up and slowly leave the room, chatting along the way. You finally bend down to pick up your notebook, hurrying to gather your things and leave as quickly as possible.
“Miss Hawthorne?” The principal’s voice stops you just as you are about to turn around and leave. “Could you stay for a bit? I would like to talk to you.”
“Sure,” you say, stopping in the middle of the room.
“Come closer, if you’d like,” she says, “I don’t bite.”
She flashes you a bright smile. You approach her, feeling nervous. You feel like you’re about to get scolded for misbehaving, even though her words and her demeanour are nothing but pleasant. Maybe too pleasant, considering you didn’t pay attention to the meeting at all and doodled in your sketchbook as she spoke.
A you approach her, she stands up and gives you one of those intense looks of hers. You are again taken by just how tall she is.
“Is there really nothing you’d like to discuss?” she asks.
“I… everything has been truly fine. I really have no complaints.”
It’s the truth — but you can see she isn’t satisfied by your answer.
“I’m glad you’ve had no unpleasant experiences at Nevermore so far, but perhaps you would simply like to share how you find it here? I understand you like to keep to yourself, but not knowing how my staff feels is rather hard for me. I’d like to make you feel welcome here, and I can’t do that if I don’t get any feedback from you.”
You pause for a second. You really want to give her a genuine answer.
“I truly have nothing to complain about,” you say carefully. “As you’ve said, I like to keep to myself. I haven’t really made a connection with any of the other teachers, but I feel welcome here.”
“Alright, if you say so. And you are certain there isn’t anything else that comes to mind?”
You can tell she genuinely wants to know. It surprises you — you thought she disliked you.
Well. This might be a good opportunity to ask her about it.
“Uhm,” you start, unsure how to word it.
“You can talk to me,” she says, and it sounds like she means it. There is an eagerness in her eyes. It’s endearing, how much she seems to care — going out of her way to ask about you. You feel stupid for thinking otherwise. It was childish of you. She is your boss — she doesn’t have to smile at you all the time, nor make an effort to be pleasant to you.
“It’s nothing. It’s stupid, actually.”
“I’m sure it isn’t.”
It takes a lot of effort not to look away — her gaze is almost too intense to handle.
“I… I just wonder… if I have done anything to… upset you?” you ask quietly, feeling silly for even saying it out loud.
She seems a bit taken aback by your words.
“Have I done something that made you believe I was upset with you?”
“No, it’s just… you seem friendlier with the rest of the staff. But that’s probably because you’ve known them longer. Don’t worry about it, it’s really silly. I wish I haven’t said anything.”
“Well, to reassure you, Miss Hawthorne, I must say I don’t dislike you at all — quite the opposite, in fact.”
She smiles at you, and it’s warm and genuine, like that first day you’d come to her office.
Your heart flutters.
“After all, anyone who can make Wednesday Addams behave is a person I find intriguing. Pray tell, how did you manage that?”
“Oh, it’s no merit of my own. It’s all Enid Sinclair’s doing, honestly.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, well, during class she said I was her favourite teacher. Honestly, I don’t even think she meant it, she’s just easily excitable and we were talking about a subject she particularly enjoyed. However, Miss Addams took it very seriously. She likes Miss Sinclair too much to upset her by torturing me, so now she tries to be nice around me.”
“Well, Miss Hawthorne, that is very useful information. One that I will have to use against her next time she tries to set the school on fire — or something of the sort.”
You chuckle. You didn’t know Principal Weems was so pleasant to talk to (and funny!).
“I’m surprised you haven’t noticed how much Miss Addams likes Miss Sinclair.”
“I was vaguely aware of it. I suppose I just didn’t think about it as something I could use for leverage. I knew she liked her, but not that much.”
“Well, now you could blackmail her, I guess,” you joke, smiling at her.
“I suppose I could,” she smiles back, “but I think I better save option for when I’m desperate.”
“Is she really that bad? She’s a fifteen year old girl!”
You haven’t personally witnessed Wednesday be a public menace, but you’ve heard stories — each more unbelievable than the last. People say there was an unfortunate incident with a bear just before you got the job.
“Oh, she absolutely is,” she says, a barely perceptible smile in the corner of her lip. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say she is almost fond of the girl.
“Is there a reason she’s so… difficult?”
“Well, I suppose you haven’t met her family. They have been personally victimising me for decades.”
“Decades?”
“Her mother and I were roommates back in the day.”
Interesting.
“Really? What was she like?” you ask, unable to contain your curiosity.
“A handful. Goth. Smart and pretty. Accused of murder while still in high school.”
“Did she do it?”
“I really couldn’t say.”
She tells it like a joke, but you’re pretty certain she is serious. You are intrigued by the whole goth roommate business, however.
“I’m sorry, but I have a hard time imagining you as a teen, hanging out with a goth girl. You don’t seem like you’d have a lot in common.”
“Perhaps you have misjudged me,” she says, smirking.
“Perhaps I have.”
“I listened to goth music when I was young, you know. I had a particular fondness for Siouxsie and the Banshees, but I was also into Bauhaus and The Cure. Morticia and I actually spent a lot of time just hanging out on the roof, listening to music, as teens tend to do.”
(Morticia? What a fitting name for someone who named her daughter Wednesday.)
“But now you tell the students to get off the roof?”
(Teenagers love to get on the roof. Principal Weems hates when they get on the roof. You however, pretend not to see them when they get up on the roof.)
“Of course I do, that’s very unsafe.”
“Well, I guess they could do worse things.”
“And if someone falls off? Who will explain it to their parents?”
“I mean, they probably won’t fall off.”
“Maybe, but I don’t need any more grey hairs. Thankfully, they don’t show up on my hair colour.”
You chuckle. “You know, you are really pleasant to talk to, Principal Weems.”
“Well, I have to say the same about you, Miss Hawthorne.”
The corners of her eyes crinkle in the loveliest way. Your cheeks are starting to hurt from smiling. You don’t remember the last time you smiled this much.
“However, now that you’ve been frank with me, I feel the need to be frank with you.”
You brain offers a string of very unhelpful phrases. Miss Hawthorne, I need to be frank with you — I like you very much and I’d like to take you out on a date. Miss Hawthorne, I need to be frank with you — I think you’re very pretty. Miss Hawthorne, I would like to kiss y—
“You’re a grown woman, so I don’t think it will be necessary to explain to you why it’s inappropriate to doodle in your sketchbook during a meeting. I’m aware you are… somewhat unconventional in your ways, and I respect that — however, if I catch you doing it again, I will be forced to reprimand you in front of your colleagues like a misbehaving student. I hope it won’t come to that, as I don’t enjoy having to speak with my colleagues in such a way.”
Your cheeks burn. You feel like a student that just got scolded for not paying attention in class — but you suppose your behaviour was hardly any better.
“I apologise, Principal Weems. I got… carried away. It won’t happen again.”
“It’s alright, don’t dwell on it too much.”
“I feel bad about it, though. It was childish of me.”
“Well,” she says, pausing for a second before continuing, “if you feel so bad about it, perhaps you could humour me and show me what you were sketching? I must admit, I am very curious. I’ve seen some of your paintings in the art studio, they are very good.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t want to see that. It’s nothing worth showing.”
On one hand, you would really like to show her the drawing — if she liked it, you might just die from happiness — but on the other hand, you don’t know you’d be able to bear it if she hated it, or worse, thought you were some kind of a creep for drawing her without her consent.
“I’m sure I would disagree. But you aren’t obliged to show me. I just thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask. I’ve always admired people who are artistically inclined. I’ve always wanted to be good at art, but I’m afraid I’m hopelessly untalented. Back in school, I was a straight A student, so my art teacher would always take pity on me and give me a way better grade than I deserved so it wouldn’t look bad on my record.”
She speaks fast as she tells the little story, almost as if she was a little embarrassed for having asked you. Her eyes are smiley and crinkly again. It’s adorable.
You can’t bear not indulging her.
“I can show you,” you say, “but it’s… a bit embarrassing.”
“How so?”
“Well, I like to draw people around me — it’s just something I’ve always done — and you happened to be the most interesting person in the room.”
“Oh,” she simply says.
“I hope that isn’t weird.”
“No,” she says, tilting her head, “just unexpected.”
She doesn’t take her eyes off of you as you pull your sketchbook out of your bag. Her gaze is always very intense — you like that about her, but it makes you very flustered. You open the sketchbook and show her the drawing, fumbling with the pages, your hands a bit shaky.
“Here it is.”
“Oh,” she says again, taking the notebook out of your hand.
“It’s very rough and unfinished still,” you quickly say.
Does she hate it? What does “oh” mean?
“It’s… I’ve never… I mean, no one’s ever drawn me before. I love it,” she says, not taking her eyes off of the drawing, tracing the paper gently with her finger.
“Uhm, maybe don’t do that, the graphite will smudge. I didn’t seal it yet.”
“Oh, sorry,” she says, quickly retracting her hand.
“Don’t worry about it. You might have graphite on your fingers, though.”
She takes a look at her fingers, and there is indeed some graphite on them. “Whoops,” she says, smiling and rubbing her fingers together. Your heart does a little leap — that little “whoops” will play inside your mind on a loop forever.
“Would it be… inappropriate to ask if I could keep it?” She glances towards the drawing then back at you.
“Oh, you can keep it, but I could definitely draw you a better one. This one is just a little sketch.”
You can see her perk up as you say that. “You would do that?”
“I’d love to, actually.”
“You should only do it if you really want to — not just because I’m your boss.”
She hands you the notebook back. Your fingers accidentally brush as you take it from her. You feel a warm tingle where her fingers touched yours.
“I told you already, I’d love to do it. It’s honestly surprising no one has done it before, because you were made to be drawn.”
She blushes — you wonder if you’ve overstepped.
“I’m sorry, maybe that was inappropriate to say. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. I am just saying, you know, as an artist, I’ve drawn many portraits and it is my opinion that your face is suitable to be drawn,” you fumble with your words, cursing yourself for having no impulse control.
“Don’t worry, I’m not uncomfortable, just a bit… surprised,” she says. “I’d love for you to draw me.”
“Well, then… when would you like to pose for me?”
“Pose?”
She furrows her brows in confusion. You love the little line that forms on her forehead.
“Yeah, I mean, I guess I could draw you from memory, but it would be better if I could look at you. If you’re not uncomfortable with that, I mean. I could try to do it from memory, if you’d prefer that.”
There is a moment of silence. She seems to be considering it.
“I guess I see no reason why I couldn’t pose for you.”
“Great! Does tomorrow morning work for you?”
“Tomorrow morning?”
“I mean, unless you have plans for the weekend. I wouldn’t want to impose. I just prefer painting during daylight hours — nothing compares to natural light — and during the week I have classes in the studio. We could figure something out, though.”
“No, tomorrow works.”
“Nice! See you at 10 o’clock at the art studio?”
“See you at 10, Miss Hawthorne.”
You flash her a big, bright smile, unable to stop yourself — you feel positively giddy that she accepted. She smiles right back at you — one of those really warm ones that make your insides melt.
As you wish each other a pleasant evening and you leave the meeting room, you cannot stop smiling.
Larissa spends her evening watching The Golden Girls and sipping Cabernet Sauvignon — however, her mind is not on the show (that she knows by heart anyway), but on a certain cute art teacher.
Maybe she shouldn’t have accepted to pose. If it was any other staff member, she wouldn’t have a problem spending a friendly morning together — however, she likes Miss Hawthorne a little too much, and she’s afraid spending more time with her will only make her feelings grow stronger.
It’s just that she really wanted to accept.
No one has ever drawn her before — and she likes the idea way too much. She also really liked talking to Miss Hawthorne. Their conversation flowed naturally, and Larissa felt like they could have spent hours talking about nothing in particular, just pleasantly floating from topic to topic.
She takes a sip of her wine, runs a hand through her hair. Her scalp hurts from being in a tight updo the entire day.
Her mind is pleasantly fuzzy from the alcohol, and the more tipsy she gets, the more she thinks about Abigail Hawthorne. She thinks about her smile (the most adorable smile), her sparkly eyes, the way she seemed to be really excited about drawing her — then, after another glass, she thinks about the way her corset shows off her body, the outline of her breasts underneath her lacey black shirt. She has a couple of piercings. Larissa wonders if her nipples are pierced as well.
She shakes her head — those thoughts are very inappropriate.
No one has to know. If she doesn’t act on it, she can think whatever she likes, a voice inside her head suggests, like a devil on her shoulder. That’s what she tells herself as she slips her hand inside her underwear, Golden Girls — long forgotten — playing in the background, and relieves the tension accumulated through the week. She tries not to imagine Miss Hawthorne. She fails. What sends her over the edge is the image that pops in her mind of Miss Hawthorne wearing only a black corset. Afterwards, she feels ashamed, but not enough that she wouldn’t give herself another delicious, guilt-ridden orgasm.
She falls asleep on the couch that night. The soft glow of the TV illuminates the room as episode after episode of Golden Girls plays while Larissa dreams of Abigail Hawthorne.
When Larissa wakes up in the morning she is slightly hungover. Her mind feels a bit fuzzy, and she feels dizzy if she moves her head too fast. Her back hurts like hell from sleeping on the couch. She stretches, and groans as her back cracks rather painfully and loudly.
She feels ashamed for indulging in her fantasies last night, but today is a new day, and she decides she won’t dwell on that right now. She can do the posing today — be friendly, but professional — and then she can have her depraved little fantasies in the privacy of her own mind and never, ever act on them. Except when she feels the need to… relieve the tension, like yesterday.
She’s already showered, gotten dressed and applied her makeup, and she’s in the middle of pinning her hair up when she hears a distant knock on her door. Sighing, she shifts her curls in place to be presentable for whoever is disturbing her in her private quarters at 9am on a Saturday.
When she opens the door, she finds Enid Sinclair standing in front of her, shuffling on her feet.
“Miss Sinclair, this better be important if you’ve come to my private quarters on a Saturday morning.”
Enid pauses for a second. It’s clear as day that it didn’t even cross her mind she might be disturbing her. Larissa counts to ten in her mind to calm herself down. Teenagers — they think the whole world revolves around them.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Principal Weems, but I was wondering if there was any way you could shorten Wednesday’s punishment, because, you see, my birthday is coming up next Saturday and we all wanted to go to Jericho to celebrate at the Weathervane, but since Wednesday’s grounded for that bear thing she can’t go anywhere until the week after, as you already know, because, well, you’re the one who punished her, and I just wanted to ask if there was any way you could make some sort of exception because I reaaaally want her on my birthday — it just won’t be the same without her,” she shoots out in one breath, nervously picking on her colourful nails.
Yes, however will you manage without her morbid comments, Larissa wants to say, but instead she just pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs.
“Miss Sinclair. Firstly, this most certainly could have waited until Monday. Secondly, there is absolutely no way I will shorten Wednesday’s punishment. You will either have to do without her on your birthday, or celebrate another day.”
“But I can’t celebrate another day, my birthday is on Saturday!” she whines.
“Well, that’s a shame then. You can tell Miss Addams I will personally keep watch next Saturday so she doesn’t try anything stupid. If she sneaks out, her punishment will be prolonged.”
“But—”
“Goodbye, Miss Sinclair,” Larissa says and slams the door shut.
Larissa lets her hair shift back to its natural state and returns to the vanity to continue pinning her curls up. She is fuming the entire time. The nerve on this girl! What does she think the point of a punishment is? Oh, principal Weems, I wanna have my birthday party just the way I want it, like a spoiled little brat that I am, she mimics Enid’s voice in her head and grimaces as she forcefully shoves the last pin into her hair.
She is still annoyed as she makes her way to the art studio. She isn’t satisfied with how her hair turned out — her curls just didn’t want to cooperate this morning (and perhaps she was too distracted to really take her time with them). The hairstyle turned out alright(ish), but it’s not to her standards, and she had no more time to fuss with it, or she’d have been late. She supposes she could shift it, but it would take too much energy to keep it like that the entire time while she poses.
She knocks on the door, but there is no response. However, there’s a faint sound of music playing. Larissa presses her ear onto the door — it’s Siouxsie.
And you revel in the dips
When your backbone slips
Takin' honeysuckle sips
From your rollin' hips
She ignores the dirty thoughts that enter her mind when she hears the lyrics. She knows that song very well. She knocks once again and enters the studio.
Miss Hawthorne is painting, humming along to the music. She appears to be completely engrossed in what she’s doing, so much so that she doesn’t acknowledge Larissa as she enters. Larissa takes that opportunity to study her for a second.
She is a lovely sight, her sleeves rolled up, her artist’s apron, smudged with paint, hiding part of her outfit. She is wearing Larissa’s favourite corset today, the brocade one. Her hair is tied back in a messy bun and there is a tiny speckle of paint on her cheek. Larissa wants to wipe it off for her. Possibly with her tongue.
“Slowdive?” Larissa asks.
She startles, turning towards Larissa. “Ohmygod, Principal Weems, you scared me! I didn’t even notice when you came in! Wait, let me turn this off.”
She walks to the speakers in the corner of the room and turns off the music.
“And yes, it is Slowdive,” she says, walking back towards the easel and removing the painting she’s been working on (an abstract piece that reminds Larissa of the night sky). “I love that song.”
“I love that song, too. I haven’t heard it in decades, but I think I still know the lyrics by heart.”
“So you still like Siouxsie?”
“I do, even though I don’t listen to goth music that often anymore.”
“Not that often? So you do sometimes?”
“It’s possible.”
Miss Hawthorne chuckles. “Let me grab you a chair,” she says, and fetches a simple wooden chair form the corner of the room, then pauses and scans the room, chair in hand.
“Where do you want me?” Larissa asks (naked on the floor, covered in paint, against the wall?). “To sit,” she quickly adds, and tries not to visibly cringe at her own words.
“I’m thinking — maybe this could work,” Miss Hawthorne says and places the chair in the middle of the room. “We’ll try it. Let me just lock the door.”
“Lock the door?” Larissa says, trying really, really hard not to think inappropriate thoughts.
“Oh, I tell the students they can come and paint here during the weekend if they want to. Sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t, but there’s a couple of them that show up sometimes. I just thought it would be best if we were not interrupted.”
“Yes, that might be best,” Larissa says, sitting down on the chair Miss Hawthorne brought, her back towards the door. Miss Hawthorne approaches her from behind, puts her hand on the back of the chair. Larissa has to turn her head to the side and up to look at her as she speaks. It’s not often she looks up at people.
“Would you mind if I just adjusted the angle of your face?” she asks.
“Not at all,” Larissa says, knowing she will enjoy it way too much.
Miss Hawthorne stands in front of her. She leans in and gently grabs Larissa’s chin, tilting it slightly down and to the side.
“I’m afraid my hair is a mess today,” Larissa says, trying to take her mind off the lingering warmth of soft fingers on her face. “I couldn’t get it to behave.”
“I like it,” Miss Hawthorne says, letting go of Larissa’s face. Larissa feels the absence of her touch like an ache inside her chest. “It’s not a mess.”
She pauses.
“You could always let your hair down, I guess.”
“Let my hair down?”
Larissa never lets her hair down in public. It’s a part of her look. It turns her from Larissa into Principal Weems.
“I think it’d look amazing in the painting. Your hair glows in the sunlight — I don’t know if I’ve seen something quite like it before. But only if you want to. ”
Larissa wants to.
“I suppose I could. I can pin it up again later, maybe it’ll turn out better.”
She begins to remove the pins from her hair (and there is about a million of them).
“Do you need help?”
Larissa does need help — or a mirror. She doesn’t ask for a mirror.
“Yes, if you don’t mind.”
Miss Hawthorne is behind her back again, unpinning her curls. “You can give me the pins, I’ll put them away until we’re finished,” she says. Larissa gives her the pins she is holding in her hand. Her hand lingers for a second too long.
“It’s a relief, actually. My scalp always hurts.”
“Why do you wear your hair like that, then?”
“I just like how it looks. It makes me feel good, despite the physical discomfort.”
“I think I can understand that. I wish you weren’t in pain, though.”
“I’ll live.”
Miss Hawthorne’s touch is gentle as she unpins her hair. Larissa just lets her do it, not bothering to unpin any curls herself anymore, enjoying the feeling of Miss Hawthorne’s hands on her scalp. When she’s done, she runs her hands through Larissa’s hair.
“Let me just adjust your hair a bit, okay?”
“Okay,” Larissa simply says, her voice sounding a bit breathier than usual. She looks at Miss Hawthorne as she leans in again and ruffles her hair (which sends tingles down Larissa’s spine), fluffs it out, then takes her chin in her hand again and tilts it down. It’s not Larissa’s fault that she is now on eye-level with Miss Hawthorne’s breasts and that the brocade corset does a nice job of pushing them up. She tries not to openly stare.
“How do I look?” she asks. She’s a bit self-conscious about the hair — she wouldn’t mind a bit of reassurance.
“Beautiful,” Miss Hawthorne says.
Larissa is embarrassed by how little it takes to make her blush. She watches Miss Hawthorne get behind the easel and start preparing her palette.
“Now, just be still.”
Larissa sits still while her heart beats fast and Slowdive by Siouxsie plays on repeat in her head, the morning sun bathing her cheeks in warmth.
She is a vision. Fluffy, soft, platinum curls framing her face, shining in the morning sun, her eyes big and blue and doe-like, her lips parted deliciously, invitingly, little lines on her face crinkling when she laughs at something you say.
She’s so beautiful it’s torturous to look at her — you want nothing more than to capture those cherry red lips in a sweet kiss. You have trouble staying professional. You already offered to unpin her hair, your hands lingered on her face way longer than necessary, you told her she was beautiful.
She didn’t reprimand you for it, though — if anything, she seemed to be enjoying it as much as you did.
The conversation flows easily between the two of you again. You have to adjust her again several times because she laughs so much at your silly classroom stories that she loses the pose — and by the third time you start suspecting she’s doing it on purpose.
You don’t mind.
Soon, the lighting starts to change — hours go by fast, and you are having too much fun to notice the passage of time.
“The sun is too high now,” you say, “I’m losing that glow I wanted to capture.”
“I could move somewhere else?” she suggests.
An idea pops into your mind — you open your mouth before you can convince yourself not to act on it.
“We could go outside, but I’m afraid everyone would see us that way. However, there is somewhere else we could go, if you’re up for it.”
“And where is that?”
“The roof.”
She laughs. “Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“We can’t be caught there!”
“And who will catch us, the principal?” you tease. “If there are any students up there, we can just pretend we came to send them down.”
You can see the conflict in her eyes.
“We could play some music,” you say, grinning. You want to see how far you can push this.
“Miss Hawthorne, you need to be careful — if you push me, I might just push back.”
Oh, you do hope she does.
“You are welcome to.”
“You can, I can’t. I am your boss.”
“I’m a big girl, I can take some pushing around.”
There is a moment of silence before she speaks.
“Well, if the lighting will be better, I suppose we should go — I wouldn’t want the painting to turn out badly.”
She tosses her hair, getting up from the chair. You watch her, mesmerised, as she approaches you and extends her hand out. You look at her hand, not knowing what she wants.
“Pins,” she says. You nod and take the pins out of your pocket.
“Thank you, darling.”
You think you might faint if she calls you “darling” again.
“But I will only go if you bring the music,” she adds, smirking.
You flash her your brightest smile.
She insists on pinning her hair up to walk through the school. She wants to help with your easel, but you don’t let her. You only give her your portable speaker to carry.
There is no easy way to get onto the roof — it requires going through a classroom window. She takes her heels off to do it. Her tight skirt hikes up as she lifts her long legs over the windowsill. You try not to be weird about it.
When you settle on the roof, you don’t even ask if you can unpin her hair again — you just get on your tiptoes and do it. She crouches down and lets you.
You spend the day on the roof, laughing. You play music on your phone, making sure to focus mostly on Siouxsie, since she’s already told you it’s her favourite. You learn a lot about her that day — her favourite colour is baby blue, she loves hot chocolate from the Weathervane (you make a mental note of that, knowing what you’ll bring her next time you go to Jericho), she loves black and white movies and her guilty pleasure is those shitty romance novels you can buy from kiosks (“Nothing turns off my brain better than that,” she says, “even better if they are period dramas.”).
By lunchtime, she has already asked you to call her Larissa.
“It’s only fair you call me Abigail, then,” you say.
“Very well, Abigail,” she says, and your name sounds like music on her lips.
You don’t run into any teenagers while you’re up there — at least not on this side of the roof. You figure this part of the building is too close to Larissa’s office for them to dare venture here.
When you part ways the sun is starting to set, and Larissa’s cheeks are slightly sunburnt. She pulls out a tiny compact mirror from her pocket and tuts, checking her face. “I had sunscreen on underneath my makeup, I don’t know how this happened.”
“It suits you,” you say, but she doesn’t respond.
“Can I see the painting?” she asks instead.
“Not yet. I still have to do the background, but I don’t need you to pose for that. Your part is done — you’ve been an excellent model, if a bit squirmy.”
“You shouldn’t have made me laugh so often, then.”
“Alright, next time I will be very serious.”
“Don’t be — you have a lovely smile.”
You drop a bottle of paint — thankfully, it’s closed already. “Thank you,” you say, flustered, picking up the bottle.
“You’re welcome, darling.”
You drop the paint again.
“I seem to have holes in my hands,” you say, dying of embarrassment. “Can’t catch anything.”
She comes close to you, taking your hands in hers, examining them. “They look fine to me,” she says, raising her eyebrows playfully. You look up at her — her hair is fluffy from the wind, her cheeks flushed from the sun, the lines in corners of her eyes prominent as she smiles at you. You feel dizzy from her proximity and her touch.
“Then I must just be clumsy.”
“Yes, that must be it,” she says, still smiling, still holding your hands. “Can you help me with my hair? Or are you going to drop all the pins on the floor?”
“I can try — I make no promises, though.”
She lets go of your hands, and you help her pin her hair up. She guides you and instructs you on how to do it — she wants it done a particular way. You like her ordering you around a bit too much.
When you part ways that Saturday, you gather up the courage to ask, “Do you want to listen to music on the roof tomorrow?”
“When?” she asks.
“Afternoon?”
“It’s dark in the afternoon.”
“No one will see us, then.”
“It will be cold.”
“I’ll bring blankets.”
She pauses.
“I have no more excuses.”
“See you tomorrow then?”
“See you tomorrow, Abigail.”
You watch her leave, hips swaying in her tight skirt.
“Good night, Larissa” you say. She turns around, almost about to turn the corner, and waves at you. You drop your easel and she laughs, disappearing around the corner.
And again, you smile all the way to the art studio.
Larissa is in denial that evening — telling herself your interactions are nothing but friendly, with a bit of flirting thrown in. Friends flirt sometimes, that doesn’t mean something has to happen. She will resist the temptation — she can compliment, flirt a bit, let her touches linger a bit longer than necessary — but if things escalate, she will remain professional.
She is again wound too tight to fall asleep — and so what if she imagines the soft hands of a young art teacher on her scalp, rubbing soothing circles, caressing her hair, then venturing lower and then lower and then even lower?
She falls asleep thinking about soft smiles, breasts in a brocade corset and acrylic paint. She sleeps well — she can’t remember what she dreamed about when she awakes, but she is smiling the entire morning as she drinks her coffee and eats buttered toast.