First Time
In the blink of an eye, a streak of white paint splattered across her fair skin, brushing her cheek before tangling in her brunette hair.
Nancy froze. She blinked hard at her canvas, silently praying the damage hadn’t spread.
Luckily, her painting had been spared.
The same couldn’t be said for her.
A sharp gasp cut through the room, followed by another. The culprits, two girls who had already been warned by the Arts teacher, Mr. Rutherford, stood stiff with guilt as every head turned.
The man exhaled through his nose, the way someone does when they have run out of patience. His eyes locked on them with a look that said You have just tested me for the last time.
Nancy sat there in silence, acutely aware of every stare digging into her skin. Her throat tightened. This spotlight was one of her worst nightmares. Not like walking the hallway where she could drown out the whispers with her earphones. No, this was different. This was exposure. Raw. Inescapable.
Her heart pounded. Her fingers gripped the hem of her denim shorts, knuckles whitening as she willed her left leg to stop trembling.
“Hey… Nan… Nancy,” a girl called out and immediately turned to her friend whispering loudly, “That’s her name, right?”
Nancy glanced at them.
She had been careful to keep a low profile since moving here. It was not easy starting over, not after leaving New York, not after moving in with her aunt, and certainly not after losing both her parents in a single, shattering moment.
She had a talent for reading people through their eyes, and what she saw now made her stomach twist, some girls’ gazes were sharp with judgment, while some boys stared like they were stripping her grey shirt off in their heads.
Nancy rose slowly, facing the two culprits, Emma and Jasmine. Westwood High’s reigning “it girls,” all coquette bows, perfect hair, and glossy Pinterest-worthy perfection.
Nancy admired the aesthetic, but grief had turned her world to ashes. She was not ready to open up. Not to them. Not to anyone.
Her lips pressed into a thin line before she forced a polite smile, masking the tight knot of anxiety.
“It’s fine,” she said softly, and turned toward the door.
A ripple of whispers followed her.
“Whoa… that’s the first time I have heard her speak.”
“She talks?”
“I want to see the color of her bra. Bet it’s as pretty as her face,” Jackson, the resident jock with more biceps than brain cells muttered.
Mr. Rutherford’s voice cracked like a whip. “Focus, class!”
His glare landed squarely on Emma and Jasmine. “I believe you two should be painting rather than playing with it and making a mess which has made your fellow student uncomfortable, you both owe her an apology”.
The girls said nothing, only smirking as he turned away.
“Oh my God Jasmine, you really did it, I thought you would say no to that dare, you are badass”, Emma praised her friend.
“A dare is a dare right, plus she deserves it, did you see the look on her face, bet she is cussing us out in her mind, so fake”, Jasmine whispered back, trying not to get the teacher's attention on them. “Your dare next, I will decide whatever I want later after class”.
Emma saw the dangerous glare on her friend’s face, she inhaled sharply, “I am ready for whatever it is, bring it on… bet it can’t beat what you just did to Nancy”.
They both giggled.
By the time Nancy stepped into the empty hallway, her arms were folded tight across her chest, as if she could block out the sting of what had just happened. The paint on her skin was not the real problem, it was the way every single set of eyes had pinned her in place.
The last time she had felt that kind of attention was at her parents’ funeral, when she had been told to give the final speech. She had stood there, trembling, lips moving but no words coming out, the silence heavier than the coffin in front of her.
She never wanted to feel that again.
Head down, she hurried toward the bathroom, avoiding anyone who might look too closely.
Inside, the mirror confirmed her dread, a messy smear across her cheek, specks near her eyebrow, and a glaring streak tangled in her carefully styled hair.
“Ugh… I spent so long on my hair this morning,” she muttered.
Nancy turned on the tap, letting the cool water pool in her hands before splashing her face. The paint clung stubbornly, forcing her to grab a roll of toilet paper and rub at her skin in quick, impatient strokes. The smear on her hair refused to budge.
“Oh my freaking lord,” she groaned, trying again. The counter was littered with damp paper, water dripped steadily into the sink, and her frustration was beginning to boil.
“Shampoo at home should fix it”, she said.
Finally, she stopped. Breathing heavily, she glanced back up at the mirror.
And froze.
Someone was standing behind her.
A gasp escaped her lips. Not just someone, a boy.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Arms folded casually over his chest. His short tousled blonde hair was styled into a loose, His jawline was sharp enough to leave cuts, and his green eyes, steady, unblinking, held both curiosity and an edge of judgment.
Nancy’s pulse kicked up. Water dripped down her neck and onto her shirt, cold against her skin.
His gaze slid from her damp hair to her white Adidas sneakers before he spoke in a low, raspy voice.
“Why are you in the male bathroom?”
Her eyes flew open wide.
“Male what?!”
His lips twitched, not quite a smile, but close “Unless you have decided to break into guys’ space for fun, I would say you are lost”.
Nancy blinked, still disoriented “You are joking right? This is the girls’ bathroom”.
“Were you the canvas being used to paint? Or why do you have paint all over? You wear the chaos well though”, he teased, now smirking.
Nancy frowned, “Well I am glad my disaster amuses you, You should check well before walking into the female bathroom”.
“I am one hundred and one percent sure I am in the right bathroom, would not say the same about you though”, he tilted his head, the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
Her face warmed, not just from embarrassment, “Great, just perfect”, she muttered under her breath
