One
The metallic slam of my locker echoes down the hallway like a warning shot. The tardy bell follows, shrill and impatient, vibrating in my bones. Late on the first day of school—typical Elorie.
I glance at my schedule, my stomach sinking. Calculus. Other side of the building. Of course.
My sneakers slap against the linoleum as I weave through the thinning crowd, dodging backpacks and stray elbows. The hall smells faintly of pencil shavings and the sharp tang of disinfectant. A few lost freshmen drift aimlessly, clutching schedules like treasure maps, their faces wide-eyed and uncertain. They look like prey, and I’m too busy to help them. Not that I would offer, anyway.
I take the stairs two at a time, my hand grazing the chipped metal railing. My breath is quick, sharp in my chest. The noise of the day fades the farther I go until it’s just me and the electric hum of fluorescent lights.
When I reach the classroom, the door is closed. My stomach tightens—Mrs. Cooper. I knock, tapping my foot in a rhythm I don’t realize matches my heartbeat. My hand sweeps down the front of my pants, smoothing fabric that doesn’t need smoothing.
The door opens to the pinched face I’ve known for two years. White hair scraped into a bun so tight it could snap. Lines carved deep across her forehead like she’s been rehearsing her scowl for decades.
“Elorie,” she says, the corners of her mouth curling into something that might pass for a smile if you squint. “So glad you could join us. Do you have a late pass?”
I step inside, ignoring the question. The room smells faintly of chalk dust and the mint gum she always chews. The only empty seat is front and center, practically under her nose. My soul shrivels.
“It’s the first day—” I start, but she slices through my words like paper.
“Yes, it is. Which is why you should have been here on time. Tardy.” She marks something on her clipboard, the scratch of her pen loud in the quiet. A break of whispers shadow around the room.
I drop into the desk like I’m being lowered into a coffin. It’s going to be a long year.
By the time my lunch arrives, the day has worn me down to a dull ache. English is my next stop, conveniently close to the cafeteria. I slip in with a small group, sliding into a seat near the back where the shadows gather.
From my bag, I pull The Flame and the Flower, the familiar weight grounding me. Around me, the air is thick with chatter—bursts of laughter, snippets about summer hookups, the squeak of sneakers on the tile.
Then, the door slams.
The sound rips through the room, silencing everything. Chatter seemingly unconscious from the sharp clatter on the hinges.
A man clears his throat, the low sound pulling my gaze up.
He’s not like the other teachers here.
Light blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow, fabric just loose enough to hint at comfort beneath formality. Black slacks. Dark blue tie. His forearms are lightly dusted with peppery hair. Black-framed glasses balance on the bridge of his nose, framing eyes I can’t quite read from this distance. His hair is thick, dark brown, swept back but not perfect—effortless. There’s stubble along his jawline, the kind that looks like it belongs there.
Behind him, in confident black marker: Mr. Kohen.
I’d seen Mr. Kohen before. Passing in the hallways between classes, usually with a coffee in one hand and a stack of papers under the other. He moved with the kind of calm that didn’t seem to belong in a high school—measured steps, eyes focused somewhere just past whoever happened to be in his way. Sometimes he nodded if we crossed paths, sometimes not. Then again, I never thought twice about it. That must have been before puberty hit me my sophomore year—before my body changed enough for me to wonder if people noticed, and before I learned how to tell when they did.
Back then, I was more comfortable blending into the background than stepping out of it. I kept to myself, never had many friends; more so just acquaintances, the same corners of the cafeteria, the same quiet spaces in the library. I noticed people the way you notice landmarks on a familiar route—there, but not worth slowing down for. The most I knew about Mr. Kohen was that he taught AP English Language and Literature, and that his classroom was nestled softly within the English language pod.
If I passed him in the hall, I didn’t linger on the way his hair fell into place or how his voice carried when he spoke to another teacher. Those were details for other people to notice, not me. But somewhere between then and now, something shifted.
He starts roll call, his voice carrying easily—not loud, but deliberate. Smooth, with something I can’t place. An accent, maybe. The students answer in flat, distracted tones.
“Elorie Sawyer?”
I look up, meeting his eyes as I raise my hand. “Present.”
A nod, and he moves on. Disappointment flickers, sharp and petty. I drop my gaze back to my book, though the words blur.
His voice threads through the air, calm and unhurried.
“As you all may have figured out by now, I’m Mr. Kohen. I teach twelfth grade AP English, and I’m warning you now—this will not be the class to slack off in.”
A few chairs creak as students adjust. A girl in the front row twirling a piece of her hair around a pen; the boy next to her yawns without covering his mouth.
“I don’t give out very much homework,” he continues, “but don’t take advantage of that. If I see too many of you skipping assignments, we’ll replace them with tests. And I promise, you’ll regret that choice.”
Somewhere behind me, someone scoffs under their breath. He doesn’t even glance in their direction.
“I can be your favorite teacher,” he says, pausing to scan the room, “or I can be the absolute most loathed person you come across in your lifetime. That depends entirely on how you treat me.”
The air in the room feels still.
“If you find yourself struggling, ask for help. But paying attention is key—”
A shadow falls across my desk.
His hand moves into my line of sight, warm and deliberate, pressing lightly against the cover of my book. The paper rustles as he closes it, his fingers brushing mine in the briefest, quietest contact.
He sets it down with care, a small smile tugging at his lips—one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes—before walking back to the front.
“If you pay attention,” he says, amusement curling at the edges of his voice, “you’ll see that English isn’t all that bad.”
I lean back in my chair, arms folded loosely, my eyes tracing the shape of his shoulders as he moves. Something in me memorizes the way he speaks, the way he looks at people—it feels like the start of something I should resist, but won’t.
“We’ll start the year off with a simple icebreaker,” he says after a pause. “Name, and something you did over the summer. Let’s start here—” He gestures to the first desk in the front row.
Mariah Aarons goes first. “Uh, Mariah Aarons. I... went to Myrtle Beach.”
There’s a murmur from somewhere in the middle row.
The boy beside her shrugs. “Caleb Morris. Worked at my uncle’s garage.”
The stories make their way around the room, a mix of half-truths and small talk. Some are plausible; others have that polished, too-perfect sheen of lies.
Harrison Reed, sitting beside me, takes forever to think. “Uh... I played a lot of video games.”
Then his eyes are on me.
I stand slowly, feeling the stretch in my legs, the weight of my hair as I tuck it behind my ear. My chin lifts.
“I’m Elorie Sawyer,” I say, voice steady. “And I completed my summer reading list.”
He tilts his head, eyebrows lifting slightly. “I wouldn’t have imagined that. What book would you read again?” Sarcasm very evident.
“Lolita.”
The word hangs between us, sharp and deliberate.
His brows rise just a fraction. Heat creeps into my cheeks before I can stop it.
Somehow, his expression doesn’t alter, though he pauses, lingering just long enough to matter, and then turns to the next student.
The rest of the introductions pass in a blur.
By the time the bell rings, the room has already begun to dissolve into movement—chairs scraping, backpacks zipping. I pack up slowly, waiting until the crowd has thinned.
At the door, he steps aside to let me pass.
“See you tomorrow,” he says.
“See you, Mr. Kohen.” My voice is calm. My chest is not.
The rest of my classes were seemingly, boring. Too many introductions to students I’m already familiar with, and distracted readings over a class syllabus that won’t mean anything after the first month of school.
Outside, the afternoon sun is bright, almost too warm, and for a few blocks, it feels like it’s carrying me home. Until I reach the front door.
The air changes the moment I step inside—heavy and stale, thick with the sour tang of cheap wine and the faint, greasy smell of something that’s been sitting on the stove too long. The blinds are drawn, letting in only thin stripes of light that cut across the living room like bars. My shoes sink slightly into the worn carpet, and the quiet hum of the refrigerator fills the silence.
“El! Dinner’s ready!” my mother calls from the kitchen, her voice too cheerful, like she’s forcing it through gritted teeth.
I toe off my shoes and walk in, already bracing myself. She’s standing at the sink, sleeves pushed up, arms pale under the harsh kitchen light. A plate sits on the table—overcooked pasta, a limp salad. A mostly empty wine glass sweats on the counter beside her.
“I’m not hungry,” I say, my voice flat.
“Seriously, Elorie?” She turns, the damp dish towel in her hand dripping onto the floor. “At least take your pill.”
I roll my eyes, snatching the bottle off the table and shaking one into my palm. She watches as I take the glass of water she offers. I let the pill rest under my tongue, swallowing the water without swallowing the pill.
“Happy?” I mutter.
She sighs and turns back to the dishes. I’m already heading for the stairs.
Upstairs, in the bathroom, I spit the pill into the toilet and flush. The porcelain is cold under my hands as I grip the edge of the sink, whispering to my reflection: You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re fine. My voice cracks on the last one.
That night, in the glow of my laptop screen, I type his name.
David Kohen. David. The name feels solid, certain, as if I’ve known it longer than a single afternoon.
Facebook pulls up his profile. I involuntarily fell down a rabbit hole without expecting an outcome. His profile picture was a sunlit family shot—him standing behind a woman with glossy brown hair, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder.
Three children crowded in front of them, all matching smiles that reached their eyes, the kind of smiles you see in holiday cards and picture frames on mantels. It was perfect in the way posed things are perfect, their arms linked, their happiness pressed into stillness.
And for a reason I couldn’t name, it made something sharp twist low in my stomach—not because I wanted to be in the picture, but because I hated how easy it looked for them to fill it without me.
Any hope should end there. It doesn’t. If anything—it sharpens.
The next morning, following the ringing bell, I’d already been rehearsing the walk in my head. Still, when I turn down the English hall, the floor feels longer, the air thinner, as if the building knows where I’m headed.
His door is half-closed. I knock lightly and push it open.
“Good morning, sir,” I say, keeping my voice bright but not too bright—just enough to make him have to decide whether it’s friendliness or something else.
He glances up from a book he’s indulged in. “Elorie, is it? How are you?”
“Yes, sir.” I step in, shutting the door behind me. “And I’m doing great... now that I’m here.”
His expression solid, bored almost. “Glad to hear it.”
I cross to the desk opposite his and sit on the edge, swinging my legs so the heels of my feet tap the wood in a soft rhythm.
“Why aren’t you at lunch?” he asks without looking up.
“I already ate.”
“Don’t you have friends to sit with?”
I shrug. “I don’t have friends, Mr. Kohen.”
That gets him to pause, pen hovering. He studies me for a second—not long enough to feel invasive, but long enough to register that he’s really looking.
“Do you mind if I stay here until class?” I ask.
“You can stay,” he says simply, his voice neutral, professional.
I nod like I’ve been granted something small but significant.
“What’re you working on?” I ask.
“Staff paperwork,” he says with mild irritation. “The same forms they give us every year. No one ever reads them.”
My gaze catches on his wedding band as he shifts the paper. The gold glints just once before he moves his hand again. There it is again, a feeling of jealousy.
I slide off the desk and wander to the bookshelf at the far wall. “You like the classics,” I say, running a finger along the spines—Wuthering Heights, Pride and Prejudice, The Scarlet Letter.
“I do,” he replies.
I pull out a copy of Gatsby. “So, why teaching? Couldn’t see yourself doing anything else?”
“It was the most natural path. English was the only class I enjoyed in high school, so I studied it in college. This job... made sense.”
I put the book back. “I’m actually not very good in your class.”
“That’s not what I’ve seen,” he says, finally setting the pen down. “You did exceptionally well in English last year. If I’m correct, you received top grade in testing.”
“I don’t know. I think I could use some extra help.”
He leans back slightly. “If you want tutoring, I’m here most afternoons after school.”
I glance down at my bag, then back up at him. “Actually... there’s a short story I’ve been working on. I’d love it if you could read it and tell me what you think.”
His expression doesn’t change much, but his brow lifts a fraction. “Short story?”
“Yeah.” I smile faintly.
The story I had in mind was surely enough to make a grown man shift in his seat, whether it be uncomfortable, or tempting. His expression still plain, but there’s a subte hint of curiosity.
“Would you read it?”
“Not today,” he says, glancing at the clock. “But if you bring it tomorrow after school, I’ll look it over.”
“Tomorrow,” I say, like it’s a promise.
By the time the last period starts, I’m already seated, notebook open. The air smells faintly of dry erase marker and paper.
He comes in with a stack of books, his pace unhurried. His sleeve slides up as he sets them down, revealing the faint dusting of dark hair on his forearm. The light catches his ring again.
He starts the syllabus. I write every word, not because I need to, but because it lets me watch him without being obvious. His voice dips when he emphasizes a point, a low rasp threading through it. I make a mental note to ask him something tomorrow that will pull that tone from him again.
When his eyes pass over me, the weight is subtle but present—like a hand brushing past my shoulder.
The bell finally rings, and the room bursts into motion. I take my time packing, watching him gather his papers at the same deliberate pace he uses for everything.
Tomorrow, I think, will be slower. Closer.
