Chapter 1: Lipstick and Lingering Glances
The final bell was a dying animal, a weak electronic bleat swallowed immediately by the roar of scraping chairs and shrieking gossip. It was over.Four years, done. The herd thundered toward the door, a current of backpacks and Leavers’ Week euphoria, leaving Amy Cotter perfectly still in its wake.
She waited until the hallway cacophony faded to a dull rumble. Her heart was doing something frantic against her ribs. The classroom was already different, hollowed out. Desks shoved against the walls like discarded bones. A chalkboard haunted by the ghost of Tennyson, half-erased. That familiar, dusty scent of old paper and dry-erase marker, now tinged with the melancholy of endings.
From her bag, she pulled the tube. It felt illicit, heavy. Scarlet Sunrise. She’d bought it three weeks ago and hadn’t opened it. Her reflection in the dark window glass was familiar: long red hair tied back, the kind of clothes that begged not to be noticed. Today, that wouldn’t do.
She uncapped it. The sound was loud in the quiet. She applied it carefully, her hand steadier than she felt. The color was a shock, a bold, declarative statement that changed everything about her face. She blotted her lips on a tissue, leaving a crimson rosebud print behind. She stuffed the tissue deep into her bag.
Miss Sullivan was still at her desk. She hadn’t looked up. Her grading pen moved in quick, precise slashes, a faint frown of concentration between her eyebrows. A sweep of dark hair fell across her cheek. Amy’s stomach tightened.
She took a breath that didn’t feel like enough air, stood, and walked the long aisle between the abandoned desks. Her shoes were too loud on the linoleum. She stopped in front of the polished wood.
“Miss Sullivan?”
The pen stopped. Those sharp green eyes lifted from the essay, traveled up from Amy’s sensible shoes, past her ordinary jeans, and settled on her face. On her mouth. The pause was microscopic, a skipped beat. Amy felt it in her throat.“Amy. I thought everyone had fled the sinking ship.” Her voice was exactly as it always was—clipped, warm, vaguely amused. “What can I do for you on your first day of freedom?”
You can look at me like that again.
“I, um. I just wanted to thank you. For everything. Your classes were… they were the only ones I really looked forward to.” The words came out in a clumsy rush. It was true, but now it sounded like a rehearshed line from a bad play.
Miss Sullivan leaned back in her chair, setting her pen down. She was wearing a simple linen shirt, sleeves rolled up. No rings. Amy had checked a thousand times. “That’s very kind of you to say. You were a wonderful student. Quiet, but your essays always had a bite to them. A unique perspective.” She smiled, a real one that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “I’m going to miss reading your work.”
“I’m going to miss writing it for you.” The admission slipped out, too raw. Amy flushed.
Another pause, thicker this time. Miss Sullivan’s gaze flickered again, just for a fraction of a second, to Amy’s lips. The room felt ten degrees hotter. The sliver of afternoon sun cut across the floor between them, glittering with suspended dust.
“Well,” Miss Sullivan said, clearing her throat slightly. She gestured to the empty room. “It’s all a bit tragic now, isn’t it? Just the ghosts and the garbage.” She nodded toward a forgotten hoodie slumped in a corner. “What are your plans? For the summer, I mean.”
“I don’t know.Get a job. Wait for university. Try to feel… different.” Amy’s fingers traced the edge of the desk. “What about you? Will you be here, grading in an empty room all summer?”
A low laugh. “God, I hope not. I’m driving up the coast for a few weeks. A friend has a cottage.No wifi. Just books and the sea.”
“Sounds romantic.” Stupid, stupid word.
“It sounds peaceful,” Miss Sullivan corrected gently, but her smile remained. She stood up, gathering the essays into a neat stack. It was a dismissal, soft but definite. The adult ending the conversation. “You should celebrate, Amy. Go find your friends. Get into some harmless trouble.”
This was it. The moment was draining away. The courage that had carried Amy here began to curdle into a sharp, embarrassing ache. She was just another student, giving a sentimental goodbye. The lipstick felt ridiculous now, a child playing dress-up.
“Right.” Amy took a step back.“Okay. Well. Have a good summer, Miss Sullivan.”
“You too, Amy.”
Amy turned, the humiliation complete. She was halfway to the door when the voice stopped her.
“Amy.”
She turned. Miss Sullivan was still standing behind her desk, but she had picked up her pen again. She wasn’t looking at Amy, but at the blank margin of the top essay. Her voice was softer, thoughtful.
“The lipstick.”
Amy froze.
“It’s a good color for you. It’s very… bold.”
The world narrowed to the space between them. The dust motes danced in the sunbeam. Amy’s mouth was dry. “Thank you.”
Miss Sullivan finally looked up. The professional mask was still there, but there was a crack in it now, an open curiosity. “Why today?”
No rehearsed answer would fit. Amy told the truth. “Because there’s no tomorrow.Not here. So it didn’t matter if it was a mistake.”
Miss Sullivan held her gaze for a long, silent moment. The hum of the fluorescent lights seemed to grow louder. “And was it? A mistake?”
“I don’t know yet.” Amy’s heart was a thunder in her ears.
Miss Sullivan nodded slowly, as if Amy had said something profoundly insightful. She glanced down at her desk, then out the cracked window. When she spoke again, her tone had shifted, became something more casual, almost conspiratorial. “Do you need a ride somewhere? I’m just about finished here.”
The question hung in the air, simple and enormous. It was a line, and it had just been crossed. Amy felt the precipice under her feet. This was the different feeling she’d wanted. It wasn’t freedom; it was freefall.
“I…” Her voice barely worked. “My bike’s here.”
“It’ll be safe overnight.” Miss Sullivan’s smile was different now—less teacher, more something else. “I’m just offering a lift. It’s a long walk in the heat.”
The classroom was utterly still. The ghosts were listening. Amy heard herself say, “Okay.Yes. Thank you.”
“Good.” Miss Sullivan slipped the essays into her leather satchel. “Give me two minutes to lock up. You can wait for me out front if you like.”
Amy nodded, unable to speak another word. She walked out into the bright, chaotic hallway, the echo of the door closing behind her final and definitive. She leaned against the cool cinderblock wall, pressing the back of her hand to her burning cheek.
She had her answer. It wasn’t a mistake.
Out the main doors, the late afternoon sun was blinding. She stood on the steps, the empty schoolyard stretching before her. In a few minutes, Miss Sullivan—Charlene—would walk out. They would get into a car. And then what?
A thrilling, terrifying shiver ran through her. The future, which had seemed so vague and formless moments ago, had just snapped into sharp, exhilarating focus. It was waiting in a quiet car, smelling of leather and coffee, heading toward an unknown coast.
She touched her lips. The Scarlet Sunrise was no longer just color. It was a promise, and it was hers.