The Time Seekers (The Soul Seekers Book 2) Read Free Page A

doesn’t seem to be good enough, but I do want to learn.”
    “ God ,” he said with a scowl. “You want me to teach you how to be an artist?”
    “No.” I shook my head. “I didn’t say that. I just need a little help.” There was something so familiar about Mr. Hershel, but I couldn’t quite place it. It was all so strange, with a hint of déjà vu. A sickening, I-don’t-really-want-to-remember, kind of déjà vu. I realized I’d been the one avoiding speaking, not the other way around. From the first day I’d come into class, I’d felt a pain at the sight of Mr. Hershel. He resembled a grown-up version of Jesse. Something about it really pissed me off.
    It wasn’t fair.
    He still wouldn’t look at me, so in the heat of annoyance I turned off the radio. Jim Morrison’s deep baritone stopped dead-note.
    His leg slumped off the desk to the floor, but Mr. Hershel didn’t get out of his chair—and I was extremely grateful. I was a bit sick at what I’d done, even if the reason for doing it was still thick in my chest.
    Grayish-blue eyes stared into mine. “If you don’t like the way I teach, then you can drop the class. Mr. Baggart next door is old and doesn’t comprehend a damn thing, but you can go to his department if you like being told you’re great and special and all that. His students graduate and then die off into crappy jobs in the greeting card business, or worse, selling little prints at art fairs. Is that what you want?”
    “No.” I tried not to grit my teeth while answering.
    He smiled. “The way I teach has often been criticized, but my students come out better for it. Those who don’t weren’t even trying in the first place. I can’t help someone who doesn’t try.”
    “But I am trying. And I’m here right now, asking you for help.”
    “And I told you,” he said, leaning across his desk, “to put your heart into it. That was me teaching you. Take it or leave it.”
    I chewed on my lip for a second before giving a nod. He watched, amused, and then reached to turn on his radio so The Doors could resume their slow, psychedelic blues. “And one more thing. Don’t ever touch my radio again.”
    My head pounded as I returned to my work stool. The table swirled. I reached out to grab the sides of the desk, closing my eyes while I waited for the dizziness to pass.
    “Whoa, there, what’d the snake say to you?” Jim asked upon my return.
    “Nothing. Everything’s fine.”
    “You don’t seem fine.”
    “Well, I am.” I opened my eyes and flung my sketchbook to a blank page, only to sit in a hazy stare for the longest time. The pain settled to a dull level. “I’m just fine.” I would draw Jesse. Not another abstract. Jesse was what I had been avoiding, not only in art, but life. I couldn’t say his name, couldn’t bear to think of his face or his voice. He was the last part of my heart I’d been reining in, and Mr. Hershel had seen it. Mr. Hershel was here to remind me of it. If I didn’t draw Jesse, I’d never get over what happened.
    I’d never get over him.

Chapter 2
    A tall Superman in sweatshirt and blue jeans stood waiting for me by the passenger side of the Camaro, book bag over his shoulder, happy grin on his face. “Hello.”
    I was piqued; the headache had gotten worse. All I wanted was to go home, grab a cup of tea and a few aspirin, and lie down.
    Oh yeah, and I needed a smoke. A big, long smoke. Maybe two. Something Will knew nothing about, because I hid all evidence and blocked every single thought of the activity from my mind. He’d caught me once at the start of school. There was so much stress, so many things to do. I’d needed an outlet, and cigarettes had become my happy little stress reliever. Too bad I had a husband from the 1950s who thought women who smoked were the devil.
    “Hi, Will.” Dammit, I’d planned on having a quick one before he finished his class. He was usually held over by Ms. Jacomber.
    He held out a palm. “Touch