Wild Blue Yonder (The Ceruleans: Book 3) by Megan Tayte

Author:Megan Tayte [Tayte, Megan]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Heaven Afire
Published: 2015-05-31T05:00:00+00:00

21: MICHAEL

After the ceremony – after a further speech by Barnabas on the importance of the Cerulean mission, and a prayer, and a somewhat confusing series of general announcements in which the boys were warned not to run inside the building and reminded of that evening’s race in the central corridor – I stepped out of the hall.

I attempted to look through the many portraits on the wall, shots of mid-teenage boys, digging my heels in against the tide of excited boys running off to class. I thought I’d spotted on the way in… yes, there he was: Jude, aged around sixteen, I’d guess. He looked different, carefree and smiling and relaxed. I realised I’d never seen him without some ghost of anxiety in his eyes. I scanned a little further and saw David and Adam and… I leaned forward and peered more closely. Yeesh, was that Michael?

‘In my defence, at the time I’d been convinced by another boy that those specs were cool. And the haircut.’

I turned to see Michael standing behind me.

‘They are,’ I said. ‘In an Austin Powers kind of way.’

He smiled a little and coloured a little, and then said, ‘I… well, I wondered whether you’d like a drink. Coffee, maybe? I mean it’s instant, but still… I could show you my art studio if you like. I have no classes today.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’d love a coffee. And to see your studio.’

He gestured the way and we set off. As we weaved through labyrinthine corridors Michael pointed out little features – a trophy cupboard, a sports schedule board, a staircase whose banister varnish was worn thin from sliding rear ends. I responded to each enthusiastically, but really my focus was on the guy walking alongside me. Though he seemed friendly, something about him whispered ‘awkward’. It wasn’t that he was shy; he held his own with others, albeit in a quite serious way. It was a sense that he didn’t quite fit comfortably in his skin, conveyed in myriad little things: his intense brown eyes that locked on mine for a beat too long, the habit he had of worrying at his lower lip, the hollowness of his laugh. Perhaps he was just nervous around a female; perhaps that was all it was.

Finally, we came to a halt in a far corner of the building.

‘This is my studio,’ said Michael, somewhat unnecessarily given that on the door he was swinging open a sign read Michael’s Studio.

I’m not sure what I had expected. At my old school, the art room had been warm, colourful and haphazardly arranged, walls covered floor to ceiling with students’ work and surfaces littered with brushes and easels and modelling clay, all overhung with the distinctive aroma of fresh paint. Judging by the artworks pinned to the wall on the corridors leading here, clearly created by juvenile hands, I’d anticipated a similar space given over to shaping and celebrating the creative pursuits of children. But the room into which I stepped was far removed from the rest of the chaotic, child-centric school.

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