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your abdomen. Did Mr.
     
    Horseman teach your how to breathe right?”
     
    A jumble of replies followed.
     
    Mr. Christian took off his coat. Some of the girls whistled. The lusty expressions grated on me like fangs on bare skin. He blushed a cute shade of red then held his flat palm against his abdomen. “Most of us when we sing, talk, or just go about our day, breathe from our chest like this. To get the most from our voices, we need to breathe like babies breathe, from the lower abdomen. See how my abdomen moves my hand when I speak?” Underneath his palm, his stomach lifted.
     
    “I think we could see it better without the shirt on,” a girl quipped.
     
    “Very funny,” he grinned. “Place your hand against your abdominal wall and as we sing, make sure you’re singing with your diaphragm and not your upper chest. You’ll project farther and your sound will be richer.”
     
    We started the song again, all of us standing with our palms against our stomachs. It was probably just me, but I thought we sounded better. When the song was over, his twinkling smile confirmed what I had heard.
     
    “Much better.” He applauded. “Now let’s try it from the beginning again.” Mr. Christian was so pleased, his glowing grin spread up the front row all the way to the top riser.
     
    After class, I collected the sheet music as usual. Some of the younger girls loitered near him at the music stand.
     
    I took my time stacking the music on the shelves in the office.
     
    “We sounded better, didn’t we?” one girl asked him.
     
    “The breathing instruction helped.” I heard him say.
     
    “Are you single?” another asked. I froze, one hand still up on the stack of music I had just filed away.
     
    “Yes, I am.”
     
    “How old are you, anyway? You look totally young for a teacher.”
     
    “Old enough to be a teacher,” he replied.
     
    I had to peek. He was surrounded by a pack. His hands skipped from his hips to his hair to scrubbing his jaw.
     
    When I came out of the office he looked over. A brief expression of relief flashed on his face. Seeing that his attention was diverted, the girls looked at me.
     
    “Anything else, Mr. Christian?” I asked with a smile.
     
    “Uh, no. Thank you, Eden.”
     
    One of the freshmen cocked a brow at me. Another crossed her arms.
     
    “Is she your TA?” the third asked with a sneer.
     
    I walked to my chair with my shoulders erect and a smile on my face. “I just help with the sheet music.”
     
    I picked up my bag and tilted my head at them. “And anything else he needs help with.”
     
    One of the girls’ eyes widened. The bell rang. Quickly, they snatched their backpacks and went out the door.
     
    Mr. Christian’s gaze was tight on me. “Eden, I think you and I should talk.”
     
    “The music.” I gestured to the boombox with a nod for him to turn it on.
     
    He didn’t acknowledge the reminder. “That was a misleading comment you made.”
     
    He took a few steps toward me, then glanced around at the students noisily pouring in.
     
    “I told her that I help with the music.”
     
    He leaned closer. “And anything else I need help with?”
     
    I shrugged. “Yeah, so?”
     
    “That sounded suggestive.”
     
    A hot shudder shot through my middle. “If they think that then well, they’re—”
     
    “I can’t talk about this now.” The green in his eyes turned stormy. He glanced around. “You have to be careful what you say.”
     
    I swallowed, nodded. “Oh, sure. Of course.” I turned then, and clutched my books to my tingling breasts. I’d made him upset. That wasn’t cool. What did he think of me? A voracious gnaw ate at my conscience.
     
    I left the room.
     

     

     

     

Chapter Nine
     
    I signed my dad and Stacey’s signatures on the papers Mrs. Carlson had given me earlier and headed back to the counseling office after school was out. None of the counselors were in. I left the papers in Mrs. Carlson’s mailbox; a