Look for evidence of who the artist is

You look again at the paper in your hand. The artwork is quite good. This is no stick drawing. Moreover, it is not typical notebook paper — it is a high quality kind used by artists. For that matter, it doesn’t look like standard No. 2 pencil, either, but the special kind of charcoal-type pencil that can be more easily blended for shading. Maybe this won’t be as hard to figure out after all.

You set the drawing on your desk and pretend to have given up on finding the culprit for now. You tell the students to work on their assignments, and when completed, to either work on other homework, or quietly read at their desks.

The next 40 minutes pass rather uneventfully, aside from having to confiscate the phone of one of the football players, who was trying to take a picture of the view up your skirt as you walked by. Silly boy! If he had only asked, you would have gladly sent him something of much better quality to look at tonight.

As the students complete their assignments, you watch carefully to see what they choose to do next. Several begin to work on homework from other classes. A few pull out books to read. And one young man, as you suspected, pulls out an artist tablet and begins to draw.

You casually make your way toward that part of the room. The boy is slender, red haired, and has freckles. His brow is furrowed in concentratation, and he fails to notice you approach him from behind. You look over his shoulder and see he is drawing some kind of warrior princess in the style that is so popular — a style that suggests that all warrior princesses are drawn by teenage boys with breast fetishes.

You note the style of paper and pencil are identical to the specimen on your desk. The drawing style is quite similar, but he must have drawn the image of you quickly, because he failed to do justice to your ample bosoms.

You consult your list and confirm the boy’s name. When the bell rings, signaling the end of the period, you dismiss the rest of the students, but you address the boy and say, “Fergus, I’d like to talk to you for a moment.”

His freckles face blushes, and you hear more than one of his classmates say, “Busted!” as they file out of the room.

When the two of you are alone, you hold up the picture and ask, “Anything you’d care to confess to?”

Unable to look you in the eyes, Fergus stammers a bit and finally says, “It was me. I’m sorrry. I won’t do it again.”

“You have a real gift for art, Fergus. Why would you waste it with something crude like that?”

The boy is shy as hell and you have to coax out of him that the whole reason he is in detention in the first place is because he keeps drawing in class instead of doing his assignments. He feels isolated from the other kids because he is so shy, and his cartoonish drawing of you was all an attempt to earn the other students’ respect.

You take his notebook and flip through the pages. He has remarkable talent, but he obviously needs a girlfriend — almost every picture has some manifestation of boobs.

“You know, Fergus,” you say, handing him back the notebook. “You could really go far with that talent — you just need to find a healthy outlet for it.” He also needs a healthy outlet for his hormones, you think, but keep that to yourself.

You hold up the drawing he did of you. “Tell you what — how about we get rid of this thing, and you start over, drawing a proper portrait of me — one I can be proud of, frame, and hang up? That will give you a chance to use your art in a good way, and it will pay me back for the way you embarrassed me in front of the class.”

Fergus is astonished. “Are you serious? I thought you were going to tell my parents about this. They’d freak and take away all my art supplies. That would be awesome to draw you! I’ll bring it to you tomorrow, if you’d like.”

“That’s not what I’m thinking. You are good, but everything you draw shows your imagination is taking over. I don’t want you to draw me like one of your fantasy women — I want a realistic drawing. I think I need to sit for you and let you draw me as I pose.”

“OK,” he says, a little uncomfortably. “I have some time after school, and I can come back here and do it then.”

“No... that won’t work for me,” you say. “This room is used for other purposes, and it would be just too distracting here at the school anyway. Why don’t you come over to my place? It will be much less formal, and we’ll both be able to relax.”

You write your address on a piece of paper and hand it to him. “I’ll expect you at 4:00. Don’t be late, or I may have to reconsider how we’re going to deal with his little incident.”

Fergus leaves the room, even redder-faces than before, and you feel pretty warm yourself, anticipating what the afternoon is going to bring.