by Susan Wu
Every time I’ve seen her, she’s been alone. She has a quiet intensity about her. And a sadness that surrounds her. I’m deeply curious to know more about her. But I know better than to ask this group who seem to only value things by their level of shininess.
I’m pulled back into reality by Mackenzie tugging my arm, “Well, what do you think?” Everyone has fallen silent and is looking at me with tight, expectant smiles.
“What do I think about what?”
“Having a little get together, silly.”
“Uhm... sounds great,” I mumble, taking another bite of my sandwich. They start murmuring excitedly again and I allow my eyes to wander once more.
Fallon
When I awake the next morning, the sun is shining cheerfully but the temperature outside has dropped considerably. After going through my usual morning routine, I fish out a navy wool sweater from the black of my closet and put it on over a white button down shirt. I slip on my long johns under a pair of black skinny jeans and pull out my winter parka on my way out the door.
I have to walk extra carefully because the rain from yesterday has frozen over to form a slick layer of ice on the sidewalks. I am running behind schedule due to my turtle’s pace, so I head directly to European History when I arrive to school. The bell hasn't sounded yet when I walk into the classroom. I am annoyed to see Mackenzie has decided to make a permanent switch to my seat and I am forced once again to sit across the room with nothing to distract me from Mrs. Douglas.
As I'm settling into my new seat, the new boy walks in as the bell rings, his bag slung casually over his left shoulder, his hair windblown. He is wearing a light gray sweater with a white t-shirt peaking out over a pair of slim cut black jeans. He carries his leather jacket in his right hand. His eyes seem to wander around the classroom, searching. But Mackenzie spots him in the doorway and she is instantly aflutter to get his attention.
Our eyes meet for a moment and I can detect the slightest hint of a grimace as he walks over to the only remaining seat in the classroom. I can hear Mackenzie gushing over him the second he sits down. “Good morning. What icky weather we've been having, huh? That sweater looks great on you. It really brings out the blue of your eyes.” The shrill ring of the second bell cuts her off and Mrs. Douglas starts reciting her lecture notes. Never one to be deterred, Mackenzie continues her conversation with the new boy, whispering and giggling throughout class.
50 excruciating minutes later, I run out of European History and head to gym class. I am relieved to see a note in the locker room informing us not to change into our gym clothes for flag football because the field is frozen from yesterday's rain. Instead, all gym classes are meeting in the big gymnasium to hear a presentation on underage drinking and drunk driving. I escape flag football only to be subjected to the presence of all the second period gym classes.
I shuffle out of the locker room, following behind a group of girls, chatting excitedly. I walk into the gymnasium behind Chloe and Sydney Cooper. Chloe is twisting a long strand of blonde hair between her thumb and her pointer while talking animatedly with Sydney. “Mackenzie says he is this close to asking her out. That lucky girl, she gets to date all the cute ones. I would hate her if she wasn't my best friend.”
Sydney sighs loudly, her shoulders rising and falling emphatically, “Wow. Mackenzie is super lucky. But then again she does know her way around a boy's heart. He is so gorgeous. I would be so nervous to talk to him.”
Chloe nods in agreement, “He is totally dreamy. I can’t even form words around him.”
“He's in my art class and he takes everything so seriously. He's like totally brooding and mysterious. Plus he looks so hot on that motorcycle. My mom would totally kill me if I ever dated a boy with a motorcycle.”
“Good thing he’s not about to ask you out then,” Chloe replies playfully, setting them both into a fit of giggles as they make their way into the gymnasium.
The line for the bleacher stairs thin out and I climb the steps to the empty row in the back. As I set my bag down, I spot Chloe and Sydney climbing the bleachers in the middle section. Then they proceed to step over groups of huddled lower classmen to get to the center of the row. Chloe and Sydney take their seats next to Emma and Mackenzie, the new boy squeezed between them. I can't help but think that even the back of his head was beautiful, the bleacher lights dancing in his dark hair.
The bell rings and Coach Morris comes out of his office, his jogging suit making a swishing noise as he walks briskly to the center court line. Behind him, Brian Fredrickson is wheeling out a projector cart. He spends a few minutes setting up the projector in front of a white pull down screen. After Brian switches the projector on, Coach Morris barks at us to shut up and sit still. The lights dim and Coach Morris begins his presentation.
I have a hard time focusing on his words and the images on the screen, all I can focus on is watching the new boy. The way he fidgets in his seat when Mackenzie leans over to whisper in his ear. The way he jiggles his leg like he was ready to bolt the minute the bell rang. The way he runs his fingers through his hair. I find myself wondering what it would be like to run my fingers through his hair. What was wrong with me? He likes Mackenzie. Not that it would matter either way.
The lights switch on five minutes before the end of the period and Coach Morris dismisses us early. As I make the descent down the bleachers, I catch the new boy looking at me.
His eyes are full of curiosity as our eyes meet. He starts to smile but I quickly look away. I really have to get a grip and stop seeing things that weren't there. After all, he was Mackenzie's new conquest and everybody knows how much she hates to share.
In a daze, I walk to English and take my usual seat. Mr. Murphy starts laying out the entire rest of the semester before us, rattling off percentages each project and exam are worth. Just because we are seniors doesn’t mean we don’t have to work hard. He assigns so much reading for the week that my eyes blur just from going over the list.
I am almost relieved to be heading into Calculus. Mrs. Bojovic hands out a pop quiz to us one-by-one as we enter the room. I'm starting to detect a theme for this school day. When I finish, I can tell I am the first one done with my exam. However, I remain seated. I try my best to melt into the background with teachers as well, so I never turn in my exam first. Nor do I ever get all the questions correct even though Calculus comes easily to me. The desire to feel normal is emphasized when you know you’re abnormal.
After 30 minutes elapse, Mrs. Bojovic begins to call for the last quizzes still outstanding. She spends the rest of class explaining the concept of the limit of a function. Most of my classmates are hanging their heads dejectedly over their open Calculus Book. Another day, another failed pop quiz. I pretend to be following along in my book, but instead I'm contemplating whether or not the new boy almost smiled at me. What is wrong with me? We haven’t even spoken a single word to each other. I don’t even know his name. When the bell finally rings, the classroom empties out at top speed lest Mrs. Bojovic assign extra homework.
I head upstairs to French class. Even Monsieur Martin seems moodier than usual. He drills us on our knowledge of the imperfect subjunctive conjugation by asking us to create a sentence. The class's lackadaisical attempts seem to agitate him further. When poor Scott Richardson mispronounces harmonie, Monsieur Martin slams his textbook down on Scott's desk.
He throws his hands dramatically in the air and starts pacing around the classroom before stopping in front of Scott's desk again, “Are you even trying? Have you learned nothing in your three years of taking French lessons? Your pronunciation. How many times do I have to tell you? Pay attention to the 'h.' Aspiré and muet. Do you hear the difference?”
Scott hangs his head and stares down at the book on his desk, his voice slightly shaky as he apologizes, “Désolé, Monsieur Martin.” Monsieur Martin snaps up his book from Scott's desk and continues his pacing around the classroom.
And each student has presented his or
her sentence, Monsieur Martin pulls a DVD out of his desk drawer with a huff. He turns on the television bolted above the blackboard and puts in La Reine Margot. He plays it without the subtitles as our punishment for not perfecting our French. He spends the rest of class brooding at his desk in the corner of the room, muttering to himself in French.
When the bell rings, I practically sprint out of the classroom. Instead of heading to art, I make a detour to my locker and grab my jacket. It’s early in the semester to start cutting class but my near perfect GPA allowed for some wiggle room when it came to my attendance record. The strange vibe in the air and the strange encounter with the new boy has left my head pounding. The weekend couldn’t start soon enough. Sneaking out through a side door, I taste the crisp fresh air of freedom and my head feels a bit clearer already.
Ethan
It’s midway through September when Indian Summer comes to Everest Heights. I am standing in the pounding heat of the midday sun, my sweaty silver gym t-shirt clinging to my heaving chest. My heart is racing like it’s trying to escape from my ribcage. I lean over resting my hands on my knees, trying to force air into my lungs. Standing across from me with a mischievous grin on his face and shaking his head is Sam Jordan.
“Nice try, Ethan. You’re fast but I’m faster. I’m a bit disappointed. I thought you were a track star,” he says as he takes off his sweaty t-shirt and tucks it in the waistband of his shorts. Sam is about four inches taller and about thirty pounds heavier than me. In theory, since I am smaller I should be faster but his six-day-a-week training routine really showed. I was still working out but hadn’t been running regularly since last school year ended. The twinge in my side is telling me I might need to start.
I had been chasing him up and down the length of the football field for the past forty minutes. Our gym teacher, Ms. Andrews, is too busy flirting with Coach Morris to notice the rest of the class is scattered around the field doing nothing. The girls are openly admiring Sam, giggling and whispering to each other. Sam is barely out of breath standing in the end zone, football tucked neatly under his arm. I really needed to get back to training if I had a prayer of keeping up with my newfound friend.
I follow his lead and chuck my sweaty shirt as I pant out my reply, “Former track star. So it’s not really fair. You have football practice twice a day.”
“Aw, c’mon man. I invited you to tryouts. You could’ve been chasing me up and down the field five days a week,” he says good naturedly. “Plus this is flag football. And I’m a quarterback not a running back, so no excuses.” He thumps my back hard, nearly knocking me forward into the grass.
I regain my balance just in time, “I would punch you right now if I had the energy to exert.”
Sam laughs heartily, “Let me grab us some water. Man it hasn’t been this hot since August. I must have lost at least a pound or two in sweat.”
Normally, I would have pegged someone like Sam to be a jerk. Athletic and good looking, boys wanted to be like him and girls fawned over him. But in reality, Sam did not have a mean bone in his body and was quick to share a laugh. After being grouped as Biology lab partners with Sam and Liam, his childhood best friend, we had all become fast friends. Every party, every cram session, every video game marathon, I got a text. It was nice to feel like one of the guys for once.
As I wait for Sam to return with our water, I concentrate on taking deep, slow breaths to even out my breathing. I watch as Coach Morris’s second period gym class runs laps around the gym building. Clusters of kids are making slow rounds together, spending more time chatting than running. I spot my mystery girl running laps by herself with headphones on, lost in her own world as usual.
“Hey, Sam. Who is that girl with the long dark hair, wearing the headphones?” I nod my head toward the group of runners as he returns, clutching two bottles of water.
Sam turns to look over at the runners. When he faces me again, he is smiling knowingly, “That would be Fallon Pierce. And whatever you have in mind, you can forget it.”
I roll my eyes. I had known him for a few short weeks and had been introduced to half a dozen girls that he was currently “seeing.” I can’t believe Sam is lecturing me about girls, “I don’t have anything in mind. I haven’t even been formally introduced.”
Sam tosses me a bottle of water and unscrews the cap of his own bottle taking a quick swig before replying, “Well don’t expect to be formally introduced, good sir. Fallon... well let’s just say she likes to keep to herself.”
I can tell he knew a lot more than he was letting on. “She’s very pretty,” I say casually as Sam drains his bottle of water.
He groans nearly choking on his last mouthful of water. Crushing the empty bottle, he shakes his head solemnly, “There you go, Ethan. Getting ideas. What did I say about getting ideas?”
Now I was really curious, “Why? What’s her story?”
Ms. Andrews blows her whistle signaling our unofficial break and Sam starts jogging back to midfield, “C’mon Ethan, water break is over. Let’s see if you can manage to lose this game with a shred of dignity?”
Groaning, I follow him at a slow jog but I never take my eyes off my mystery girl. Fallon Pierce. Now I knew her name but she was still every bit as mysterious as the first day I saw her.
Fallon
The art room is my only sanctuary in this whole school. The popular kids rarely take any courses past the one year requirement. If they choose to continue in the arts, they choose film or theatre class with the hopes of one day becoming famous. The fine arts are the perfect medium for me because I prefer to be the observer.
I spend art class outlining a triptych of a series of Romanesque sculptures inside cathedrals that I had been wanting to paint. When class ends, I place a couple more touches to my art board before carefully placing my sketches inside my portfolio. I hang my portfolio in one of the cupboards lining the wall before grabbing my bag and heading back toward the main building.
I buy a ham sandwich and iced tea from the cafeteria before heading to the picnic tables. I open one of the doors leading out of the cafeteria--the only place in the whole school where the air conditioning actually seems to work. The heat is suffocating as the cold air of the cafeteria is sucked back in as the door swings shut. It is almost 90 degrees outside with not a whisper of wind and the sun is directly overhead making the air stifling.
I pick a table with a little bit of shade from a nearby tree and roll up the sleeves of my black t-shirt. My back is damp from my book bag and my long hair feels oppressive, sticking to the sheen of sweat that has formed over my forehead. It’s not my most glamorous but I’m grateful for the quiet time. Between bites of my sandwich and sips of iced tea, I add some finishing touches to my Gothic cathedral drawing from the other day.
A lunch tray filled to the brim with food lands with a thump on the table across from me, abruptly startling me out of my concentration. I drop my pencil and my gaze travels from the tray to its owner. I am surprised to see the new boy standing in front of me. I frown at him, feeling a mixture of irritation and confusion at his interruption--turning into surprise and maybe even a little pleasure. My expression remains unchanged. I wasn’t used to people approaching me and I’m my usual guarded self, wary of why he’s even here.
I can’t help but notice that up close, he is even better looking. His carelessly tousled hair drinks in the sunlight, burnished gold dancing through the chestnut strands. His eyes are the color of a cloudless sky, twinkling with mischief. And his smile. His smile completely derails my train of thought. Whatever biting remark that was on the tip of my tongue a second ago dissolves.
Even dressed casually in navy shorts and a broken in white v-neck t-shirt, he manages to look effortlessly cool. It’s probably his how snugly his t-shirt fits over his perfectly formed chest and muscular arms. I turn away and do my best to concentrate on the trees behind him before I speak. Yeah, he really doesn’t belong out here with me.
It takes a moment bef
ore my brain reconnects to my mouth. I look at him pointedly and say, “I'm sorry, I know you're new. So let me get you up to speed. The cafeteria is through those red metal doors right over there.”
He runs his hand through his hair, a nervous gesture, and his smile wavers, but his voice is confident. The sound is like velvet in my ears, the tones so warm and rich. “I was feeling a bit overwhelmed today. It’s pretty crazy in there. More suffocating in there than out here. I just needed a breather from all those people.”
“Well that's why I'm out here. Alone.” I sweep my hand toward the rest of the picnic tables. Every one of them empty. “There’s plenty of tables available.”
“I didn't think anyone would be out here. Plus, this seat was open,” he replies, a playful smile on his lips. He kicks his legs over the bench and sits down across from me. My thoughts jumble as his eyes bore into mine, full of curiosity. I hold his bold stare but don’t reply--I don’t think I can at this moment. I really hope my breathing isn’t as loud as it sounds in my ears.
Suddenly he reaches across the table startling me and I pull my hands off the table. His fingertips land on the corner of my drawing, sliding the notebook toward him.
“Wow, can I see this? This is really amazing.”
I feel heat rush to my cheeks, embarrassed at my reaction to his reaching over and by his praise of my drawing. “It’s nothing, just a doodle,” I mutter as he studies the drawing.
I reach to pull the notebook back. For a moment, our hands touch. I pull back immediately, my hand is all sweaty-- a combination of heat and nerves. His smile falls and I am very aware of hostile and weird I am being. Of course, I don’t have the first clue on how to change that. My instinct for flight is screaming in my veins as those inquisitive blue eyes search my face.