by Holly Ryan
And when I finally do see him in all his sickeningly perfect glory, it makes everything worse. He walks in with a commanding presence, holding his books down by his hip. He’s beautiful, and his arms are veiny, as though he’s just worked out hard, and his skin has a hint of a tan, too. His hair slightly sticking to his forehead in some areas, like he just came from gym class, and his choice of sandals are as carefree and relaxed as his baggy sweatpants.
Tired. That’s it. He looks tired.
I can relate.
I take my usual seat, and the moment my butt hits the chair, the girl sitting to my right opens her mouth. She’s never before said one word to me, but her instant conversation is a pleasant surprise.
“I’m Hannah.” She holds out a perfectly manicured hand.
I shake it.
“Avery.”
“Avery. I know. I’ve heard about you.”
I cringe. “Oh … you have.” You have. I don’t say it as a question, because what’s there to ask? She has. Nothing I can do about it.
“Mm-hmm.”
She answered it like a question.
“Did I miss anything?” I whisper. I wasn’t late, but by the time I got here, the teacher had already begun talking.
Hannah shakes her head. “No.”
I’m not surprised. Mr. Miller isn’t exactly the most productive teacher at Westfield. Most of the time, he leaves it to us to do the teaching and learning on our own; that’s something I do okay with, but it does put extra pressure on me.
I glance over at what page number Hannah has her textbook opened to and I flip mine to the same. Then I open to a clean page of my notebook and try to pay attention. But it’s hard. He’s talking about something we already covered in our reading last week. It’s boring. I thought we were past this by now.
I rest my chin in my hand and doodle with my pen with the other as Mr. Miller’ repeated words fly over my head. Then, out of the corner of my eye, there’s movement from the upper left-hand of the room, close to where Ethan is sitting.
What was that?
I don’t want to look, but I’m curious, tempted. The movement was too close to him to not look. I resist, but a pull overcomes me. It’s drawing me more and more.
Finally, I give in.
I lift my eyes, looking.
Ethan has twisted his upper body around in his chair. He’s scanning the room with his eyes, as though looking for something, and then he lands on me. He’s looking at me.
And two seconds later, he’s still looking.
He’s actually looking right at me.
He holds that eye contact even longer, then he cocks an eyebrow and shoots me a crooked smile before turning back around. He picks up his pen and resumes his focus on our lecturing teacher.
I look around. I don’t think anyone noticed the silent, miniature intimacy that just went on between us. And why should they? It was tiny. It was practically invisible, between only us.
It was as intimate as I’ll ever get to the guy.
I don’t know what to make of that. That was ... random. It was sexy, coming from him, and a little strange all at once.
I touch my face, wondering if I have something stuck to me. Some leftover cereal, perhaps. Maybe that explains it, and joke’s on me. I swiftly wipe the skin around my mouth and feel nothing there. I don’t think that was it.
Then what was that smile?
And what was he looking for?
If I didn’t know better, I’d say that smile was a flirt. But could he really be interested in me, the cripple girl who’s been through hell? Because let’s face it … I’m sure he’s heard about the hell I’ve been through. Everyone else has. Just look at Hannah.
I lean over to Hannah and keep my voice low to avoid any trouble. “Hannah,” I say, “do you know that boy?”
“Who?” she whispers back.
Duh. Of course she doesn’t know who I’m talking about.
“Ethan Harrington. He just looked over here.”
She gives me a crazy look and laughs under her breath. “I wish I did. He’s part of the reason I’m glad to have this seat back here. You know, for the view. To be able to watch him from behind.” She smiles.
Fair enough.
“Does he have a girlfriend?” I ask.
Because if he has a girlfriend, there’s no way he should be shooting me a look of pure sex emanating from his pores.
“I think so.”
“Who?” I wasn’t expecting that answer, and it shows in the rising tone of my voice. I cringe, hoping no one’s heard me.
“I think Julia Crane.”
Hannah’s been answering half-heartedly this whole time, rightly giving most of her attention to Mr. Miller, but she seems confident in that particular response. She continues her note taking, flipping a page and scribbling fast.
And I’m left here with that defeating answer hanging over my head.
Julia Crane.
Well, that figures. The most beautiful boy in school would have the most beautiful girlfriend. It’s only fitting.
I slouch against the back of my chair and cross my arms. I glare at the back of his head. I glare right through that thick, lustrous head of hair. I don’t care how perfect that hair is and how perfect every single part of him appears. From now on, I officially refuse to think about Ethan Harrington.
“Avery, you’re good at this,” says Brendan. He’s hopped up along side me in the hallway and he’s next to me, displaying a piece of paper on top of a notebook. He holds out a pencil. “Help?” he says. His glasses are falling down his pointy nose.
“I’m not doing your homework, Brendan.” I shut my locker. It’s the next day. The bell should ring soon, and I want to make it to Chemistry sooner rather than later this time.
Brendan doesn’t move.
I know Brendan from math last quarter. We were assigned study partners, and in the process of working on a project together until my attack happened. Needless to say, Brendan got a new study partner.
I examine him carefully. I stand a good inch above his head, but that doesn’t take away any of his courage. Mara always claimed she picks up on some weird vibes from Brendan toward me, some kind of hidden crush invisible to me. I disagree with her. Brendan and I are just friends. He definitely isn’t my type.
“Come on, please? I know how good you are.”
Is he trying to suck up to me? Because I’m not that good at math. I’m okay, but it’s not like I can whip through every question with flying colors, and I’m certainly not good enough to go around doing other people’s homework for them. There’s too much liability in that.
“The bell’s about to ring, Brendan. Want to walk with me to class?” So much for being early.
He pushes his glasses up his nose and falls into step beside me.
“See,” he says, “it’s the same thing we did together that one time. I know you remember.” He holds the paper in front of my face. I take it and walk with it, reading and walking on instinct. “You taught me how to do it the first time, right? So you know.”
He’s right. I do remember this. I remember it like it was yesterday. And it’s painful to be sent this far back in time in my mind, to the time when life was different.
“And you forgot, Brendan?”
His glasses bob on his face when he nods. “I forgot.”
I flip the paper over, examining the back. We did go over this. “Solve for x. You know this.” I pass the paper back to him.
He takes it with a stricken look. “If only it were that simple.”
“Why are you working on that again, anyway?”
He shrugs and stuffs the worksheet into his notebook. It bulges out in a messy fashion, in synch with the many other papers he’s storing there.
“This teacher we have for Algebra Two obviously doesn’t have a clue we already did it.”
“Ah. Well, you’re doing it twice, then. You should be great at it.”
“You would think. I just need you, Ave.�
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I guess I was the leader of our math group, in a way. The strongest one. I sometimes forget that it doesn’t come as easily to others as it might to me.
Together, we arrive at my Chemistry classroom. I peek through the window as casually as possible. Ethan’s already there, sitting patiently in his usual seat. So is Hannah.
“This is me,” I say to Brendan. “I’ve gotta go.”
His face falls.
“Go to class, Brendan. See what the teacher says. If you still need help, meet me again tomorrow at the same time. If I have some free time I’ll see what I can do to help you out.”
“Perfect.” He gives his glasses one more push and then leaves, heading the same direction we were just traveling, and he disappears around a turn.
I pull the door open and avoid walking past Ethan. I meant what I said about the whole refusal to acknowledge him thing. He’d got a girlfriend; I have no business with him.
But that doesn’t stop him from looking at me again.
I know because I can feel his prying eyes. That, and I can just barely see his gaze from the edge of my vision.
“Hola,” Hannah says when I take my seat.
I like her. Hannah’s what I like to call an Instant Friend – someone you like immediately, who likes you immediately, and together you skip over that awkward phase of introduction. Insta-Friends like Hannah are a rare find.
“Greetings,” I say just as the bell rings over me.
I sit in my usual way lately; exasperated, and with a big sigh. The weather is getting warmer and I still haven’t yet summoned the courage to wear a pair of shorts in public, what with my scar and all, so I’ve been stuck with my usual cool-weather skinny jeans or leggings. Today it just so happens to be the jeans, a bad choice in the heat, and now I’m paying the price. I’m warm. Hot, even. I pretend to fan my face with my hand until I see Hannah still watching me, giving me a look like I’m crazy to be acting so dramatic.
“You got some hot flashes?” she asks.
I put my hand down. “I should have dressed for the weather, that’s all.”
“Okay, everyone,” says Mr. Miller, his deep voice booming over us. “We’ve got something a little different going on today.” He stands with one hand on his hip, one resting against his desk. “I’m going to go around the room and assign everyone a number. When I finish – and not until I finish – you need to find everyone else who has that number. Form a group. Those will be your lab partners.”
Oh, no. I hate it when teachers do this.
He starts in the left hand corner. Ethan is the second to be assigned, so he gets the number two. My heart is racing. He keeps counting, and I never know which path his finger is going to take with each new row, so I can’t predict my number. Finally, he approaches the back row – my row. It looks like he’s going to start from the other side, which means I’ll be in the clear of landing a number two.
He shoots his finger around, pointing it at Hannah. “One,” he says firmly.
No. Please, God, no.
He points at me. “Two.”
I cringe.
I keep my head down. The whole class is probably examining one another already, trying to determine who has their matching numbers, who they’ll have to spend the rest of God knows how long working with. And that probably includes Ethan. He’s most likely scanning the room right now, trying to find his fellow twos. He has to be. Damn it.
Everyone gets up, and I do, too. I gather my things and push off the desk to support myself. My leg is acting up today. A rush of students clambers around, and I stop to collect myself. I’m disoriented in all the commotion. I stand at the front of the room, and when I re-open my eyes, I stop searching when I see a group of three gathered at a table in the back corner. One of them is Ethan.
He’s a two, so that’s my group.
Ethan is sitting with a few of our classmates, somewhat aloof, looking down at his papers and holding the back of his neck.
I approach them, working to keep my leg from quivering or showing a limp. I clear my throat and say, “Are you guys twos?”
A boy answers, “Yep.”
When I take a seat across from Ethan, the only other girl sitting with us begins to direct the group.
“I’m so excited,” she chirps to no one in particular. “Knowing Mr. Miller, this could be a good chance to lift our grades before the end of the year. I’ve got lots of open time between Color Guard, so I’ll take the biggest portion.”
I think, You know Mr. Miller?
Anyway, thank goodness that leadership role appears to be taken. I wasn’t about to step up to that like I used to in math class. There was no Ethan Harrington in math class.
No one answers her.
“Okay…” she continues, her bubbly nature shining.
She’s holding a single sheet of paper and pouring over it. That has to be the project information; Mr. Miller must have passed it out while everyone was getting situated. She sets it down, then slides it her left, to Ethan. He lets it sit on the table without so much as a glance.
The girl leans forward. “I think we should divide this up. We want to get it done as fast as possible, right? So I’ll take the first part. Who wants the second?” She looks at us, her eyes wide with excitement.
I sigh. I don’t realize the sigh was louder than I had intended until it was too late.
The boy and the bubbly girl both look at me, the girl with a disgusted look on her face and the boy with a contained smile, both surely thinking I’m some kind of weirdo who can’t keep her own inner dialogue in check.
Ethan ignores me.
I cross my arms and slump.
Seconds-long flirtatious eyes: our communication hasn’t gone any further than that.
After the sigh, I keep my vocalizations in check and I don’t make another sound. The only thing I do is write my name beside the part of the assignment I choose to complete after the paper is passed to me.
Ethan remains quiet, too. He brushed over my social faux pas, but he’s showing real interest in his phone, which has been receiving texts this whole time. It lights up again now and he reads the message.
I look to Mr. Miller, who’s scribbling at his desk. Ethan is brave. I tap the eraser of my pencil against the desk.
I glance at the clock. It’s almost time for class to end, and it’s not a moment too soon. I take a quick glance at my phone to confirm this, hoping that I can click the display on without being noticed. I’m right; there are four minutes left. At the same time I check mine, Ethan’s phone, which he’s boldly had sitting out beside him on the desk this whole time, lights up with yet another text. It catches my attention, and without meaning to, I’m close enough that I catch the name of the sender: Julia.
So Hannah was right.
He’s sliding the text message open with his thumb and I pull my gaze back to my own phone quickly, feeling like I’m invading his privacy.
“Avery,” says a voice above me.
I look up.
Mr. Miller holds out his hand. “We have a strict no-phone policy in this classroom.”
I have no other choice. I place my phone in his hand.
“Now, would you like me to read the message that was so important out loud to the class?”
“It wasn’t a mess–”
“Then I suggest you don’t let it happen again.” He flicks his wrist, handing my phone back to me.
I take it.
I guess Mr. Miller didn’t get the message my other teachers did: it’s take-it-easy-on-Avery week. Or month. Or year. However long it takes.
Ethan shoves his phone away.
At least I caught the condescending looks of only a few people; the others didn’t seem to care.
“Alright,” Mr. Miller calls to the class. “That’s it for today.”
Before the conclusion of these words, most students gather their things and stand, all too ready to leave. Everyone, it seems, except Ethan and me. We’re both still listening.
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Mr. Miller raises his voice even more to reach above the bustle. “Be sure to work this out between your groups. This is a small assignment, so everything needs to be completed by next week. You guys should be able to do that. It might be a good idea to share numbers between yourself if you think you’ll need to talk to each other out of class.”
Almost everyone is now heading for the door. He really should have told us this earlier.
He turns away from us, to his desk. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
In one swift motion, I scoop up my things and rush back to my desk to get my purse.
I’m not taking Ethan’s number.
That would fall in the category of tempting distractions that I absolutely do not need to carry with me in my pocket at all times. Not to mention, I am still kind of mortified about the whole phone incident.
So without a second thought, and without another look, I disappear.
Ethan
“Boy, she got out of here fast,” says the girl sitting next to my left. “Here. Take my number, okay?”
Before I have time to react, she grabs my phone off the table and holds it in her hands, twiddling her thumbs almost as fast as she’s been talking.
She’s adding herself as a contact. Okay. Cool.
When she’s done, she clicks it off and puts it back down next to me. The sound of aluminum against cheap school desktop makes a click.
“Text me if you get stuck tonight,” she says. “I mean it. No half-assing, please. I need to get a good grade on this.” Her hands fly as she collects her things that have been sprawled out among all four of us on the table. I watch her meticulous work, waiting for her to say more. She inserts each of her papers carefully into their designated folders. She lifts a pencil, examines its point against the light, and slides it into one of the spirals of a notebook.
This girl has it all together. I need to be like this.
She’s not like me, who’s still sitting here, wasting time, and couldn’t care less about the state of my pages or my pencil, and she’s apparently not like Avery, either, who I saw recklessly stuff all her things under her arm and didn’t bother to look over the assignment for more than twenty seconds.