by Kim Holden
“See ya, Veronica,” he calls back. He’s smiling. I can hear it.
It’s been several minutes since the bell rang. Dimitri’s probably already gone. As I approach, the crowd’s thinning out and I see him standing with his back to me leaning against the wall across from his classroom. A few steps closer and I notice he isn’t alone. Chloe Murphy is talking to him. I take that back. She isn’t talking—she’s shamelessly flirting. She’s standing very close, though flashing back to the personal space issue I encountered with Dimitri earlier, I decide he probably doesn’t mind.
Chloe’s pretty. Stereotypically pretty: petite, blond hair, blue eyes, big boobs, blah, blah, blah. She works her looks hard, probably because she’s been blessed with the IQ of an avocado and has nothing else to offer. Turns out teenage boys are into dumb blondes. Who knew?
Boys can be so stupid.
Predictably, she always treats boys badly. She chews them up and spits them out. In her world, guys are disposable. She’s never come remotely close to gaining my respect. I’ve always hated her. Not that I’m jealous, I’m not. I don’t have time for jealousy. It’s exhausting and pointless. Chloe is just … mean.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I apologize quietly through gritted teeth. The good mood John blessed me with thirty seconds ago is long gone. I clear my throat and add, “Especially given the stellar choice of company.” I’m not sure he even hears me.
But he does. Dimitri simultaneously steps back from Chloe and turns around to face me. He’s clearly not annoyed by the interruption. This both surprises and relaxes me—a little. Chloe leans to the side to glare at me. If looks could kill I’d be struck dead where I stand.
“I was beginning to think you forgot about me,” he says, relief evident in his voice.
“No such luck, Texas Ranger,” I mutter.
“Bye, Dimitri,” Chloe says in a pouty voice, batting her eyelashes. She brushes up against him like a goddamn cat as she walks by.
Head down, eyes focused on rifling through my bag looking for Dimitri’s schedule, I shout at her in my head as she walks by. “Slut!” I want to scream. God, I’d love to punch her right in her pretty little face. Just once. I’d never do it of course; I don’t have it in me. My body, though physically suited, is pacifistic. My mouth, on the other hand, though not prone to pre-emptive strikes, defends stupendously when provoked. Lucky for her the two don’t work in concert.
“Just a bit of advice,” I mutter. “That sort of physical contact with Chloe Murphy should require a full body condom, lest you contract something extremely difficult—if not impossible—to get rid of.” I can see the corner of his mouth rise as I continue the mad search through my bag.
After several seconds of watching me aggressively attack my book bag’s contents he says calmly, “Photography.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask though I’m not looking at him and I’m not listening either … obviously. I’m still focused on the stupid whore. And it’s distracting me from the task at hand, finding his schedule. I’m annoyed with myself at this point. I hate feeling unprepared and unorganized. “Oh, here it is,” I say as I look up at him, pulling a folded paper out of my bag and waving it in the air.
He looks at me patiently, the small, amused smile on his face as he leans toward me and whispers, “My next class. It’s photography.”
I unfold the paper and scan my finger down the page. It’s not until I see the words on the paper that his words finally register in my head.
“It’s photography,” I whisper. My face blisters red. “I’m sorry.” I don’t know if the words are even audible, but I catch his acknowledging, forgiving nod out of the corner of my eye. I can’t look up at him. I can be such an ass sometimes.
I turn and he walks closely at my side. I don’t mind as much this time. We don’t say anything as we walk out the doors and across the courtyard. He opens the door for me and follows me into the art building.
“Thanks,” I whisper. My face is still blazing and I can’t look at him. “The photography studio is the third door on the left.” I point down the hall and turn to exit.
I run all the way to French class. The bell rings just as I reach for the door.
“Excusez-moi, I’m sorry,” I say quietly to Madame Lemieux. I seem to be saying that a lot this morning.
She smiles back. “Bonjour, Veronica. Take your seat.” She gestures to the empty seat near the center of the room.
This is my third year of French with Madame Lemieux. A foreign language is required for college admission, which is the initial reason I signed up my sophomore year. I was inexplicably drawn to French. It seemed the most romantic of my three choices. What I didn’t anticipate was that I would fall completely in love with France and the language. I constantly daydream of someday looking out at Paris from the top of the Eiffel Tower under a full moon in the arms of the love of my life, or walking with him along the Seine at twilight near the end of summer when the air is still warm. Someday …
Madame Lemieux spent the summer in the Lorraine region of France visiting extended family. She shares dozens of photos. Each one accompanied by a wonderful story. She’s an animated storyteller and can make even the most mundane traditions sound exciting. I’m so engrossed in the lesson that I jump in my seat when the bell rings. It startles me. It seems as if I just sat down and it’s already over.
“Merci. Au revoir.” Madame Lemieux’s singsong voice bids us farewell.
French class propelled me back into my usual happy mood. I take a few deep breaths and vow to keep it going as I head back to the art building to meet Dimitri. My embarrassment has subsided.
As I step outside into the courtyard the sun shines on my face and warms me. The clouds that masked the sky earlier as I drove to school this morning have passed. The gray’s been replaced by brilliant blue. Looks like the weatherman was right; it is going to be a sunny day after all. It’s going to be a good day.
I smile as I open the door to the art building. I look down the hall toward the photography lab, but he isn’t there. Did I miss him waiting outside for me? I turn to walk back toward the door, but as I turn I see him standing near a photography display opposite me. He’s leaning up against the wall, arms crossed, staring at me. A smile slowly lights up his eyes.
“French or English?” He’s trying, for the most part unsuccessfully, to stifle a laugh as he walks to meet me.
“Pardon me?” I’m confused now, but still smiling. I remind myself that it’s going to be a good day.
He doesn’t speak again until he’s standing within a foot of me. He pauses, smiles again like the cat that caught the canary, and repeats himself, “French or English? Which class have you just come from?”
I’m caught off guard, but answer without hesitating, “French.”
He nods, a look of satisfaction painted across his face. The smile grows wider. Obviously he’s the only one in on the joke. “We’d better get going. I don’t want to be held responsible for your second tardy, too.”
I stand there dumbfounded. He holds the door open, waiting patiently. “After you?” He poses it as a question, gesturing toward the courtyard.
I should ask him how he knew. I want to. But I can’t find the words. My mind’s racing a hundred miles an hour. Did I share my schedule with him this morning? No, we barely exchanged ten words. I’m sure I didn’t.
“Veronica … are you coming?” His voice is slow and deliberate, but light. It jolts me back and without thinking, my body moves out the door, though my mind slips out somewhere along the way. I’m fairly certain it’s still back inside the building … puzzled.
We walk silently to and from our next two classes. Psychology and English are a blur, which is too bad, because English is my other favorite subject. I mechanically take notes in both classes. I can always review them in study hall to find out what I’ve missed.
I look at Dimitri’s schedule as I walk to the gym to retrieve him, tracing down the list with my finger: third
period Spanish, fourth period P.E., fifth period lunch, sixth period study hall. I stop. No movement, unless you count my heart that’s now relentlessly slamming against my ribcage. I stand there holding the paper securely with both hands now, looking at it in horror. My stomach somersaults. He and I have the next two periods together. How am I going to face him for the next two hours? Wait, it’s not like we have to eat lunch together, right? Am I obligated as his guide for the day? It’s the polite thing to do, but is it the “right” thing to do? Do I ask him to join me? I don’t want to give him the wrong impression and I honestly don’t want to suffer an extra hour of the embarrassment that’s sure to come.
I suddenly realize I’m standing completely still in the middle of a very busy hallway carrying on an internal conversation with myself. Though the conversation is internal, at least I hope I haven’t said anything out loud. The way this morning’s been going, I very well may have. I’m sure the expressions on my face revealed every emotion that went along with the dialogue. My forehead pinches together, and as I begin to move my feet, I whisper to myself, “Calm down, it’s going to be a good day.” This I do say aloud, because reassurance is necessary. That and it’s just easier to convince myself if I hear it.
I try to clear my mind as I step through the double doors into the sunlight and walk across the courtyard to the gym. The heat of the day is comforting. The sky remains clear, the same brilliant shade of blue it had been earlier. I walk slowly soaking it in as I breathe deeply and steadily. My eyes are closed and my heart rate returns to a semblance of normalcy. I’ve walked this path a thousand times and can literally do it with my eyes closed. Besides there’s no one in the courtyard—it’s always empty. Most people prefer to walk indoors.
Our school is made up of four buildings: the gym and athletic facilities, the art and performing arts studio, the cafeteria and auditorium, and the academic classrooms and staff offices. Corridors connect all the buildings so you don’t actually have to go outside to get from one building to the next, a handy thing to have in the winter since we do live in Colorado. The buildings and corridors surround the courtyard on all sides. It’s a long grassy area slightly larger than a tennis court. There’s a tree and a flower garden. It’s a sanctuary in the middle of the chaos. I take every advantage to be out in it when it’s warm. It’s kind of like my little secret.
I reach the gym and see Dimitri through the glass doors. He’s talking to a guy I’ve never seen at school before, but he looks familiar. He’s shorter than Dimitri, a full head shorter, 5’6”, maybe 5'-7". His hair is fair, almost white, and hangs just past his shoulders. It’s wavy and intentionally messy. It’s way better than girl hair; it’s model hair. Guys having better-than-girl hair is so unfair. His eyes appear dark from a distance. His chest is broad and he’s definitely muscular, it shows through his fitted shirt. His clothes are the same type the other guys at school wear, but are obviously higher-end. He holds himself confidently and his stance reminds me of someone. He doesn’t look arrogant, but unapproachable. He’s definitely going to get a lot of attention from the girls around here, but I wonder who’ll be brave enough to try? My money’s on Chloe Murphy. The thought of it brings up a strange feeling inside me. Nothing like jealousy—I don’t feel attracted to him in that way. He’s nice looking, but he’s not at all my type. I like tall, dark, and skinny. Always have, always will. The feeling I have is more protective. The same way I feel about my closest friends. Weird …
I watch them talk. They can’t see me from where I stand, so I take advantage of being inconspicuous. And it finally dawns on me why the other boy looks so familiar. It’s like he and Dimitri are looking in a mirror. Despite the extreme height difference they both stand tall, unquestionably confident. Physically they don’t look alike at all, but their mannerisms and hand gestures are similar. They are obviously at ease with each other. These two know each other well.
I shift my eyes to Dimitri. I’ve been so focused on myself and my obligation that I haven’t taken the time to fully size him up until this moment. He’s tall, at least six feet. He’s taken off the long sleeved, button-up shirt he was wearing earlier to reveal a fitted T-shirt that shows off his physique nicely. His face and arms are bronzed, like he’s been out in the sun all summer. He’s skinny—not scrawny skinny, just really lean and fit skinny. Just right skinny. I love just right skinny. His hair’s the color of dark chocolate, not short or long, but somewhere in between. It’s perfect. Not perfect because he spends a lot of time on it though, he just has an incredible head of hair. He wears dark burgundy glasses. They’re rectangular and stylish, but not the type any our classmates wear. His clothes are different, too, a mix of different styles, nothing expensive or flashy, but neat. He looks artsy or European. I get the impression he doesn’t even have to put effort into looking this cool … and that somehow makes it so much better. The height, the hair, the build—he’s tall, dark, and skinny …
I’ve come to the conclusion that he would look good in anything, or nothing, I imagine. Okay, time to rein in my imagination; I’m drifting.
Now that I’ve actually taken the time to notice him, I realize that he’s quite possibly the prettiest guy I’ve ever seen. Guys are rarely pretty or beautiful. Handsome is an inadequate description in his case. He’s definitely handsome, but he teeters over into the beautiful range—off-the-charts beautiful, but in a very manly way. How has this fact escaped me all morning? My god, he’s lovely …
The blond boy looks toward me and grins slightly. It’s the same small smile I’ve already seen on Dimitri’s face this morning, but it’s warm. I can’t help but smile back, feeling the protective, motherly instinct rise up inside me again. He puts his fist out toward Dimitri. They tap knuckles and Dimitri turns around to come outside.
Watching the two of them has put me in some strange calm state. It was wrong to stand and watch them, like some sort of snoop, but it didn’t feel intrusive. It wasn’t like I was watching two strangers, but exactly the opposite. I felt like I was watching old friends. It’s eerily familiar.
“How was P.E.?” My words come out sounding more like myself than anything else I’ve said to him all morning. The edge is gone. We talk as we walk back to our lockers in the main building.
“It was good. Mr. Cannon seems all right. It should be fun I suppose,” he says reflectively.
“Did Mr. Cannon start with soccer or flag football this semester?” Before he can answer, I continue, “I took his class my sophomore year. I remember playing basketball at the end of the semester because it was too cold to go outside, but I can’t remember if we started with soccer or flag football.” I love sports and I’m pretty athletic. I was quite a tomboy when I was younger. I preferred to play with boys and they accepted me, and me alone, as one of their own. I don’t think I had a friend that was a girl until I was in sixth grade. I was always captain when we picked teams for recess in elementary school. I’m still friends with all of them, too. Guys, I learned early on, are much easier to relate to and be friends with. They aren’t petty. They don’t play games and they’re always honest. They are the brothers I never had.
“Soccer. You like sports don’t you? I bet you take P.E. every semester, even though it’s not required.” This should’ve come out as more of a question, but it didn’t. He says it as a statement, just something he already knows to be true.
“Yeah, I do like sports.” I stop and think about his last statement. I have taken P.E. every semester even though we are only required to take it for two. I’ve never really thought about it. I just automatically enroll, kind of like French or English. “And yeah, now that you mention it, I do take P.E. every semester.” I laugh at myself as I say it, not because it’s funny necessarily, but because a complete stranger has just pointed out the obvious. But how did he know? I don’t look like the hard-core, sporty girls that live in sweats and running shoes. I always dress fairly nice and girly, thanks to my mom. She loves to shop. I wear a little make-up and spend too m
uch time on my hair—hardly your typical jock.
He holds the door again for me as we enter the main building.
“Thank you. So, you have lunch this period?” I ask, not offering that I also have lunch.
“And you?” He’s looking at me … at my eyes.
Ugh, I’m not going to get out of this one, am I? I can’t lie; he’ll see it written all over my face. Honestly (no pun intended), lying is too much work; that coupled with the fact that I’m utterly horrible at it, so I don’t bother. Even if I did he’d just find out eventually, so I confess, “Yeah, I do,” though it’s not as painful saying it as I thought it would be.
“What are our options?” He’s still looking at me.
“Our options?” Does he mean our as in the student body, our as in the two of us, or our as in just him (an “our” variation on the royal we)? I wait for his answer, for clarification, suddenly hoping he’s referring to the two of us. This is crazy.
“I mean do I have to eat in the cafeteria? May I leave campus?” His expression changes though he’s still smiling. He’s looking at me like he can hear every word running through my mind.
“Oh, of course. Option one is eating in the cafeteria, though I have to warn you that you’d be taking your life into your own hands. And I don’t think I could live with myself or the proverbial blood on my hands resulting from the recommendation of your last supper. So let’s forget that’s even an option. Option two is eating off campus. There are a couple of places within a mile or two.” I’m still not sure what to think of this guy, but I wouldn’t subject my worst enemy to cafeteria food. Besides, I have to admit he’s kind of growing on me … and not just because he’s good looking.
We stop in front of our lockers and the conversation ends. He opens his quickly, puts his books and P.E. clothes away, and shuts the door before I manage to find the small piece of paper my combination is written on. Man, my short-term memory sucks. I open my locker and empty my bag of books—everything except my notebook—and grab my lunch sack to stuff it in my bag. I haven’t heard him leave, but assume he has. It’s quiet. I rearrange a few more things and hang the mirror, a few photos, and a sticker with my favorite band’s logo on it on the inside of the door. I shut the door and involuntarily jump back, my hand to my chest, when I see Dimitri still standing there, looking at me.