by A. M. Hudson
“Oh, okay,” I said. “Where’s Ryan?”
“Right here.” He popped out from behind the glass doors, wearing a wide grin.
“Hey Ryan.” My greetings may be a little over enthusiastic today, but that’s just because David’s enquiry will have to be postponed until later. Thank God. That’s the good thing about friends; you can always count on them to interrupt.
“So, new girl. You made it through your first week, and—” Ryan scratched the back of his neck and looked at Emily, perhaps to finish for him?
“Well, we were thinking.” Emily jumped in. “Would you like to come to Betty’s Café, tonight—to celebrate?”
“Is that the little fifties-style café?” I asked.
Emily nodded. “Yeah, the pink and blue one.”
“It belongs to Emily’s Aunt.” Ryan pointed his thumb in Emily’s direction.
“Aunt…Betty?” I raised one brow.
“How’d you guess?” Emily pretended to be surprised, then waved a dismissive hand in the air as she laughed.
“Well.” I looked at David with enquiring eyes. I wonder if he’ll go. He placed his guitar case on the ground and rested his hands in his back pockets, then, ever so subtly winked at me. “Uh, sure, you know what?” I looked back at Emily. “That sounds really great.” It’ll be nice to get out with friends, as weird as that sounds. I sighed internally. The distraction will be a welcome relief, too—maybe I can stop thinking about David for a while.
“Okay, it’s settled then.” Emily bounced once on the balls of her feet. “So, we’ll car-pool?” She looked at Ryan and Alana, then especially at David.
“Um—”I’m not sure how to tell them I never ride in cars with friends, unless the circumstances prove unavoidable. I mean, if I go for the obvious route—telling them I don’t ride in cars with friends—it’ll either insult their ability to drive or make them ask why I don’t. I looked at David, desperate for one of his unintended rescues.
“Actually.” David took a small step forward. “I uh—I was going to ask Ara out tonight.” He looked directly at me then and bowed his head. “So, perhaps…I could be your escort?”
My brow folded. He was going to ask me out? Maybe he does like me. Wait. No. Getting ahead of myself here. He would’ve meant as friends.
“Oh, a date? Really?” Emily said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you two had—”
“Oh, no, we’re just friends,” I chimed in, waving my hands in the air, “—and really, hanging out with you guys’ll be great. Right, David?”
“Well, as long as you don’t mind sharing?” Ryan nodded toward David.
“Not at all,” David said, keeping his eyes on me, then he looked up at Ryan and smiled. “In fact, I’m fine with that. I’m sure Ara would prefer it that way.”
Ouch. Did he mean for that to hurt? There was a deliberate sting to his tone.
“Okay, great. So, you bring Ara, David, and I’ll go with Ryan and Alana.” Emily linked her arm through Alana’s.
Ryan, all tall and lanky-looking, sighed enviously at Emily while subconsciously imitating the Leaning Tower of Pisa. It’s so obvious he likes Alana. When are they finally going to get with the programme and realise it’s mutual? I wonder why he hasn’t just gone for it—asked her out. I suppose it’s just something wrong with all the guys around here. Procrastination. Emily rolled her eyes and we both stifled a giggle at the look on Ryan’s face.
Then, the routine catch-up at the top of the stairs continued without my cerebral focus. They’re all smiling and talking, but I can’t hear them. My thoughts are off with my troubles, somewhere in clueless land. David’s not really here, either. He’s smiling and talking, too, but he keeps looking at me with those narrowed eyes—studying me. He hasn’t even realised he’s staring. He seems so cold and distant today.
What happened last night in my backyard—I read into it wrong. I’m sure of that now. We talked as the sun went down and that was all. Though I would’ve given anything in the world to have him kiss me, he never did. I thought he was going to a couple of times, but I probably imagined it. It was most likely just my mind over-reacting to the pheromones coursing through my body whenever I look at him.
Just because I’m in love with him, I guess, doesn’t mean he feels the same way.
David laughed as he caught a paper-canon, then hurled it up the back of the room where its journey ended on the brow of a football jock. I slinked down lower in my chair; I’d really rather avoid getting a headache from unfinished English homework. It’s bad enough that Mr. B, with his strict designated seating plan, placed me right up the front, right next to David. Not that I mind the David part, I’m just kinda worried I might do something to embarrass myself—like drool all over his notebook or start playing footsies with him under the table.
Mr. Benson walked in, oblivious to the origami air raid going on behind him as he placed his briefcase on his desk, and David sat quickly in his seat—playing the good student.
“Faker,” I scoffed.
He opened his mouth to speak, then dropped his words with a smile as his hand shot up and reached behind his head. Everyone behind us burst into laughter and started clapping. “Nice catch, man,” one of the jocks called.
“Settle down, class.” Mr. Benson eyed the room for a second before turning back to write on the board.
Totally and utterly confused, I frowned at David. What the hell was all that about?
David smiled broadly and presented his hand, opening his palm to reveal a paper cannon.
“Did you just catch that behind your head? Without looking?”
He dumped the scrunched up paper onto his desk and leaned closer. “Of course not. I just made it look that way.”
Oh, God, every time he speaks, the scent of his cologne brushes against my tongue and makes my mouth water. He smells so fresh, like he’s just stepped out of the shower, still steaming and hot, and then sprayed deodorant all over his skin.
I drew a really deep breath of David, then opened my eyes slowly—meeting with his direct gaze. My cheeks flushed with heat.
“You okay?” He held back a chuckle.
Crud! He just saw me go all ice-cream-commercial crazy—enjoying invisible flavours, with a blissful smile across my lips. How embarrassing. I flashed him a grin, which he returned. So, he still likes me, then.
“Okay.” Mr. Benson folded his arms and sat on the front of his desk. “Today, we’ll be having a class discussion about…”
Blah, blah, blah. I don’t need to listen to this. My time is much better spent dreaming about all the things I’d love to do with the boy I’m sitting next to. Let’s see…long walks on the beach, kissing as the sun goes down—holding hands…
“Ara?” Mr. Benson interrupted my dreams. “Perhaps you can answer that question for us?”
“Uh—” I sat up a little. Crap! What do I do now?
David nudged me and held out three fingers under the desk.
“Um—three?” I said.
“That’s correct—” Mr. Benson turned back to the board. “There were three characters in…”
“Thanks,” I whispered.
“Don’t mention it.” David folded his arms back over his chest and kicked his legs out straight in front of him, crossing his ankles over.
He’s so sweet. I’m so glad he just gave me the answer. I could totally feel my cheeks going hot then. Anyway, that aside, where was I? Oh, that’s right…holding hands, talking for hours—like last night. I’ll always treasure that memory; David and I sitting so close, on the grass, our fingers entwined around each other’s—his cold, like mine, yet warmer than mine. It felt so good, but for such a short time because he let go of my hand. I want to touch them again—his fingers—just to make sure they really feel the way I remember.
When David’s head turned to watch the pacing teacher move around the class, I stared down at his hand, just to gauge the distance. Maybe I can accidently brush past him or…
“You
could at least try to concentrate.” He leaned his head a little closer as he spoke, keeping his eyes forward and his arms folded.
How can I concentrate when every time he breathes I can feel it and I can hear it and I want to run away from class and lie together on the grass again—talking until it turns dark?
“Ara, stop that,” he whispered gruffly.
“What?” What did I do?
“Er…You…you keep fazing out.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t sit next to me, then,” I whispered back with a slight grin.
“I shall ask Mr. Benson to move my seat if you wish?” he muttered, his voice laden with hurt.
“No, David, I—”
“Eyes forward please, Miss Thompson,” Mr. Benson said.
Everyone in the class turned to look at me. David stiffened. Damn this tongue. It’s always getting me in trouble. I should just shut up and never talk. I want to go home and start my day all over again—only, just not come to school at all.
When Mr. Benson looked away, I tore a strip of paper from my notepad, coughing over the sound it made. David smiled, watching my crafty display of rebellion. “What are you doing?” he whispered so low that it was only his cool breath I heard as his lips shaped the words.
“Shh.” I frowned at him and nodded my head toward the teacher.
David’s shoulders shook with soft laughter. He leaned over and looked at the paper as I scratched away with my pen. “No peeking.” I hid my scribble with my elbow.
He sat back in his chair, grinning.
Sorry, I wrote. When I said that, I just meant that you make me lose my concentration. I want to be next to you. I just wish we weren’t at school, is all. There, that should do it. Somehow, it’s so much easier to say what I want to say when I don’t actually have to say it. “Here.” I inched the note closer to him.
David placed his finger on the top corner and slid the paper across the desk, then smiled, my favourite smile—the one that lights up the corners of his eyes before it shows in his lips. He tried to conceal it, but he obviously liked what I wrote.
He popped the note in his pocket and leaned back in his chair. Okay, time to start paying attention. If I distract both of us, there’ll be no one to give me the answers when Mr. B calls on me again.
A cool touch, just above my elbow, stole my newfound concentration. David ran his fingers slowly down the length of my arm, raising the fine hairs with bumps of pleasure as they followed the curve to the back of my hand. I flipped my palm over and he linked his fingers into mine.
Come on. This isn’t playing fair. Why here? Why in class? I can’t breathe. I can’t even feel my arms anymore.
I squeezed his hand tightly. Don’t ever let go, David.
We sat with our hands concealed under the desk for the rest of class. But every now and then, David ran his thumb over mine and smiled at me—and every time he did that, my heart skipped into my throat like the rush you get on a roller coaster.
I grinned like a Cheshire cat, silently praying the teacher wouldn’t notice the reason for my happiness, and as I sat, feeling closer to this boy than I have to anyone in my life, ever before, I drew a conclusion again that I thought I’d discarded completely. I’m in love.
I am definitely in love.
Dad paced the floor, hands behind his back, droning on about some myth to do with faeries—Alana will love this lecture—and as usual, Emily and I quietly gossiped our way through the hour. I must say, our conversations are so much better now that Emily has a crush on the boy behind us—Spencer—and not so much on my dad.
Although I’m glad for the decrease in creepy comments about how nice my dad’s smile is, hearing about Spencer is getting kind of old, too. Which is why History class is good, because she can’t talk about him where he can hear us, so we get to talk about David, instead.
But I already know all the bands Spencer likes, what colour his bike is, that he has a baby sister and I’ve been told endlessly how cute he is. I don’t see his appeal, myself. He’s quiet and meek—a little like Alana—except he’s tall, with longish, blonde hair. The only engaging thing about him is his dazzling hazel, almost green-grey eyes.
It was during rehearsal for the benefit concert that Emily, who’d been busy organising everything and doing more than her fair share of work, had noticed Spencer. She told me she’s seen him move in slow motion ever since.
I understand that—if not why on Earth she’d feel that for such a plain guy like Spencer—but the feeling, I get. It’s about the only thing that makes sense to me. I mean, I know how I feel about David—I just wish he’d let me know how he feels about me…well, aside from being crazy about me. “I don’t get it, Em.” I covered my mouth to hide my whisper. “We talked until it went dark, but we never really shared anything. I mean, I don’t know anything more about him specifically, than I did yesterday. But I know him better.” I rested my head in my hands. “Er! Does that even make sense?”
“Did he kiss you?” she asked, looking behind us at Spencer, who blushed and looked away.
“No,” I answered quickly, “he was very…gentlemanly.” My lips scrunched up and I stared, bewildered, into the whiteboard.
“Well, like, did he ask you to be his girlfriend?”
“Do guys do that?” I dropped my hands from my face.
Emily shrugged. “Maybe he’s just being a gentleman—that would be very like him, Ara. He might be waiting for you to make the first move?”
I sat up in my chair. She could be right. “Maybe I should offer him my intentions in writing, then.”
“Nah, I don’t think—”
“Em.” I elbowed her. “That was a joke.”
“Oh.” She frowned and shook her head. “Ara, you tell the worst jokes.”
“Yeah, I must get it from my dad.” I grinned as the whole class broke into laughter at one of Dad’s inadvertently humorous comments.
“No.” Emily sighed, leaning on her hand as she gazed at Dad. “He’s funny. You must get your terrible joke problem from your mum.” My heart stopped for a beat, and as Emily stared forward, dreaming about something far away, my chest shook. I held my breath and blinked back the hot tears brimming around the edges of my lashes.
There’s no way she could understand the impact of what she just said to me, and that is my fault. People here don’t mention my mum. Not anymore. Not ever. I wasn’t ready for that—like I wasn’t ready to go back to a normal life or school or friends or boys. Dad forced me into it, and now it’s going to backfire—on me. I covered my quivering jaw and pinched my nostrils together, desperate to stop my caged breath from escaping as a sharp snivel.
Emily’s right. I do get my undisputable knack for telling crappy jokes from her—from my mum. It was kind of our little game. I didn’t realise until now that I still play it.
A burning tear spilled onto my cheek and I released a slow, jagged breath into my hands; the hot air from my lips came out moist against my palms. Dad looked up suddenly and started talking with a slight information-stutter as he frowned at me.
Please, Dad, get me outta here—I don’t want them to know. I can’t bear for my life to become the latest topic of dramas. It’s enough that I’m known around the school as “Hey New Girl” and “Just Ara”, I don’t need to be called “Murderer “as well. My shoulders lifted around my ears with the agony of that thought.
Dad sauntered casually over to his desk and lifted a piece of paper. “Sorry, class—” he said, “just remembered I need to send a note up to the office. Uh—”He scanned the room observantly. “Edmond!” The whole class turned to look up the back of the room, following Dad’s unusual tone. The boy in the rear row of seats dropped his comic book and sat up straight. Dad handed me the note; “Go,” he whispered.
My feet carried me swiftly—leaving the curious stares of the entire class burning into my back as I fled the room. Dad’s scolding of the comic-book-reading-kid absconded into the halls until the door slammed shut behind me, leavin
g only the echo reverberating down the empty corridor.
Blinded by tears, I dropped the fake note to the floor and felt for the wall as the hot, salty liquid of my troubled past streamed down my cheeks. For every tear I swiped away, another took its place, and I fought to quiet my sobs—but the pain just goes too deep. I pressed the tight crease between my brows with my fingers, and, hearing a door slam down the hall, whipped around to face the bricks.
I have to get out of here before someone finds me. Bathroom maybe? No, I don’t want to be reduced to crying in the toilets in my first week at school. Plus, if someone comes in and finds me, it will undoubtedly lead to a questionnaire in the lunchroom, later, followed by a ride on the explanation train.
Stupid jokes. I kicked my shoe against the wall. How could I have been so careless? How could I not have realised I still play that game—even though she’s gone and I’ll never hear another one of her unintelligently comical remarks, ever again. She was the best at it. I mean, how can something so not funny be so hilarious? It can’t. It was only with her—only with my mum.
Slowly, I rolled my face upward to look at the classroom door. Why hasn’t Dad come out to see if I’m okay? I’m his daughter, and I clearly need a hug right now.
Perhaps I was too clear in my request for him to stay out of my life. Perhaps he thinks I just want to get through this on my own. But I don’t. And I’m tired of crying alone. I’m tired of keeping this secret. I really just need to feel the safety of warm arms and a kind heart, and in my moment of weakness, I would finally confess what really happened to take my mother’s life. Dad will hate me. But I just can’t keep going on, trying to live a lie.
“Ara?” a soft voice enquired.
I dropped my head into my hands, hiding my red face and saturated cheeks against the wall. “I’m fine. I just have allergies,” I lied, my voice breaking under the strain.
Long, thin and cold fingers slowly slid onto my arms from behind and gripped gently. “Ara. Talk to me. What’s wrong?” He whispered his words closely in my ear, but I recognised his voice right away. David. That’s the last person I want to see right now. He will definitely ask questions—questions I don’t want to answer—not to him, not now that I’ve fallen in love with him. “Ara. Please? Talk to me?” His gently melodic tone forced a wave of heartache to rise up inside my chest.