by Liv Leighton
“The guy who walked you to class,” she said. “I’ve been trying to get him to come out of his shell since Sophomore year.”
“Oh. You have a thing for him?“
“Oh, no,” she shook her head with a laugh, “he’s all yours, if you want.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m just trying to get settled.”
“Well, welcome then.” She smiled. She held out a crystal-covered hand and said, “I’m Maisy Andrews.”
I took her hand and smiled. “Mary,” I said. “Shuman.”
As it turned out, Madame Beaulieu was ill; and our substitute teacher had spent all morning in traffic Which seemed a very weak excuse since the roads in Astoria were not crowded by any stretch. When our sub did show up and explain the reason behind his tardiness, there were only fifteen minutes left of class. He quickly passed out reading assignments to us and then flopped down at the desk, propping his feet up on the top. A copy of John Green’s “The Fault in Our Stars” in his hands, he paid us no more attention.
Maisy tapped me on the shoulder and I turned.
“This guy,” she said, nodding to the teacher and rolling her eyes. “Wonder where they found him.”
“Right?” I looked at the sub for a moment before back to Maisy.
She leaned forward. “So,” she said, twisting a lock of hair around her finger, “what’s your schedule like?”
“Good question…” I fished my notes out of my backpack. “Uh…chemistry with Wilson and then pottery with Jensen.”
“Alright. I’ve got chem with Wilson too,” Maisy said, a bit too loudly, so that several students turned to stare at us. Maisy didn’t seem to care, and neither did our teacher, who didn’t look-up from his book. “I’ve heard Mr. Wilson doesn’t care if you choose your own lab partner. We can be each other’s.”
...
Chemistry class led me to another discovery about myself—I did not have a knack for science. Luckily, Maisy did; and managed to get us through our first lab with flying colors.
“It’s like magic isn’t it?” she said, running her chemical-dipped cotton swab through the flame of the Bunsen burner. Every time it passed through, the flame would change from orange to brilliant green.
“I guess so.” I attempted to copy Maisy, but as quickly as my cotton swab passed over the flame, it ignited in fire. I quickly put it out, shaking my head and adjusting my goggles. “If that’s the case, witch craft is not my calling.”
Maisy laughed and handed me another soaked cotton swab. “Try this one”.
I took it from her and ran it through the flame, causing it to turn bright yellow.
“Sodium,” Maisy stated, making a few notes in our lab binders. She laughed. “You might not be good with witch craft, but perhaps I am.” She waggled a finger in front of my face with a smile. “Better stay on my good side, my pretty,” she said with what sounded like a creepy witch’s voice.
I laughed. I liked Maisy.
After chemistry, I made my way toward the very back of the school for pottery. Taped to the door of the classroom was a seating chart. The room had groups of four desks, and each desk had a small pottery wheel on top.
As fate would have it, my assigned desk was located directly in front of Mrs. Jensen’s. She smiled approvingly as I took my seat.
The desks bunched with mine were already seated with two students who quickly introduced themselves. Olivia, a curly-haired brunette with mocha skin and perfectly white teeth and manicured nails. Then there was Brock. Blond hair, bright blue eyes… he was super hot, but he had too much facial hair for a high school student. My stomach twisted slightly as I looked at him.
Olivia babbled on about cheer tryouts but Brock was having none of it. He did everything but look at her. Were they together? I managed to hide my smile as Olivia snapped her fingers in front of Brock’s face with the attempt at getting his attention as the bell rang.
“Are you listening to a word I am saying; I said are you going to Jake’s party on Friday?” she crossed her arms beneath her ample chest for what I could only presume was dramatic effect.
Broke gave her a sideways glanced and turned his attention back to the door. “I don’t…”
“There will be no talk of parties in my classroom, thank you very much, Ms. Dixon.” Our teacher cut in, “Now, if you will all please turn your attention to the board—”
A guy walked through the door; drawing every pair of eyes in the classroom, including the teacher’s. Wearing a Seahawks t-shirt and a pair of jeans, he scanned the seating charts while propping the door open with his foot.
“Well. Mr. Collins,” said Mrs. Jensen, tapping a finger against her desk. “How nice of you to join us. Take your place next to Ms. Shuman and do not interrupt my class again.”
“Yes, Ma’am. Sorry.” He smiled and scanned the room, meeting my gaze—surely noting my face as the only unfamiliar one. He walked coolly over to the empty wheel next to me and slid into his seat. Our eyes met again, and he smiled. I smiled back and looked away.
Wow, was he hot. Tan skin, inky wavy hair, and green eyes.
He took out a piece of paper to take notes and I watched him out of the corner of my eye. Pieces of dark, wavy hair fell into his sage-green eyes. Chords of muscle flexed as he wrote—and it wasn’t until he looked up that I realized, I’d been staring. He smiled slightly.
“Ms. Shuman,” our teacher’s voice call from somewhere behind me and I whipped around in my seat. “Ms. Shuman, would you like to introduce yourself to the class?”
“Uh,” I said looking around the classroom and all of the staring eyes. “No, not really.” The class laughed, and Mrs. Jensen frowned.
“Come on,” she said with a smile. “Tell us a bit about yourself.”
Great.
“Uh,” I stared. What was I supposed to say? Hi, I’m Mary Shuman. I recently had a terrible accident and forgot everything about myself, so you’ll have to forgive me? Obviously, I couldn’t say that. But before I could think of something clever to say, my mouth was moving with unedited words falling out.
“I’m Mary and I…” my mind went blank. Curious eyes stared back at me as I wracked my brain for anything to say. “I…just moved from Kansas. Kind of like Dorothy, I guess.”
Kind of like Dorothy, I guess.
Oh.
My.
God.
Even as I said it, I could feel my face warming with embarrassment. A few people in the class chuckled and I shrunk down further in my seat, turning ever so slightly away from the guy sitting next to me. The rest of class carried on in a blur as I sat there, completely mortified. The bell finally rang.
It was lunchtime.
I hurried as quickly as I could from the class, eager to escape that fiasco.
The Commons was where most everyone took their lunch period; a series of long tables, all lined up in perfectly neat rows, just outside the cafeteria. I wandered around, having completely lost my appetite, looking for Maisy. After a few minutes of searching, I saw her standing in line. She waved me over.
I sagged, happy to see her familiar face.
“How was pottery?” Her voice sparkling with what seemed to be more than first-day excitement. “I had sociology with Mr. Lewis. God, I could hardly focus.” She looked up to see the lunch lady plop banana pudding on to her tray. “They really should ban attractive teachers,” she said, sticking her tongue out between her teeth with a smile.
“I told everyone I was like Dorothy from Kansas,” I sighed, placing my hand on my head. “So lame.”
“Oh no, not Dorothy.” Maisy feigned distress, throwing a hand over her heart. “How can we remain friends after such a scandal?”
Unable to help myself, I started laughing. “It was embarrassing! Mrs. Jensen asked me to introduce myself and I said ‘Hi, I’m Mary from Kansas…kind of like Dorothy’. Why couldn’t I just say something normal,” I moaned, covering my eyes. “Like ‘Hi I’m Mary and I like to play the violin’?”
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“Ew. Be glad you didn’t say that,” Maisy scrunched up her face. “That’s boring,” she said, sliding her tray full of food down the line. “Besides, you have that ‘new girl’ mysteriousness going on, anyway.”
Maisy paid for her lunch and we found a deserted stairwell to sit in.
“So,” I said, desperately wanting to change the subject, “what was that you said about an attractive teacher?”
“What?” she said around a mouthful of food.
“Mr. Lewis…” I said in a suggestive voice. Maisy continued humming with her mouth shut, staring up at the ceiling. “You said—”
“Oh that?” Maisy forced a laugh, waving her hand through the air. “No, I think I was just hungry is all.”
“For Mr. Lewis?”
She gasped. “What?! Me?” She suddenly burst out laughing, covering her face with her hands. “Alright, alright,” she said in defeat, “I’ll admit. Mr. Lewis is so hot, but you have to promise me you will not repeat that!” she brandished her pinky finger in my face. “Swear it!”
“And you’ll never repeat my Dorothy story!”
“Deal.”
We joined pinky fingers and shook on it. Despite all that I’d expected to happen on the first day of school, making a friend right off the bat wasn’t one of them. And outside of a few select moments, this was the first time I’d felt like myself—my real self—since the accident… I think.
Music and math flew by after lunch, especially because Maisy and I had calculus together. We said goodbye after what felt like the longest class period of the day and promised to find each other in history the next morning.
The final class of the day was technically meant to be my free period in the library. However, when I finally located the library on the second floor, I saw that it was closed for the day due to: “scheduled equipment repair”.
I couldn’t go home yet as I still had to pick up Nate… and he had an hour left. I remembered Olivia mentioning something about cheer tryouts happening during seventh period. I found myself wandering outside, toward the field. At least it’d be something to do.
I took a somewhat comfortable seat among the bleachers where other students were gathered, many of which appeared to be would-be cheerleaders. I opened my math book and flipped through the pages to the section our teacher had planned for tomorrow.
Music blasted through the speakers with an overly peppy female voice rounding it out.
“Cheer tryouts will be on the track, in front of the bleachers, at the fifty-yard line in approximately five minutes. All applicants need to line up, single file please.”
I looked towards the fifty-yard line to see Olivia put the megaphone down and help a waifish cheerleader with unnaturally red hair tape large black “X’s” every few feet on the track. As I’d guessed, nearly all the girls sitting by me stood up and made their way down to the field.
Olivia caught my attention and waved to me sporting a brilliant smile. I waved back, surprised by her acknowledgment. That was, until several people behind me shouted.
“Olivia’s our girl!”
“Olivia for captain!”
I turned. A group of girls directly behind me held up signs for Olivia and cheered her. If only there was a hole I could bury myself in. I pressed my face into my palms. Hopefully she hadn’t seen me waving like an idiot.
After a moment, I looked up, searching for another place to direct my gaze. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw football players taking the field. I immediately recognized Brock, who, without his helmet on, looked too old to be playing high school football. Wonder what his story was…
The cheerleaders practiced different formations while Olivia proceeded to shout at them through a megaphone that I wasn’t sure she really needed.
The players on the field huddled up, broke, and then took to each of their positions. I wasn’t familiar with anyone else on the team but continued to watch as they carried out their plays; flipping absentmindedly through my calculus textbook.
Play after play, the team’s running back—number 54—was outperforming everyone else. I wasn’t exactly what you’d call a sports fanatic, or at least, I didn’t think I’d ever been one; however, I was unable to look away from number 54. And I wasn’t the only one. A small group of students had gathered near the edge of the bleachers. Several of them with their phones out, recording.
I checked my phone and saw there were only five minutes left of seventh period and began packing up my backpack. I wanted to read more of tomorrow’s calculus section, but I was enjoying being outside. I looked up to the bleak sky for a moment, wishing that the sun would break free of the gloom.
Zipping up my bag, I stood to leave; but something on the field caught my eye.
All the players left, except for number 54. He placed items around the field, maybe in prep for drills to come. No wonder he was so much better than his classmates. This guy cared about being good. I descended the bleachers and watched as the team’s running back pulled off his helmet to take a swig from his water bottle—and froze.
It was the guy from my pottery class. Mr. Collins, the teacher had said. I couldn’t help staring as he doused himself with water and ran his hand over his face. Shaking out his dark, wavy hair, he suddenly looked up and locked eyes with me. His mouth quirked up in a smile, and he waved once in my direction. I turned around, but there was no one behind me. When I turned back, he was already jogging off the field.
...
Driving home, with Nate chattering my ear off, I couldn’t help my mind from wandering back to the football field; thinking about the guy with the beautiful tan skin and sage colored eyes.
Three
Normal teenagers look forward to the weekend. They long for the freedom a two days’ break brings with it. Well, I say most everyone, but that doesn’t include me. While I’d recovered physically from my accident, my parents seemed to think I was bound to relapse into a coma at any given moment. I could hardly blame them; they’d nearly lost a daughter. The only problem was, outside of my routine school schedule, my parents had made it their sole life’s mission to watch me like a hawk. Unfortunately, the weekend provided the perfect excuse for doing so.
The sun streamed through the gaps in my blinds and slowly forced me awake. Almost reflexively, I checked my phone to make sure I wasn’t late for school. I sighed when I remembered it was Saturday. With all the gratitude I could muster at 7:05 am, I flopped back into the comfort of my fluffy pillows and buried my face. I tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn’t. My thoughts turned to school.
After the first day, the rest of week had seemed to fly by. My history teacher assigned us our first term paper, which I already completed during free period in the library. Maisy was still struggling with hers, so I’d offered to look at it over it the weekend.
Speaking of…Maisy and I pretty much become inseparable in the days that had passed after meeting one another. I told her about my accident, and she’d listened with such concern and intent. After which, she told me about her parent’s messy divorce and how her father had just up and left town one night. She hadn’t heard from him in over five years. I found myself wondering how someone with such a tragic past could find such beauty and positivity in life.
That’s when she revealed to me that her whole “witchy” persona wasn’t merely an act, it was a passion. Nothing she cast had really worked – nothing she couldn’t write of as being coincidence, anyway. Still, she felt that her ‘hobby’ was the only thing that kept her sane during her parents’ divorce. I guess we all need something to cling to when bad things happen.
I turned in bed and traced the popcorn ceiling with my eyes and sighed. Then where was the hot guy.
The day after he’d waved to me on the football field, I went to pottery class early so that I could check the seating chart to learn his name. It was Brien Collins. And Brien Collins was not only number 54, star running back of Astoria High, but the older brother of a boy in Nate’s class—a boy, wh
o just so happened to be coming to our house today.
Today.
I smiled.
I didn’t know if Brien would be the one to drop him off at our house, but a girl could hope. The idea both tickled me and made me sick to my stomach. What did Brien think of me? I didn’t even wave to him when he was on the field that day. And, after my little “like Dorothy” bit?
Ugh.
With a pang of residual embarrassment, I turned over and began scrolling through my Instagram feed. After a week of tryouts, Olivia managed to achieve her position as captain of the cheer squad. A photograph of her in a too-tight uniform traveled up my screen and out of sight. Brock’s five o’clock shadowed face drifted past my screen as if on cue. He and Brien often talked of football practice; conversations during which I found myself listening intently—despite my far-less-than-extensive knowledge of the sport.
Though he hadn’t yet spoken to me directly, Brien always managed to sneak a half-smile in my direction at some point throughout the class period. Then he’d return to his light banter with Brock about this player or that team and I’d find myself absolutely frustrated. Was I that terribly uninteresting in comparison to football? Or did he want to avoid conversation with me that bad? It was really confusing. Was he acknowledging me out of pity, or did he truly have some hidden interest I’d yet to see? Which was precisely why I needed today to work out in my favor.
The smell of bacon and coffee drifted up to my room from the kitchen.
Dad.
He was always up early on the weekends. A product of working night shifts. It was his work, initially, that had caused us to move to Astoria. Dad had been promoted to Operations Manager for a large shipping company whose headquarters were here in Astoria, of all places. The pay was good, which he used to justify his entirely brutal schedule. Mom was a RN in the ICU department at the local hospital, which made her shift work just as unpredictable.
My phone, lying abandoned upon my chest, pinged. I groaned and flipped over onto my stomach. Whoever it was could wait five more minutes. No doubt it was mom texting me that breakfast was ready. But the longer I attempted to stay in bed with streaks of sunlight on my face, the more uncomfortable I became. Was it always so hot in here? I suddenly felt quite sick and forced myself out of bed. Dizzy and clammy, I barreled forward and threw open my door.