by KL Kreig
Three more minutes. Three.
I breathe deep, excited. Edgy. Impatient.
Two minutes, forty-nine seconds.
Come on, come on, come on.
Mr. Kinneseck’s rich voice drones on in the background, now white noise. I feel the vibrato of each long syllable, but I don’t make out the words. I long ago tuned out my English teacher’s discussion on Twelfth Night, unable to concentrate on this bizarre love triangle that I generally find incredibly disturbing, yet fascinating at the same time.
Two minutes, twenty-two seconds.
I spit out a nail fragment to the floor I managed to chew off.
This is torture. Pure, unfair torture.
“Ms. Bennett.”
Two minutes, twelve seconds.
“Ms. Bennett.”
The second hand stutters forward one tick and then jolts as if stuck in molasses. My breath whooshes out when it works its way free and continues around.
“Earth to Ms. Bennett.”
A jolt against my chair as a shove from behind pushes me forward on an oomph, involuntarily dragging my eyes from the timepiece. I pivot to give Billy Remmeny a piece of my mind but when my eyes land on him, his oval ones swivel between mine and to somewhere over my shoulder. Bushy brows that nearly touch in the middle arch in an obvious attempt to redirect my ire away from him.
It’s only then I notice the boring lull of Mr. Kinneseck has quieted and that I may have heard my name called somewhere in the distance. A sweep over the room validates the gaze of everyone is on me, waiting.
I spin in my chair, forcing my eyes to my teacher versus that spot above the door that continues to mock me.
“Yes, sir?” I reply sweetly. Lacing my fingers together, I set them demurely on my desk and square my shoulders as I straighten my spine.
Mr. Kinneseck is former military. Army, if I remember right. He has a thing for being called sir. And for posture. We all know it. We all exploit it when it serves our purpose. And right now, it does because this is the third time during the hour and a half long class that I’ve been caught daydreaming about what awaits me afterward.
The smile that upturns Mr. Kinneseck’s razor thin lips tells me he’s onto my tactics. He is not amused.
“I said—”
The shrill shriek of a bell drowns out his reprimand and probably saves my ass from an extra assignment dissecting Shakespeare using rhetorical strategies. He doesn’t have a chance to say anything else because twenty-eight bodies have popped up and started a dozen conversations at once. Even his deep, commanding voice has no chance over the melee of teenagers that have been held down under his tutelage for the last ninety minutes.
I scoop up my textbook, the tablet of extra wide ruled paper and three number two pencils and scurry out the door pretending I don’t hear Mr. Kinneseck call my name behind me.
“What has your behind on fire?” Evie asks, catching up to me. She’s breathing heavy.
“You can say ass, you know,” I shoot over my shoulder, not slowing down my pace to answer my best friend. I power through a group of freshman girls gathered outside Mr. Potter’s French class, uncaring that I knocked into two of them. Mr. Potter is the hottest teacher in Arlington High and hanging outside his door to get a glimpse of him between classes is a rite of passage. Somehow, I don’t think he minds the attention.
“I know,” Evie replies defensively, pumping her short legs to keep up with me.
Huh?
“You know what?” I round the hallway to my right, hugging the corner for maximum efficiency. Almost there.
“That I can say…that word.”
“What word?” I have no idea what she’s going on about. Don’t care either. I lengthen my strides; fully aware seconds are ticking off double time now that I want them to slow down.
“You know.”
I stop dead in my tracks and turn on Evie, irritated she’s keeping me from what’s become an anticipated ritual between third and fourth period over the past two months. “What do I know?”
Her face scrunches up. “That I can say it.”
It?
“Good God Evie, what the hell are you blathering about?”
She throws her free hand in the air and it slaps against her thigh covered in Miss Me dark wash jeans. “Ass!” she yells in frustration. “I can say ass! Okay?”
A couple students skitter by, giggling at her outburst. We’ve also managed to garner the attention of Mrs. Granger, a cool, hippie art teacher, standing only ten feet away. I scrunch my face in confusion like I don’t know what’s happening either and she looks away, shaking her head.
“Okay,” I answer evenly. “Good.”
“Good? That’s it?”
“What do you want? An engraved medal?”
I’m on the move again, Evie on my heels. I zero in on my target. My heartbeat kicks up ten beats per second.
“Some acknowledgement would be nice.”
“You’re acknowledged,” I placate, hoping she’ll get the hint and leave. I stop at my locker, 224, and rest my fingers anxiously on the lock. Evie leans her back against the neighboring one and waits. “You can go. I’ll catch up.”
“I can wait,” she replies nonchalantly while examining her fingernails, clueless to my growing annoyance.
“No,” I practically bark. Her over-plucked eyebrows crinkle in. “I mean, I need to hit the bathroom yet and I don’t want us both to be late.” I purposefully relax my stance and try to act cool.
Her gaze flits to my locker then back to me. She pushes herself straight and hugs her books to her chest. “I know you’re keeping something from me.”
“I’m not,” I counter, squeezing the metal between my fingertips tighter, feeling it heat under my touch. I itch to twist it twice to the right so I can start the process of opening it.
I’m going to be late to fourth period at this rate.
Again.
She smirks. “You’re the master of efficiency. In fact, you make me sick with how well organized you are. It takes approximately three and a half minutes to get from English Lit to AP Trig. You always take your Trig textbook to English Lit because stopping at your locker takes an extra minute and a half, which leaves you with less than two minutes to use the bathroom.” I start to refute but she mows right over me. “But for the past eight weeks, you’ve conveniently ‘forgotten’ your Trig book, so you’ll have to stop back at your locker.” She eyes it again. “Why?”
Damn her. I should have known I couldn’t pull one over on Evie Fredericks. She’s observant in an incredibly annoying way sometimes.
“I’ve just…” I sigh. Gig’s up. Evie and I never lie to each other. “I’m not ready to tell you yet.”
I want to keep this to myself just a little while longer.
Her chest expands, pushing the books pressed against her ample boobs toward me. “Okay, fine.”
I wet my dry lips, then chew on the bottom one. “You’re not mad?”
She shrugs, only one shoulder lifting. “No. Everyone’s entitled to a secret now and again. I know you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
That’s it? All this worry and angst over how she’ll react and she’s okay with me keeping this private? “Thanks?” It’s a question because I still don’t believe her.
“See you in class,” she quips, spinning on her heels.
Uh…I offer a small, grateful smile. “Love you, Eve.”
“Love you, too, toots.”
I watch her walk away, the halls already starting to quiet and thin. I have less than a minute before I will officially be tardy. It will be my third late slip in the past three weeks and will earn me a detention, but I couldn’t make myself care enough to divert my mission.
Belying the nerves vibrating inside me, a few nimble, practiced moves later, my locker opens and a tiny paper airplane floats to the ground at my feet. My thirty-seventh one from a secret admirer whom I’m already three-quarters in love with.
I bend to pick it up and g
ently unfold the intricate pattern I’ve learned to refold perfectly. I hold the creased paper between trembling fingers, scanning the now familiar, flawless penmanship.
You looked sad when you walked down the hallway this morning.
What are we going to do about that?
Smiling like a fool, I press the paper flat to my chest and lean my forehead against my locker, working to hold back the tears.
How did he know that?
How does a boy who doesn’t know anything about me know me so well?
Today is—was—my mother’s birthday. Six years without her and it feels as if it’s a day and six years all at the same time. I swore when I woke up I smelled Channel No. 5 lingering in the air around my bed. I got mad at my sister because sometimes she’ll do things like that. She thinks it helps when all it does is hurt more. Or maybe she does it for herself, too. I don’t know. I forget sometimes that she lost her parents also, and that days like these are as hard for her, if not harder, because she had to step into their role and raise me.
But the fact a virtual stranger took notice of pain I thought I’d done a good job at hiding, when Evie hasn’t even mentioned it, does something weird to my insides.
I pull the paper away from my chest and read the neatly written words again.
I like these notes, the game.
I like the whole secret admirer thing he’s got going on.
But I figured out who he was weeks ago. At least I think I did. Only I’ve been too scared to do anything about it. I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’ve never been in love. I’ve never let myself venture too far outside my comfort zone because the truth is I’m a little socially awkward. Too quiet. A mouse in the corner, content to watch everyone else live happy lives, wishing I could participate too.
The other truth is, I haven’t loved many people in my life.
I loved my parents and they died. I love my sister, but she’s distant and though I know she loves me, I also know she wants her own life, free from the responsibility of me. Who can blame her? I don’t. And the only other person I’ve loved is Evie.
But I could love him. I already know it. I’m already falling. Maybe he is, too.
I shift my attention to the locker down the hallway from mine. He’s there. He’s pretending to dig into his book bag for a pen or a stick of gum, but he’s not doing either. He won’t leave until I do. He’ll follow me to AP Trig. He’ll sit to my right and mimic Mr. Brunner’s lisp until I laugh. He’ll watch me covertly out of the corner of his eye, thinking I don’t feel the heavy weight of gaze on me.
I do. I have. I feel it until I fall asleep. It’s there when I wake. It sits on me like a weighted blanket in my dreams, a comfort I like too much already.
What do I do? What if I’m wrong? What if he doesn’t feel that way about me? What if I ruin our tentative friendship?
What if you pass up the greatest love of your life because you’re a chicken?
I glance over at him again. He quickly looks away. He’s nervous, too.
I could fold up the note and tuck it inside the pocket of my book bag. I could. I want to, the same way I have all the others before it. It’s the safest choice. But today I don’t. Today I turn that tiny paper airplane over, I scribble a reply, and I do the scariest thing I’ve ever done in my life, praying this doesn’t backfire in a rush of embarrassing flames.
Lungs full of trembling fear, I walk up to him and silently throw my arm out. He looks to my steady hand, then back to me. The corners of his lips round. Stark gray eyes dance with mine in a tango. He runs his tongue over the backs of his teeth, as if he’s trying to get something out that’s stuck between his molars. He palms the back of his neck, rubbing while he’s thinking.
He makes me wait a full thirty agonizing seconds before he reaches out and slips the refolded airplane from my fingers. I suck my lips until they’re moist. His stormy gaze drops to them. I want to groan. I want to kiss him. My chest flutters under his gaze.
With me still standing there he starts to unfold my note and, unable to stand it any longer, I rush to tell him, “Guess I’ll see you in class,” with the last breath I’m holding onto.
He nods once and smiles a smile that I haven’t seen on him before, but it’s a smile to end all smiles. It totally upends my world and I’m suddenly buried under the landslide that is him. It’s a descent he left up to me to trigger and I guess I just did. But instinct tells me it’s a place I’m safe. Where I can breathe steady and be me even as I get sucked into the darkness below the light.
I’m half way down the hall before I hear him call behind me with sexy confidence, “Yes, you will,” and my mouth breaks out into a grin so big my face cramps. I can’t help it. I throw a flirty look over my shoulder and catch a matching goofy grin lighting up his face.
Oh, yes. I could love this boy.
And it could be a love to end all loves before it.
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