by A. M. Hudson
“Okay. 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, subconsciously imitating the Leaning Tower of Pisa. It was so obvious he liked Alana. I wondered why he hadn’t just got with the programme and asked her out. I mean, it was obvious the feelings were mutual.
The routine catch-up at the top of the stairs continued then, without my cerebral focus. They were all smiling and talking, but I couldn’t really hear them. My thoughts were off with my troubles, somewhere in clueless land. David wasn’t really present, either. He was smiling and talking, too, but kept looking at me with those narrowed eyes—studying me—probably unaware he was even staring. And all my brain could do was worry that he felt he’d made a mistake talking with me that way last night. But I could feel the energy between us, still alive as always, and after praying so hard, every breath of yesterday afternoon, that he’d lean forward and kiss me, I think I grew a little tired of wishing. Yet, despite that, I still kept looking at his lips, imagining it. My feelings had manifested overnight and ‘I think I like holding your hand’ was not going to do for me. Not long term. Either he had a confession of love buried somewhere in those emerald eyes, or I needed to go to therapy.
David laughed, catching 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 was bad enough that Mr B, with his strict designated seating plan, placed me right up front, right next to David. Not that I minded the David part, I was 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.
“Morning, class.” Mr Benson walked in, oblivious to the origami air-raid going on behind him.
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 behind his head. Everyone behind us broke into claps and cheers. “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?
He smiled broadly and opened 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.”
“Well, you’re a good catch. Er. I mean catcher.”
He looked to the front of the class, crossing his arms over his chest, laughing to himself.
I left my lips slightly open as I smiled, because the sweet scent of his cologne brushed pleasantly over my tongue every time he leaned in or spoke. He smelled so fresh, like he’d just stepped out of the shower, still steaming and hot, then sprayed deodorant all over his skin.
“I need everyone to take out their notepads and jot some notes down for...” Mr Benson started, but I lost focus as David leaned down and unzipped his bag. With his body angled that way, one side lengthened, his arm slightly up, stretching forward, his cologne dominated our private little space; I drew a really deep breath, then opened my eyes slowly—meeting with his direct gaze.
“You okay?” He held back a chuckle, placing two pens and two notepads on his desk.
“Uh. Yeah.”
“Were you…thinking about ice cream?”
“Ice cream?”
“Yeah.” He bit his lip, looking at mine. “You looked like one of those girls off a seductive ice cream commercial.”
I flashed him a grin and he sat back, breathing out his laughter.
“Okay.” Mr Benson folded his arms, leaning on the front of his desk. “Today, we’ll be having a class discussion about…”
Toes in the sand—standing on a beach at sunset, kissing, making everyone who passes jealous...
“Ara?” Mr Benson said. “Perhaps you can answer that question for us?”
“Uh—” I sat up a little. Crap!
David nudged me and held out three fingers under the desk.
“Um—three?” I said.
“That’s correct.” Mr B turned back to the board. “There were three characters in…”
“Thanks,” I whispered.
“Don’t mention it.” David folded his arms again and kicked his legs out straight in front of him, crossing his ankles. He was wearing those heavy black boots again; I’d seen him in those nearly every day, except yesterday, when we sat on the grass by my swing, talking for hours—our fingers entwined; his cold, like mine, yet warmer than mine. It felt so good, but for such a short time, because as soon as the sun went down, he left. I offered him to stay for dinner, but he said he already had plans. Talk about disappointment.
I wanted to touch his fingers again—to make sure they really felt the way I remembered.
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 could accidentally 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, his arms folded.
How could I concentrate when every time he breathed, I could feel it and hear it? All I wanted was to rest my head against his chest and listen to his heart.
“Ara, stop that,” he whispered gruffly.
“Stop what?”
“You…you know that look you get—when you’re thinking…things?”
“Mm?”
His lips parted, his eyes sparkling with a grin. “Well, you’re…thinking.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t sit next to me then,” I whispered back playfully.
“I shall ask Mr Benson to move my seat if you wish,” he muttered.
“No, David, I—”
“Eyes forward please, Miss Thompson,” Mr Benson said.
The eyes of every student in the class made my spine go stiff. Damn this tongue.
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 it was only his cool breath I heard as his lips shaped the words.
“Shh.” I frowned at him and nodded toward the teacher.
“Show me,” he said, leaning over to look at the paper.
“No peeking.” I hid it with my elbow.
He sat back in his chair, chuckling quietly.
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.
There, that should do it. Somehow, it was so much easier to say what I wanted to say when I didn’t actually have to say it. “Here.”
David placed a fingertip on the top corner of the note and slid it across the desk.
“I want you all to write this down,” Mr Benson said, scribbling on the board.
I dared to glance back to see what David thought of my note; he slipped it into his pocket, smiling my favourite smile—the one that lit up the corners of his eyes before showing in his lips—but didn’t say anything.
“Point one.” Mr Benson wrote number one to ten on the board, and kept talking about something I cared nothing for.
David, with his left hand, started taking notes, looking up at the board and back down again, and I watched in amazement. How did I not notice he was left-handed? His guitar wasn’t left-handed.
“Here.” He slid a page of notes across to me; an exact copy of what was on the board.
“Thanks. But, don’t you need these?”
He smiled down at another page in front of him; the same notes.
“Oh.” I toyed with the edge of the paper
.
“Ara?” David whispered, eyes forward, head close to mine.
“Mm-hm?”
“Can I hold your hand?”
“In class?”
“Yes. In class.”
The idea took my breath. I couldn’t even nod. I felt his cool touch just above my elbow before he slid his fingers slowly down the length of my arm, making little bumps lift the fine hairs as they followed the curve to the back of my hand. I flipped my palm over and our fingers laced.
“You okay?” he asked.
I nodded, squeezing his hand tightly. Just 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 the 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 had to anyone in my life, ever before, I drew a conclusion again that I thought I’d discarded completely; I was in love. Even if you couldn’t fall in love with someone in four days, I didn’t care. It didn’t change how I felt right then. I could only hope, as I watched David trying to conceal his own smile, that he’d one day feel the way I did. Definitely in love.
Dad paced the floor, hands behind his back, droning on about some faerie myth, and as usual, Emily and I quietly gossiped our way through the hour. She scribbled another fact about her latest crush on a page and passed it to me. Since he sat behind us, the only thing we could actually talk about in here was David. Which is why History was my new favourite, David-less class.
“I already know that,” I said to Em, sliding the paper back to her.
“Oh, sorry.” She looked a little sheepish. “Did I tell you he lives near you?”
I half glanced over my shoulder at him; he was plain, kind of quiet, like Alana, but with sandy hair. His only redeeming quality was his dazzling hazel, almost green-grey eyes. “I met him once—on my first day,” I said.
“Really?”
I nodded.
“Well, what did he say to you? Was he nice? Did he—”
“Em?” I put my hand up between us; she had somehow managed to excite herself so much she’d almost drifted onto my lap. “Why don’t you just talk to him?”
She ducked her head and took a half glance back at him. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
“What if he doesn’t like me?”
In my mind, I flicked my hand out and whacked her across the back of the head; in the real world, I just rolled my eyes at her. Ever since she first took real notice of him at rehearsals yesterday, all she’d done was talk about what this person told her about him, or what that person said he did in Math class. But I had to agree with her when she said that ever since she first decided he was perfect, she’d seen the world move in slow motion. Now, that I understood.
“So, are you and David going out now?” she asked.
“Yeah, we’re going out tonight, remember?”
“No, dummy.” She slapped my arm. “I mean, has he asked you to be his girlfriend?”
“Do guys do that?”
Her expression said the words her lips held back. “Yes, Ara. Guys ask girls out.”
“Oh. Well, no. He didn’t. He um—he said he liked holding my hand.”
“Hm. PG.”
I rolled my eyes and sat facing the front again.
“Maybe he’s just being a gentleman—” She leaned a little closer, keeping her eyes on Dad as if we were paying attention to him. “I mean, that would be very like him, Ara. He might be waiting for you to make the first move?”
I sat up in my chair. “Yeah, he does have that freaky old-world charm thing. Maybe he’s ultra-traditional.”
“It would make sense.” She offered, rolling out a flat palm.
I chuckled once. “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. “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 his inadvertently humorous comments.
“No.” Emily sighed, leaning on her hand, dreamily gazing at Dad. “He’s funny. You must’ve inherited your terrible joke problem from your mom.”
My heart stopped for a beat. “Yeah. I guess I do.” And it was true. But not from the mom they all thought I grew up with. I got my terrible joke problem from the mother I just buried. It was kind of our little game—almost an art form; lame ‘Dad’ jokes for a girl without a dad around. And I didn’t realise, until now, that I was still playing it.
I saw myself then—the girl standing by a coffin, looking down, wondering how I would walk away—say goodbye to someone I’d loved my whole life. I left her there, walked on, but my heart would never let go, never believe she wouldn’t wake up—never play that game with me again.
I covered my quivering jaw, releasing a moist, jagged breath into my hands. I needed to run. I needed to leave the class before the grief broke through right here in front of everyone.
Dad looked up suddenly and started talking with a slight information-stutter as he frowned at me. “Sorry, class—” He sauntered casually over to his desk and lifted a piece of paper, “—just remembered I need to send a note up to the office.”
“Ooh, I’ll go Mr T,” one of the girls said, holding her hand high in the air.
“Actually—” He scanned the room. “Edmond!” The whole class turned to look up the back of the room, following Dad’s unusual tone. Edmond dropped his phone and sat up straight, pulling his headphones out of his ears. Dad handed me the note and whispered, “Go.”
I went. My feet carried me swiftly, leaving the curious stares of the entire class burning into my back, and the lecture on why we don’t play with phones in class absconded into the empty corridor until the door slammed shut behind me.
Holding my breath, 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 went too deep.
“Stupid jokes.” I kicked the base of the wall. This was why I swore I’d never let my guard down, why I swore I wouldn’t try to make friends here. As soon as they found out, they’d all crowd around me in the lunchroom, using my pain to fill the boring hour. I’d seen it happen before when a girl lost her mum to cancer at my old school. I couldn’t let that happen to me.
Slowly, I rolled my face upward to look at the classroom door, kind of wondering why Dad hadn’t come out to see if I was okay—see if I needed a hug, because, for the first time since I lost her, that was all I really wanted. Just a hug. Just to feel like someone could hold me down—stop me from floating away.
I dropped my forehead against the wall and hugged myself, not really sure I could do this anymore.
“Ara?” Long, cool fingers slowly gripped my arms from behind. “What happened? What’s wrong?” His words were barely a whisper, but I recognised his voice right away, and he was the last person I wanted to see. He’d definitely ask questions—questions I didn’t want to answer.
“I’m—I’m okay, David. I just…” I wiped my face, keeping my head down. “I guess being new just got to me.”
“No, this is not nerves or fear, Ara. This is grief.” His fingers tightened on my arms, his gently melodic tone forcing a rise of heartache inside my chest. “Talk to me.”
“I can’t.” I sobbed, wrapping my fingers over my entire face.
“It’s okay.” He tried to turn my shaking body, but I held fast, afraid to let him see me. “It’s really okay.”
“No, it’s not. Why does everyone always say that?” I asked, barely able to understand myself. “I’m so sick of hearing that.”
“Ara. Please. Please. I’m worried about you.” His hand came forward, cupping my shoulder as he spun me gently into his chest and wrapped me up in his arms. “Please, don’t cry.”
“I’m trying not to,” I said, shielding my face in the darkness against his chest. And he smelled so good, so real and so warm. He smelled like something safe, like a person who could hold on to me if I fell. I wanted to hold on; I wanted to wrap my arms around his waist and just hold on. But my arms, tucked so tightly into my chest, just couldn’t break free. I just needed to be small, closed in.
“Okay.” He rubbed my back and took a step, keeping me close to his chest as we walked. “Come on.”
I hiccupped in an embarrassingly high-pitched tone. “Where’re we going?”
He looked down and smiled at me. “We’re going somewhere we can be alone—talk.”
And like that, in one sentence, David hit every chord I ever wanted to hear. My heart squeezed tighter, then twisted into a large, pulsing knot—a good knot.
As we hurried into the front parking lot, I glanced over my shoulder every few seconds—watching for teachers, while David stayed calm, walking with the grace of a king. We stopped by the passenger door of a shiny black car with a soft-top roof.
“Is this your car?” I asked.
“No, I’m stealing it.” He jammed the key in the lock and twisted it, then laughed at me. “Yes, it’s my car, Ara.”
“How old is it?”
“Uh—” He looked at the car, then at me. “It’s a little old.”
“Classic old?”
“Kinda. It was my uncle’s.” He held the door open for me. “Hop in.”
As David shut the door, the exasperating heat closed me in right away, and the tan leather seat burned the backs of my thighs under my skirt. I lifted one leg, then the other, and wiped the sweat from under my knees, placing fabric between skin.
“You okay?” David asked, opening his door, releasing the tight pressure of exasperation for a moment.
I nodded, slinking down lower in my seat. “I’ve never ditched school before.”
“This isn’t ditching,” he said. “Your dad will understand.”
