She signs it, hand moving deftly and steadily, before handing it back to me, finally meeting my eyes. Her dark eyes are small and framed with wire-rimmed glasses, giving her the classic “teacher from hell” look. My stomach drops with nervousness and my heart does a somersault.
Mrs. Hollis waves her thin hand in the air, motioning towards the classroom. “Well, take a seat wherever you please,” she says, sounding annoyed.
I scan the room for an empty chair. The only one left is in the very front of the room, directly in front of Mrs. Hollis’s desk and the chalkboard. I groan internally, a reflex reaction. Mr. Beautiful is sitting in the back right corner, looking at me with a strange intensity before catching my eye. Then, the corner of his mouth turns up slightly and, even at a distance, I see his blue eyes sparkle.
Something in me clicks, like a switch in my brain just got turned on. Without my consent, my hand raises and gives a steady wave to the blonde boy in the back. I didn’t even think about moving it; my hand seems to have a mind of its own. In response to my bold gesture, his smile brightens the room even more, shrouding the surrounding students into darkness. Mrs. Hollis clears her throat and sends a pointed look my way before gesturing to the seat. The class snickers audibly.
My back seems to prickle, like tiny needles are being jabbed in and out at an incredibly high speed. The sensation is not painful, but rather endearing and frustrating at the same time. At first, I wonder if there’s something wrong with me, but my heart is singing. Pounding abnormally fast, I can hear it in my ears, drowning out the sound of Mrs. Hollis’s sharp voice. The hair on the back of my neck is standing straight up, so rigidly that I can feel it moving with the breeze coming from the window.
Palms sweating, I not-so-subtly turn my head and glance at the dazzling boy who is perplexing me so. I expect him to be paying attention to the lecture, like every studious teenager in the room with us. However, his eyes are fixated on me, the intensity returning with each second our stares hold each other.
“Miss. Prince, may I have five minutes of your undivided attention?” I hear from behind me.
Snapped from my strange trance, I spin around in my chair so fast my earring whips against my cheek and my chair raises off the ground a little. Eyes wide, I feel my cheeks once again fill with blood, the embarrassment hitting me like a ton of bricks. Thank goodness embarrassment wasn’t part of my Punishment; otherwise I would be totally screwed. What a wonderful first impression, I think to myself.
“I’m sorry,” I mouth, fiddling with my fingers in my lap.
To my surprise, the frightening woman actually gives me a small, forgiving smile. “As I was saying,” she continues with her lecture until I feel like my ears will bleed and economics will pour out of my nostrils.
The bell rings, and I hesitate while packing my bag. Seeing the photograph of me and my brother in my wallet, my throat closes tight around itself, invisible fingers latching onto one of my many weaknesses. What is he doing right this moment? Why hasn’t he answered my last letter? It’s been months since I’ve heard from him. I previously gave him my new address, so he has no excuse. I stare at the photograph for a moment, remembering the feeling of his heavy arm around my shoulders.
The prickles are back, this time on my entire body. I know before I look up who stands beside me, as if my body is a compass and he is north. My heart pumps faster with no provocation and I drag in a quick breath before my lungs cave in.
“Hi,” I hear. The sound pierces every pore on my skin, sending a pleasant vibration into every inch of my body. The voice is sexy and deep, but comforting in its surety.
I look up, eyes slowly meeting the blue ones that stare tentatively down at me. Although I noticed, I didn’t think about why he wasn’t dressed in a uniform. He didn’t receive as welcoming a greeting as I did, if he’s new.
Up close, I see how strikingly handsome his features are. The semi-short light blonde hair, piercing eyes, and tanned, toned, perfectly clear skin make for a picturesque model of what a boy should look like. Add that to the calmness of his voice, and you’d think a Calvin Klein model walked out of a magazine. His jaw is strong and defined with a perfect nose dotted with freckles.
“Hello,” I say, voice shooting up a few octaves, shaking. I mentally chastise myself for being such a dimwitted moron at the moment, but keep my friendly face composed.
His eyes smile, but his face remains stoic. “First day, huh?” he says.
That voice… I nod, unable to form coherent thoughts while the tingles turn my skin to ice. I’m uncomfortable feeling so meek just by the sound of his voice, but there is nothing condescending about his tone; maybe I’m going crazy.
“Mine too. Well, first day back,” he says, sounding embarrassed but keeping his expression pleasantly neutral. He reaches up like he’s about to run his fingers through his hair, but stops and drops his hand, a miniscule bitter smile gracing his lips.
I can feel it rolling off him, the acrimony, as if in waves of sap; the thick, heavy, sticky emotion clings to my sensitive skin, trying to work its way into my system. I somehow find the strength to pull back, willing it away with just a flick of a mental finger. I smile, finally feeling in control once more.
“You went here before?” I ask, putting my books into alignment in my bag, avoiding looking at the picture in my wallet at the bottom. It’s buried, out of sight. Just like David.
PANG, the greed and grief starts pumping through my veins, working their way from my heart to every inch of my pathetically human body. I taste them on my tongue, smell their putrid odor in my nose, and feel the banging of their demons in my head as they try to force their way into my mind, attempting to once again steal my sanity. I grip my stomach in an attempt to stop the gagging, but then I feel something else.
A hand rests tentatively on my shoulder, squeezing lightly. The gagging sensation leaves me, along with the emotions that were just coursing through my veins. I look up, stunned, to see concerned blue eyes boring into mine. I feel as if he sees something I don’t; as if he’s looking into the very depths of my soul and trying to unscramble the mess that was once a thriving young woman.
He is the first to break the silence. “Are you alright?” he almost whispers, instinctively leaning closer. The freckles on his nose are rather adorable and add a refreshing youthful look to this otherwise rugged looking boy.
I just stare at him like an idiot until my body, again, acts of its own accord and nods. He immediately relaxes, the clouded look leaving his eyes as he takes his hand back slowly. I instantly miss the pressure of his fingers, and I find myself slouching before righting it quickly. My father taught me to never slouch, and literally beat it into my head that it was one of the worst, unladylike habits a girl could possess.
“I’m Tristan. Tristan Presidio,” he says, offering not his hand, but a stunning smile.
I smile back, unable to help myself. “I’m Katherine. Katherine Prince,” I respond, standing and slinging my backpack over my right shoulder. My shirt sleeves ride up, so I quickly tug them back down, hiding my scars.
His eyes take on that knowing look again, and his smile doesn’t falter. “I know,” he says, voice laced with an unidentifiable emotion. That is strange to me, that I do not recognize it. Determining emotions is something God has made very simple for me, which is both a blessing and a curse. More of a curse, really… literally…
Tristan speaks again, quickly. “I mean, everyone’s been talking about you last week. It’s not often there’s a new student here. Shields Valley isn’t exactly a popular place to relocate to,” he says, tugging his jacket sleeves further down.
I bite my lip out of habit. It’s a nervous tick, something I do when I’m feeling uncomfortable or vulnerable. My name being spewed from peoples mouths’ is not something I consider desirable, and Tristan must see this on my face, because he breaks the short silence again.
“I know you’re going to be ambushed all day by curious students,” he smirks, moti
oning towards the few students looking at me as they leave the room, “but I was wondering if you’d want to-”
He gets interrupted by Scott’s naturally traveling voice. “Katherine, enjoy your first class? No teacher in this whole school is better than Mrs. Hollis,” he finishes, sending a wink in her direction. He winks an awful lot. She rolls her eyes and turns back to the blackboard, writing down various things I vaguely recognize.
I am freed from having to converse with Scott by the warning bell that tells us we have two minutes to get to the next class. Turning back towards Tristan, I feel my usual boldness about to reappear. “Where’s your next class?” I ask.
He seems surprised, eyes darting to Scott’s back before returning to my gaze. “AP English. Yours?”
I smile. “AP English,” I say, somewhat flirty. That surprises me slightly; I’m not the flirty type.
Tristan smiles, his cheeks turning a faint rose color, which is just adorable. “Then we best get going,” he says, motioning towards the staircase leading to the second floor.
Chapter 4
Walking next to Tristan to English is distracting to say the least. I keep fighting off the urge to stare at him and more than once we’re cornered in the hallway by people introducing themselves to me. Only a few acknowledge the boy beside me. Eventually, we arrive at room 213, about three minutes after the bell. Luckily, our excuse makes sense; I got lost on the other side of the school and Tristan dutifully showed me the way. The teacher was fabulous, to say the least.
We take the last two seats available in the room, on opposite sides of the tiny class. Mr. Morrison, the middle-aged, pudgy, upbeat man clearly has the entire class charmed with his presence, and I immediately take a liking to him. We receive our first assignment, which is to write a personal essay about our worst fears, in less than seven-hundred words. I stuff the assignment requirements sheet into my bag, not wanting to think about fears right now.
I take the opportunity to glance around the classroom during Mr. Morrison’s lecture; I love English and have already studied Pride and Prejudice, so I’m paying little attention. The students in the room seem to be fixated on the lesson, but I catch the kind eyes of a girl sitting in the seat behind me. She smiles, showing a mouth full of braces with red bands. I smile tentatively back, hoping to make a friend out of the seemingly quiet girl.
Tristan surprises me yet again as the class continues. Not only does he thoroughly know the material, but has very interesting interpretations of major characters. The students in the room seem to be having a difficult time looking at him, which sparks my curiosity. Mr. Morrison seems thrilled with Tristan’s knowledge, but it is obvious he’s is hesitant to reveal his insight. He seems… almost shy.
I couldn’t imagine a boy like Tristan being shy; it went against every single teenage stereotype known to man. His strong build, incredibly handsome face, sweet voice… I feel a flush grace my cheeks as I think about him, so I quickly avert my thoughts elsewhere. I glance up at him once more as the teacher turns the lights off to play us a scene from the movie of my favorite Jane Austen novel.
He’s smirking at his desk, eyes closed, head shaking ever so slightly. It would’ve looked strange to others, but I often find myself doing this when I have a moment of quiet. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was talking to himself, but his mouth moves so slightly I can’t be sure from afar.
Without warning, his head snaps up and his eyes survey mine. He lifts his hand slightly and points towards the front of the room where an old television has begun playing the opening scene. I try to look casual, but don’t succeed so I just look at the television, feeling out of control again.
Besides, a boy like him doesn’t seem the type that would be interested in a being friends with a girl like me; a girl with something to hide, something- someone- to find… a girl who will stop at nothing until she finds what she’s looking for.
The lights flash back on before I know it and the students groan unanimously as the blinding fluorescents assault our sensitive eyes. A few minutes later, after some discussion on the accuracy of the scene, the bell rings and Mr. Morrison dismisses the class. My head acts of its own accord and shifts towards Tristan, who is already halfway across the room, heading towards me, looking at his black boots.
“Miss. Prince? May I please see you for a moment,” Mr. Morrison says from behind his desk.
Tristan frowns slightly before immediately masking his face again, cutting off any emotion that may be threatening to make itself known. He waves at me and nods his head in farewell and walks out the door, not looking back. The instant longing hits me like an invisible wall, and I rock back on my heels, grasping my stomach.
Walking towards Mr. Morrison’s desk, I observe the ridiculous amount of books he has on the shelves on the opposite wall. “Yes, sir?” I say quietly.
His head snaps up, face stunned. “Now Katherine, don’t you call me ‘sir.” Don’t make me feel old,” Mr. Morrison smiles kindly. “I want to discuss something with you,” he says.
“Mr. Morrison, I have already read Pride and Prejudice, so I apologize if you noticed my distraction in class today,” I blurt out, not thinking. My eyes widen slightly and I look down, tugging at my shirt sleeves.
He smiles, looking impressed. “I am not concerned with your academic situation, Miss. Prince. I have no doubt that you will be a fantastic student. What I wanted to mention briefly-” he’s cut off by the ringing of the warning bell. “Don’t worry, I’ll write you a pass. What I wanted to mention briefly,” he continues, “is that… Well, I am very aware of your previous situation before transferred here. Your secret is safe with me, if it’s something you wish to keep private. The faculty was made aware of your… circumstances upon your arrival.”
I am mortified. How could I look my teachers in the face if they all thought I was nuts? I came here hoping to start fresh; new people who knew nothing about me. In every sense of the word, a clean slate. Mr. Morrison must see the mortification on my face, or in my suddenly wide eyes, because he jumps right back into lecturing me.
“Katherine,” he mutters softly, taking my upper arms in his tiny hands. I flinch, but he grips tighter. “Katherine, you are most welcome in my classroom, anytime you need a place to go. Do you understand? I respect you; I will not treat you any different than any of my other students. You are always welcome to visit me,” he finishes, releasing my arms and stepping back.
Honesty was rolling off the man in waves, and I didn’t need to be cursed- or blessed- by God to feel it. My throat constricts, and I immediately duck my head, letting my hair shield my cheeks. “Thank you, Mr. Morrison. I promise not to cause any trouble,” I say, eerily formal after his speech.
His face looks slightly pained before it evens out again. “Yes, Katherine. I expect wonderful things from you,” he says, voice back to his usual cheery tone. “Now, your pass…” he says, scribbling something onto a spare sheet of paper and then handing it to me.
Luckily, my next period is a free one, so there really is no need for a pass. With no teacher to report to, and no wandering eyes watching me, I make my way into the back courtyard, far more lavish than that of any public school I’ve ever seen. I walk somewhat sluggishly into the garden and sit down on a concrete bench, putting my head in my hands. I haven’t been seated but a minute and those strange, yet utterly familiar, prickles start working their way up my spine, raising the tiny hairs that cover my skin.
“Are you stalking me?” a sultry voice says, coming from above me.
Immediately, my gaze shoots up, looking for the source but seeing nothing except the leaves of a large oak tree. Still seeing nothing, I look all around, standing and turning in a complete circle, utterly mystified.
Then, a low thud alerts his presence behind me, and I turn to see Tristan standing in the garden. With the flowers and sunlight surrounding him, he could be standing in Eden. The thought hits me like a massive boulder, literally sending vibrations from my head to my t
oes, covering my body in goose-bumps.
Why hadn’t I thought of this immediately? Was this boy my angel? The angel the Lord himself promised to send to me? But, God said I wouldn’t expect my angel to look like an angel, and Tristan is the epitome of perfection, in my eyes. These feelings of peace- these prickles, the ridiculous longing to be close to him- seems so natural, but foreign. It feels as if my body is on autopilot, acting of its own accord and living my life without me really having any say, which I’m not so sure I like.
But, if Tristan is my angel, wouldn’t there be some sign? Other than the strange feelings I get around him…? Those could be hormonal nerves, activated by actually talking to a devilishly good looking boy. Having little association with the opposite sex in recent months, I seem to have forgotten what a reasonable reaction to a hot boy is. I’ve never felt this way around anyone before, not even the one boyfriend I’ve actually had.
The silence begins to lengthen, and Tristan’s brow furrows. “Are you alright?” he says, voice laced with anxiety.
Great…now he probably thinks I’m psycho. Staring at him like an idiot, stop it! “Yeah, sorry,” I answer, but to my dismay, it comes out breathless.
He sits down and takes a bite of a green apple, wiping the juice that seeped from the side of his mouth. I notice a scar running along the back of his wrist before he sees me watching and lowers his arm.
“Where were you just now?” I ask, shaking my head in an attempt to clear it.
He smiles a small, sweet smirk that sends my heartbeat into a frantic rhythm. He smiles even more when he answers, “In the tree… you don’t have very good eyesight, do you? I was literally right above you and you didn’t even see me,” he laughs lightly, the sound bouncing through my ears, filling my heart with peace.
I cannot help the smile that spreads across my lips when I respond. “I wasn’t expecting to find you lounging in a tree,” I reply, sarcasm dripping from every word.
Keep your eyes open, Katherine, because he is not an angel in your sense of the word…
Pieces of a Mending Heart Page 3
