Last year the school had gone to block scheduling: eight classes instead of the usual six to sit through. Monday you have to suffer through all eight. Tuesdays and Thursdays are odd numbered periods: first, third, fifth, and then seventh. Wednesdays and Fridays the even periods: second, fourth, sixth, and eighth. Very confusing to those who aren’t used to it. It appears that my odd days are going to be simple. I’m a student aide with Mrs. Hathaway first period (Yay!), Communications third period, fifth period is Homeroom, and seventh followed with Art III. The schedule for my even classes however, don’t seem to have such a good outlook. Second period is Advanced Biology, and then Sociology II follows with fourth period. Government is after lunch with sixth period, and then eighth period ends my day with Calculus. Great. One day I’ll be twiddling my thumbs, and the next I’ll be dragging my book bag behind me. I shudder at the mental picture it brings.
After everyone is given their schedules, we’re released to go find our locker assignments. My locker number is thirteen. I hope that isn’t an omen. I find it easily, though - the senior class is always given the first set of lockers located in the one main hall of the small school, in no particular order. I use the combination typed on the little piece of paper and lift the latch. It sticks. I spin the dial once more, stopping at each number in the code with over-exaggerated slowness this time and try again. With both hands locked under the tiny silver latch, I give it all I have.
“C’mon you stupid piece of…” I’m muttering.
Just then, a large slender hand gently takes the place of where my crippled fingers had been; fingers that now seem to be forming permanently around the little latch. I reluctantly remove my hands that now have purple indentations from my struggles and look bewilderingly up to my pushy intruder as I rub my stinging skin.
I stumble back from where I stand as the breath whooshes out of my gaping mouth.
“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be impolite. I’ve had a locker like this before. There’s a trick to it,” the gorgeous imposter says in a deep voice laced with an English accent.
I don’t know who this boy is, but as I appraise him I suddenly have this incapacitating urge to be near him. What is that?
“You see? When you pull the latch you have to push the bottom of the locker door with your foot. Here you go,” he says, turning to face me while allowing a heart-shattering smile to spread across his lips. It looked like he’d barely touched the locker door.
I can’t speak. I feel like I’ve just got done running a marathon and I’d lost my breath upon hearing his voice. When I finally muster up a reply after a very long five seconds, all I can stutter is, “Th-thank you”.
The boy nods, smiles sweetly once more, and walks away while I gawk after him. In the brief moment I had met him, I’d noticed almost everything. He’s tall, probably six feet or maybe even a couple of inches taller. It’s hard to tell exactly from my five-foot-three inch frame –most people are taller than me. He’s muscular in a lean way and has a chiseled square jaw with a very slight indent in the middle of his chin that had disappeared completely when he smiled. His sandy brown hair is shorter on the sides but gradually gets longer on the top where it’s jumbled into beautiful disarrays. I noted a thin scar hidden within his left eyebrow. His skin is tan, but not as tan as mine – as if maybe he’d gotten a late start on summer vacation. He was dressed in a collared shirt, keeping the top two buttons undone while the collar lay upward, resting just beneath his jaw. He had it tucked in only at the front of his khaki shorts that fit just below his waist line, giving him a casual yet somewhat well-put-together look.
But what I noticed most were his eyes. He had not blue, or green, but turquoise eyes. They were like the color of the ocean I remembered from the Caribbean vacation my mother and I had just recently taken. And they sparkled just so. The outer rims of their irises were deep blue, making the spellbinding color even brighter against the contrast of the two blue hues. And he had long, black lashes that any girl would give up her right arm for.
My ogling is interrupted then by the loud ringing of the bell and I jump. I shove my bag into my handicapped locker, slam the door and half-run to my first class. It isn’t hard to find being I just came from there. The room is empty and I find Mrs. Hathaway sitting behind her desk mumbling to herself.
“Hello, Mrs. Hathaway. Did you have a nice summer?” I ask, smiling wholeheartedly.
She glances up from her papers. “Oh, hello, Breckin,” she replies. “Yes, my summer was just dandy. You?”
“It was really good. My mom and I went on a vacation together – a cruise. She’d been saving up for ages.”
It’s true. Elly had been putting money back since the summer before my freshman year. It was important to her for us to have a vacation away from home before I went away to college. She thought I’d be too busy with college plans the summer after I graduated, so we went before my senior year. I wasn’t going to argue the chance to go to the tropics.
“Well, that’s something. All I did was wish my bratty kids would go bug somebody else,” she says with a laugh. I laugh, too. Mrs. Hathaway may be extremely acerbic, but she is funny in her own way. “I’m sorry, Breckin, but this hour I don’t have any students,” she says apologetically. “So I think it best that when time calls for it, you’ll help me grade papers and enter the scores into the computer. You know, stuff like that.”
“Okay. What should I do today?”
“You can help me with this silly board,” she answers, pointing to the big cork board at the back of the class. “You’re good at crafty things if I remember right.”
“All right. What did you have in mind?” I ask now, taking in my work space.
“Let’s just keep it basic. Something introducing the material.”
“Okay. I’ll get started.”
The rest of the short hour goes by quickly. I tend to get lost in my work when my imagination is able to take over and, too, because the class hour isn’t exactly as long as it should be with it being the first day of school. The bell rings releasing first period and I grab my binder and head to my next class, Advanced Biology. It won’t be the hardest class in my line up, but it probably will be challenging being I’m not the best when it comes to sciences. I enter the classroom and read on my schedule that I have Mrs. Anderson. She’s the type of teacher that really tries to make students interested in the class. She hands out thick text books to each of us and shortly explains what we will cover in the coming year. Apparently we'll be dissecting some kind of disgusting ocean reptile which she is overly excited about and it makes my stomach squeeze. Maybe I can plan a sick day when it comes time for that.
The rest of the day continues in the same fashion. Brooks is in my Art class, although we don’t sit together, and Claire in my Communications class. Morgan is in two of my other classes, Sociology and Government. My previous thoughts hold true. My odd class days are going to be easy and my even class days promise to leave me miffed. I have only one class left to get through before the day ends - Calculus. I’m not particularly good at math. I really have to concentrate and when I study for more time than anyone should study a subject, I can hold a strong B. According to my schedule, Mr. Stevens will be my teacher. He’s known for favoring the baseball players due to the fact that he’s the coach and he’s a closet misogynist. Great. Two strikes for me already. I am no baseball player, and I’m a girl. Super.
I walk into the room and go to the back of the class to take a seat. I’m expecting the class to follow in the same manner as the others have – no need to get too far into detail on the first day. I begin to doodle on my clean notebook cover when I can’t shake the feeling that someone is looking at me. I don’t bother to look up though, because I don’t really care. Probably just another unseen visitor trying to communicate with me – another one I’ll try with all my might to ignore.
Mr. Stevens takes role after the bell rings. “Amber Newman,” he says after reaching the middle of the roll list.
Perfect. Strike three.
And here I thought I’d get through a year without her in any of my classes. Life isn’t so grand after all. I raise my hand silently when my name is called and ignore the snort from Amber’s direction. I start to wander in thought as my eyes look unseeingly out the window, thinking about how the school year might go, or rather how I’d like it to go. I wish that I could be a little more outgoing. Maybe meet up with my friends more – accept the invitation to go to a football game or silly sleep over when Morgan or Claire ask. Maybe even get excited for school events. After all, this is supposed to be the best years of my life, right? I hope for Amber to leave me alone, but then I remember my promise to myself that I won’t let her bother me. I never understood what it is she has against me. It’s not like I’ve ever done anything to her. She’s just such a…
“Oh. There’s an add-on here. Liam Francis,” Mr. Stevens calls.
My daydreaming stops then and I quickly recall the names of the boys in my class and even the junior class and can’t remember anyone by that name. I’m sure that there aren’t any younger underclassmen in this level of mathematics; there are other math courses to be completed first. Of course there’s always the occasional underclassmen that is a total nerd and way too smart for his or her own good. Maybe this is the case now. I quickly scan the room for who will reply.
“Here,” the exquisitely accented deep voice calls.
I hadn’t even noticed him sitting in the desk almost directly across from me. More than likely the result of my idled doodling before class had started. He’s just one seat kiddy-corner from where I sit – one row up and one seat to the left.
“Mr. Francis joins us all the way from Oxford, England.” Mr. Stevens announces, sounding all proud and I’m-so-smart.
The beautiful boy sits casually in his seat with his back against the chair and he has his right elbow propped behind him. He doesn’t seem to mind everyone’s eyes on him. My guess is that he’s probably used to it by now with a day full of curious stares. Is he a foreign exchange student? If so, then why to this little mundane town and tiny school? There are only close to one-hundred-twenty students to each class, so I find it difficult to believe that our little school has any kind of appeal for someone from another country. Why spend a transfer year here? Did he move here? If so, then why have his parents decided to make the move – a new job offer…? I feel myself staring again and then force myself to focus my attention back to the teacher.
The class continues as uneventfully as all my others have, but to be honest I’m not paying any notice to one word Mr. Stevens says. I am too busy thinking about the new addition to our school, so it’s a good thing we aren’t given an assignment for homework. The bell rings, excusing us from our first day and I gather my book and school loaned calculator and head for the door.
Please don’t speak to me, please don’t speak to me, I chant to myself. I don’t want to look like an idiot twice in one day. After this morning, this elegant stranger probably thinks I have a stuttering problem. Ooooh, but that voice. And those eyes! How could anyone think coherently after staring into those eyes? So yeah, I’m good with the subtle long-distance-staring-thing rather than trying to actually talk to him.
“How is your locker treating you?” Liam asks politely. He’s walking directly behind me.
Crap.
“Um, good. I think I got your ah, technique down… almost.” Truthfully I’ve not had good luck with the sticky door all day. I had to kick the bottom of it – not hold it with my foot. It had seemed so effortless when Liam had done it before.
“You’ll get the hang of it. Pretty soon you won’t even have to think twice about it.” He’s smirking now. Did he see me fighting with it today? My luck, yes.
“Well, I sort of have a history… for, um, crappy lockers. I guess I wasn’t surprised, you know… that I got a faulty one.” Am I speaking in complete sentences?
Liam nods once. “That’s unfortunate. Although it could be worse, I guess.” He’s walking beside me now, heading for the very topic of our conversation. C’mon, Breckin, is this all you can talk about? Your stupid locker?
“So…” is all I can come up with. Brilliant.
Liam stands against the side of my locker and holds his smirk. I can feel my cheeks turning pink and I stumble to look away from his gaze. Those eyes manage to mesmerize me into silence and the sound of his voice sends a thrilling kind of tickle down my spine.
“So, it looks as though we’ll be seeing quite a lot of each other.” Liam says when I look away.
“Huh?” I am very slowly turning the dial to my locker, avoiding eye contact. I can see in my peripheral vision that he points toward the direction we’ve just come from with his chin.
“Calculus. Our class together?”
“Oh yeah, right.” I manage while now fidgeting with my bag. Good grief, why can’t I talk normal around him? I feel light headed and as though I can’t breathe – but in an oddly good way. I struggle for words – any type of articulate thought for that matter. I finally allow myself eye contact with him and a piece of stray hair falls into my eye. I try to nonchalantly blow it out of the way so that I can better see him.
Liam reaches up to swipe it away with his fingertips and tucks it behind my ear ever so gently. The touch sends more electricity zinging through my body and my eyes open wide with the gesture. It seemed so effortless, like he really hadn’t thought anything out of the ordinary about reaching over to do it.
“Thanks,” I whisper. I’m not sure he can hear me but I notice that his eyes are sparkling like the sea blanketed in sunlight. There’s excitement behind his stare, and maybe even a little bit of fear. Wait, fear? No. That can’t be right.
“Right, well, I have to be going. I made your football team, excuse me, I mean your soccer team. Practice will be starting soon,” he explains, leaning his hand against the space above my locker.
I just smile and nod. I turn away from him then, too embarrassed to look him in the eye.
“Want another hand with your locker before I go?” he asks with amusement. Holy hell, he’s making fun of me!
“Um, no. I think I got it.”
“All right then. See you later.”
I slowly turn to the numbers on the dial again and watch Liam walk away from the corner of my eye. I try the tip he’d given me – again – and still have to kick the damn door. I’m glad Liam left when he did so that I didn’t have to admit my defeat. I gather my bag and head to the locker room to change for swim practice. On my way, I hear giggled whispers from Amber and her miscreants.
“He is so hot!” Mariah squeals. “The most gorgeous thing I have ever seen!”
Is she part of her pack now – the girl with smelly socks? I find that hard to believe, but it appears so.
“I know! I have two classes with him. He’s so H-O-T-T. I’ll bet I have a date with him by this weekend,” Amber coos conceitedly as she gives a girly high-five to Mariah.
H-O-T-T? Get a dictionary. I roll my eyes.
“Oh please, what makes you think you’re even his type?” Carmen sneers, truly annoyed. I often wonder if Carmen Montgomery is in Amber’s clique out of convenience rather than desire. She really doesn’t seem to like her much more than I do, but there aren’t many other options for friends unless you aren’t into shopping and gossip.
“Are you kidding? Of course I’m his type. I’m every guy’s type. That’s what makes me so delectable. We’d look perfect together!” Amber gushes while daintily clapping her hands. And it’s an assignment, not true interest that’s driving her. Appearance is everything. She has a game in mind and Liam is the trophy.
I don’t want to hear anymore. I roll my eyes again and shake my head – so typical high school. Amber is scheming and I hope Liam won’t fall for such a fake, transparent girl like her. Who knows though, maybe she is his type. I know nothing about him other than the way his eyes seem to cause me to drown in their depthless pools of aquatic mass and th
at his British accent makes my skin tingle.
“You shouldn’t care what he does with his time. Nor should you care who he spends that time with. Don’t you have a boyfriend?” Sera says, replying to my unspoken thoughts.
Like always, Sera appears out of nowhere but I can’t answer her aloud. People will think I’m insane if they hear my one way conversation – or so it would appear. I can only think my answer because I am the only one who can hear her. And the only one who can see her.
Chapter Two
I know, I think in a snap. It doesn’t matter, I then add with an inward sigh. Liam probably thinks I’m a flipping idiot anyway.
“He is quite handsome though, isn’t he?” Sera speculates. I eyeball her and see that she is looking into the direction I had just been – after Liam.
I wish you wouldn’t visit me at school. What if I accidentally answer you? People already think I’m weird and I don’t need people watching me talk to a ghost – or to myself as it would appear. I don’t need to add fuel to the fire.
“I know your wishes, but I just wanted to see how your first day of school went,” she says with concern lacing her soft, high-pitched voice. “And no one thinks you’re weird,” she adds sternly.
Sera has been in my life as far as my memory can serve. She is my height and has long, curly strawberry-blonde hair. She has gleaming green eyes that are brighter than the new moss covering a forest floor. Her skin is fair with freckles that mirror mine, and she seems the type that would burn easily in the sun if that were possible. She’s petite like me, too, and always appears to me in the same stage of growth I’m in at the moment, although always having such a higher mentality than me. This is sometimes annoying.
My first clear memory of her was at age four. I was playing in the small bedroom in my mother’s apartment. Sera and I were both sitting cross legged on the dark green carpet playing with my dolls (well I was, she watched and talked with me). I had emptied my entire toy box which I swore was Sera’s idea, when Elly had walked into my room to ask who I was talking to, so naturally I introduced her to my friend thinking she could also see her. For my benefit Elly had pretended to notice her and when people would ask about my behavior, she simply explained that I had an imaginary friend. When I finally realized after starting grade school that I was the only one who could see her (because I was getting worried glances from my teacher and my classmates thought I was off my rocker), I asked her why that was.
Hollow Sight Page 3
