Dalliance

It Just Keeps Turning

Harry and Louis – ages 15 and 16

Harry sat staring out the window as the rain patters against it. He's supposed to be paying attention to the class, but he can't bring himself to write anything worthwhile. Harry loved these classes, almost all of them, all of them that he was good at.

The little abandoned school down the street from his house was bought out three years ago by a very kind young couple that was new in town, Annie and Jack. They put on classes for the arts every week. Little eleven-year-old Harry had begged his mum to let him sign up for them, but she told him they just didn't have the money for it. Still, little Harry kept asking and begging and bringing home flyers.

Finally, she let him sign up for one class and one class only. He spent hours meticulously looking at the calendar the school sent home with him to figure out which one to choose. It took him almost a week, but after going through them all with the utmost concentration, he finally chose one and went to the poetry writing class the next week. He put on his best shirt and trousers and ran to the school with the money for it burning a hole in his pocket.

He excelled in the class; he knew he would. He focused so heavily on the words that Annie said. He wrote everything he could think of down that might impress Annie, he wanted to be the best... No. Maybe he didn't need to be the best, but he needed to be noticed.

And he was. Annie fell in love with the little boy with the floppy, messy curls, and big green eyes. She saw her own son in him, a little boy with the same eyes that was taken from them too soon. She envisioned him to look much like Harry does now.

She asked Harry to stay after the class had finished after reading some of his work. She went over his poems with him, one by one, all fourteen of them. She told him about her son, she told him he would have been four and how she thought Harry had the same eyes as he did. Harry blushed and felt guilty for reminding her of something so sad.

Annie told him not to feel bad and that she's thankful for the reminders. She asked if he would be back for more classes and Harry's head dropped. Harry stared at his shoes and shook his head. He told her that his mum only let him come to this one because she didn't want to disappoint Harry, they didn't have the money to keep sending him.

The trust was, his mum spent days trying to pull together extra money here and there to give Harry what he wanted, but the classes were just too expensive. The only reason she could afford to send Harry to this one was because she called Harry's father and asked if he could help. It was something Harry's mum never wanted to do, hated doing, because she thought doing that meant she couldn't provide everything for her kids on her own. It felt horrible, Harry knew this. Out of respect for everything his mum is, he kept quiet and told her thank you a hundred times and in a thousand ways.

Annie seemed to understand the things Harry didn't say, reading between the lines in a way only mothers know how to do. She told him to keep coming to classes, she'll put him in the books for every class they hold so that he'll be let in when he wants to be there. Harry jumped into her arms and hugged her tight, he forced himself not to cry, it was all too overwhelming for his little heart.

Now, at fifteen, Harry sits with his chin resting on his hand staring out that damn window in the big lecture hall. He's been religiously going to these classes, almost every single one that they offer for almost four years. Always learning something, always loving every minute of it. But today. Today, he just wasn't having it. Not at all. The class was for creative writing, something he was not as good at as other things, or as passionate about if he's being honest. He tries to listen to Annie, but he kept zoning off, anything else always catching his attention and it's only twenty minutes into the class.