school

february 1

In the days since Summer has gotten here, she's only talked once. 

"what do you guys think about the charles manson marriage?" ms. randall asked rhetoricaly.

summer's arm shot straight to the sky. ms. randall pointed at her.

"everyone deserves love. people died on his behalf, so what? they're just lives."

Later on, Ms. Randall called Summer into her room over the intercom. I assumed it had to do with her little statement.

At lunch, Summer sits in the shade of a tree and scribbles in that black notebook. My friends occasionally will yell disrespectful words at her. She'll just roll her eyes, not looking up from the ink spilling to words. There have been times I've thought about walking into the field and sitting with her, asking what she likes to write about and her favorite color. But my friends would never let me hear the end of that one.

Right now, we're sat in Ms. Randall's and I'm half paying attention, half wondering what would happen if I came to the school late at night and burned it down. 

"Partner up," is all I hear her say. 

I curse under my breath as I watch everyone I slightly know pair up with other people, leaving me with the girl who doesn't live up to her name, Summer. Her eyes nervously meet mine as she bites her lip in questioning. I just get up and bring my stuff to the desk next to hers.

"Hi, I'm Logan," I say, reaching my hand into hers. Creamy palms.

She yanks her hand back and looks at me like I crossed a line. All I did was attempt to shake her hand.

"What the-"

"Yeah, you're Logan. Logan Teller, you're one of the guys who say nasty stuff to me."

"That's my friends," I tell her. She rolls her eyes. 

I listen to Ms. Randall explain the assignment. We have to create a film demonstrating struggle. I look at Summer as the teacher talks about examples of struggle. We all know what struggle is, we're sitting in her classroom. Summer seems to be into it though. She keeps her pale pink lip in between her pearly white teeth and half smiles, as if she already has an idea. That's relieving because I don't want to make a film about my decent life and first world problems.

Summer starts writing a script with her drippy pen. I look over her shoulder and watch her write over the faded blue lines of her notebook. It's about her old school. 

"Can I see?" I ask when she's done.

She slides the opened notebook over to me as she tucks the pen into the spiral rings on the side. It screeches over the fake wood.