A Year With Connor Haynes

chapter three

chapter three

On the first day, there wasn't much socialization going around. There was math homework and a quiet English class.

On the second day, there was no homework whatsoever, and everyone silently counted the hours until the bells rang. One hour. Ring. Another hour. Ring. The bell was constant and agonizing, and I went home memorizing the familiar sound of changing classes.

On the third and final day, the school was missing half of the kids. I didn't want to be home alone, so I went anyways. Connor was there. He had his face buried inside some book that he borrowed from the science teacher; something about galaxies and stars and lifeforms far beyond ours.

I went up to him during lunch and sat down with him. Usually, we have two separate class periods for lunches, but today was different. Today was like the presidential election of our school year. There was an astounding forty-five kids that stayed until the end of the day, which didn't seem to surprise me, really.

Connor walked home with me the last day of school. He looked really down about something, but it was the kind of something you can never quite tell what it is.

"How was school?"

"Like a regular school day."

"Are you okay?"

"Why do you always assume something's wrong?"

"You seem sad about something."

"I'm always sad, Claire."

This concerned me. It was like putting a giant shield in between us, some rock-hard force that separated my thoughts from Connor's.

"Tell me what's bothering you," I said as supportive as I could to rid the anxiousness in my chest. "Please, I promise I'll help."

"You're just like the others. Everyone's always the same."

"What?" I stopped walking and looked at him.

"It always starts with the 'are you okay?' then to the 'tell me what's wrong.' and usually ends up with me telling them what's wrong. They go off and tell other people and don't do anything but cut me down even more. Which, if I might add, is why I have so many trust issues."

I felt like I might cry. Grenade. He was ready to explode.

"I'm sorry," I replied softly, and took it as an invitation to end the conversation completely.

"It's okay,"

 Stop, stop saying that, Connor, you and I both know that it is, in fact, not okay. Please, save me from embarrassment and complete and utter humiliation. Save me from drowning in anxiousness and concerns, and most importantly, the sound of your repeated name in my head.

"Do you have a phone?" I needed to rid the never-ending paragraphs in my head.

"I don't have a cell phone. I have a house phone, though. I can only talk for about thirty minutes."

"Call me," I said, a little too quickly. "Call me for thirty minutes."

"Call you?" He looked at me with a quizzical expression.

"Call me," I said again, and tried pulling my memorized phone number to the tip of my tongue. "Call me at 876-834-9710." I didn't realize, until after, that he'd never be able to remember that.

"Uh," Connor looked up, as if taking the number all in. "I think I can remember that."

"Say it back,"