Classroom X

day three: grief

Nike knew Rooney was angry. It wasn't her usual loudmouthed anger that dissipated after barking crude expletives at whoever had offended her. It wasn't even the kind of anger that made her ram her fist into a tree and bring it back with bruised knuckles. This anger resided in her breath, her bones, in her bunched up muscles—a very internal kind of anger.

It wasn't normal for Rooney. If she was angry she would want it out of her system, she wasn't one to bottle up her feelings or suffer in silence like a saint; unless her anger was directed at someone she shouldn't get back at—like a teacher—or couldn't, like her father. Whoever had made Rooney angry this time, she didn't want them to know. Nike just wished it wasn't her.

Whoosh. The arrow hit the target neatly—a wonky X etched into the bark of a gnarly tree growing by the edge of the school courtyard, its thick roots breaking up the line of tiles that demarcated courtyard from forest. Bullseye.

Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Three more sharp whistles, the zing of air being cleaved through. Three more trees that sprouted arrows from the targets chipped into them. Nike was impressed: even though Rooney appeared angry, she still managed to hit the target every single time. And it truly was a commendable feat, considering that Rooney had only taken up archery about a year ago.

Rooney was like that. She shuffled between extracurricular activities like a bee flitting from flower to flower: if she was learning fencing one year she'd learn judo the next and metal engraving the year after that. She'd join for glass painting one year and midway through first semester She'd sign up for theater. Nike once asked her about it, and Rooney answered that she just hated being pinned down, hated having to stick to one thing year after year.

But you've stuck to me for the past ten years, Nike would challenge.

Rooney would just answer with her sly, one-of-a-kind grin.

Sunlight glanced off the tip of Rooney's arrow as she fitted it in position, her biceps shifting as she drew back the bowstring. She took a few seconds to aim, her gaze fixed and hawkish, and then relaxed her fingers in the most fluid, effortless, natural way, sending the arrow flying into the trunk of another tree.

Bullseye again. Rooney really had a talent for this.

"What do you think I should do about Evans?" asked Nike, when she thought it was alright to interrupt her.

"Do whatever."

Chloe had come to Nike at the break of dawn to barter for her help. She was shaky and her eyes were bloodshot, bulging out of their sockets, and her hair was an entanglement of blonde strands. For the first time since Nike had known her she hadn't looked pretty, or confident, or haughty. She looked tired and sleep-deprieved and scared to death—as if she was certain she was going to die soon.

She had caught Nike alone, probably because she didn't know how to deal with Rooney if she was going to be there as well. She wanted Nike to find a way to save her, and said she knew she could do it because Nike was the smartest girl in class. She promised she'd do anything Nike asked of her if she could just save her. Nike just made a comment about someone acting out of character and cleared the scene.

It was apparent to everyone Chloe was living the worst day of her life. Manoir and Emilia stayed inside the classroom all the time, so the only way Chloe could talk to them was if she went inside the classroom herself, where everyone present could see her and pass judgement. Manoir and Emilia proclaimed they had nothing to do with Chloe anymore, that they never had an idea about how abhorrent of a human she was. They felt ashamed that there was ever a time that the two of them were friends with Evans. "You can only distinguish the foe when adversity strikes," supplied Manoir knowledgeably.