As I sauntered into detention, my eyes met Shauna's, we exchanged short smiles before I caught my name, "Y/N Taylor," uttered by Mr. Brown, who sat at the class's forefront.
With a quirk of my eyebrows, I acknowledged him, awaiting his words. His sigh bore the weight of routine, "You're late," he intoned. A sheepish "Sorry, sir" left my lips as he adjusted his glasses on his nose, a gesture that had become synonymous with his presence.
His astute guesses followed, probing, "Fell over?" I negated with a gentle shake of my head. "Teacher was talking to you?" Again, I denied with a subtle sway of my head. "Locker was jammed?"
"Yes, sir," I confessed, punctuating the admission with a playful wink. His sigh was a mixture of exasperation and amusement. "Find yourself a seat," he resigned, a gesture that marked both the ritual and the rapport we had developed. Nodding, I navigated towards the back, settling beside Shauna. My bag found its place on the floor, notebooks were unearthed, and my pen began to sketch out idle musings, a visual companion to the fleeting thoughts that danced through my mind.
Glancing toward Shauna, I observe her fingers dancing restlessly, a telltale sign of her nerves. Carefully, I ink my thoughts onto the pages of my notebook, formulating a question that would bridge the gap between us: "Is this your first detention?" I nudge the notebook in her direction, accompanied by a considerate slide of my pen.
Her response finds its place beside my query, her writing graceful yet slightly hesitant. "Yeah, after what Mr. Brown was saying, I'm assuming it's not yours?" With a soft smile, I retrieve the notebook, feeling the weight of the unspoken camaraderie between us.
"I've lost count," I confess in writing, my pen flowing smoothly. "Detentions are like a second home to me. Don't worry, it's not so bad here." Passing the notebook back, I marvel at how these simple words, both casual and sincere, have the power to ease a newcomer's apprehensions.
Curiosity emanates from Shauna's next question, inked in delicate strokes: "Does detention not make you nervous?" I suppress a chuckle, and the corner of my lips twitches into a half-smile as I contemplate my answer.
"No," I whisper, a response that's as true as it is nuanced, carrying within it the resilience I've built over countless detentions. As if on cue, Mr. Brown's eyes lift from his work, and I quickly shield my notebook, preserving our private exchange.
When his gaze returns to his papers, a soft sigh escapes my lips, escaping my protective shield just in time to notice the subtle tremor in Shauna's leg. I swiftly reach under the table, my hand finding its place on her thigh.
A gentle press, a steadying touch to quell the anxious shivers, is conveyed through my thumb's rhythmic motion. With a hand devoted to this small act of solidarity, my other hand finds its way back to my notebook, pen hovering above the paper as my doodles take shape.
After a few moments, my gaze lifts, catching Shauna's face tinged with a delicate shade of pink. A new thought forms in my mind, one that prompts me to jot it down in my notebook, bridging the gap between us once more: "You okay?" I nudge the notebook in her direction, observing as she picks up the pen and her flawless handwriting graces the page.
"Yeah. It's just hot in here," her words take shape under the pen's touch, each letter a testament to precision and grace. I read the lines, absorbing their meaning before lifting my eyes to meet hers. A slow nod of understanding passes between us, a silent affirmation that communicates more than words ever could.
It's not hot in here at all. I find myself considering the various reasons for her flushed cheeks and her offhand excuse. Is it truly the heat, or could it be the onset of first-time nerves? As the moments tick on, the possibility lingers in my thoughts, a quiet curiosity that adds an extra layer to our brief exchange.
Abruptly, the atmosphere shifts as Mr. Brown's hands collide with the desk's surface, the sound reverberating in the room. He stands, his command cutting through the air, "Detention's over." The finality of his words snaps me back to the present, and I swiftly gather my belongings. My notebook finds its place within my bag, the repository of our shared thoughts now safely stowed away.
As other students begin to trickle out of the room, my gaze sweeps over their departures. However, I choose to linger, opting to wait for Shauna. Amidst the typical rush to leave, there's a sense of camaraderie that compels me to stay, a quiet show of support that goes beyond words written on paper.
Her smile is a fleeting connection as we step out of the detention room, the shared experience knitting our newfound friendship. A small divergence in our paths becomes evident as she veers towards her locker, intent on the simple task of unlocking it, yet met with the annoyance of a jammed padlock. My feet carry me towards the exit, a natural instinct to leave the building. But something inside me nudges, a sense of camaraderie and maybe something more, prompting me to turn back.
"Need help?" I inquire, my voice gentle as I observe her determined yet frustrated efforts.
Her nod speaks volumes, a wordless plea for assistance. "Yeah..." she utters softly, a hint of vulnerability coloring her tone. A warm smile spreads across my lips, and I stand beside her locker, my fingers dancing over the padlock's mechanism, fingers that have become accustomed to unlocking both physical and emotional barriers.
With a series of subtle twists and a precise tap on the locker's edges, the stubborn padlock surrenders, yielding to the persistence of my actions. A triumphant grin graces her features, accompanied by a melodious laugh that tugs at something deep within me.
"How many times has your locker got to be jammed for you to learn that trick?" Her fingers retrieve a book from within, a glimpse into her daily life that adds a layer of familiarity to the encounter.
"One too many," I chuckle, my response as honest as it is light-hearted, a shared understanding of the quirks that pepper our lives.
As I prepare to continue my journey, a gentle touch against my forearm interrupts my movement. Her touch, soft against my skin, sends a thrill through me, I feel my cheeks heat up but I quickly try to dismiss it. A reminder echoes within me, a truth that shouldn't be overlooked — I'm openly lesbian in a place where such openness isn't always easy. Shauna, she's straight, which brings me to a crossroads of emotions that demand careful navigation.
"Thank you," her words pull me from my thoughts, and my smile in return carries with it a weight of shared moments and unspoken understanding. "No problem," I begin to withdraw, but her grasp persists, a hand that holds more than just my arm. "Let me drive you home?"
A chuckle escapes me, accompanied by a genuine smile directed at her. "Okay,"
YOU ARE READING
My Sisters Best Friend || Yellow Jackets
FanficY/N Taylor X Shauna Shipman "We shouldn't be doing this"
