The Sky is Falling

Chapter One - Elliott Moore

"'You broke our spirit', says the note we pass"

Thursday, May 21st

2:40 P.M.

'Reagan Sánchez smells like grapes,' I write with my mechanical pencil. I glance around the classroom, my eyes scanning the rows of desks to make sure no one is watching me. I fold the piece of paper into sixths and discreetly hand it to the kid sitting at the desk next to me. "Give it to Zach," I whisper, my voice barely audible above the hum of the fluorescent lights. I keep my eyes fixed on the blackboard, pretending to take notes. I see him nod out of the corner of my eye and pass it on. My plan is going perfectly. I continue my work. APUSH. I hate APUSH. We're supposed to be studying for our final exams, but I just want to sit and draw. I begin to daydream about hanging out with my friends at my house for my birthday tonight, but my train of thought is disrupted by a voice. Mr. Griffin.

"Elliott Moore?"

My head snaps up. "Yeah?" I ask, innocently.

"Passing notes, are we?" He asks while waving my note around. I see goody two-shoes Tessa Daugherty making her way back to her seat. Her eyes meet mine, and for a second, we stare at each other. Then, she smiles a smug, self-satisfied grin that makes my face burn with embarrassment.

The whole class is staring back at me. I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. My mind is racing with excuses and apologies, but all that emerged was a stammering "Uhm." He begins unfolding my note. Great. Now the whole class will know about my stupid, little crush on Reagan Sánchez. These sorts of things spread like wildfire at school.

"Reagan Sánchez smells like grapes," he announces. He might as well have been standing on a soapbox with a megaphone to his lips. I slink down into my chair. The class snickers and whispers. Luckily, Reagan isn't in my class, but soon enough, it'll be the talk of the school. Just slap it on the front page of the New York Times already and let me wallow in my misery.

"Elliott, I'd like to speak with you after class."

Wonderful. This is just what I need on my eighteenth birthday. Detention. I glance at my best friend Zach. He's giving me a half smile through clenched teeth. He mouths "Sorry!" Yeah, right.

I swear the clock is going faster than usual. And soon enough, the bell rings. Everybody else bursts out the door like a flock of birds taking flight. Zach glances at me again, his expression a fleeting apology before he's gone, swallowed up by the sea of chattering students, while I stay glued to my chair. The room is left with a deafening silence, punctuated only by the distant murmur of voices and the metallic clang of lockers slamming in the hallway. I feel like an insect trapped in a spider's web.

Once the classroom is cleared, Mr. Griffin says, "Okay, Elliott, come up here, please." He doesn't look up from the papers he's flipping through, his brow furrowed in concentration. I hesitate, my feet feeling heavy and uncoordinated as I slowly get up from my chair. "Since you were passing notes during class time, I'm going to have to give you after-school detention. Your parents will be notified."

"Alright," I groan. I begin to walk out the door to go to the detention room when Mr. Griffin says,

"Oh, and happy birthday, Elliott!"

Yeah, happy freaking birthday to me.

* * *

5 P.M.

After two long hours of sitting at the graffiti-ed desk in the detention room with Mrs. Harrison and a sweaty kid who smelled like he needed to meander down the deodorant aisle, she finally says we can leave. I grab my phone out of the pocket chart on the wall, and get out of there as fast as I possibly can. Eight missed messages. Two from Mom, and six from Zach. I check the ones from Mom, first.