Chocolate Eyes and Warm Hands

Chocolate Eyes and Warm Hands... Part 1

Chocolate Eyes and Warm Hands

            I was in 8th grade when I met my first love. The cynics may “tsk” me and the haughty may snicker, but saying the fact that I loved him like anyone else that has loved another stands as true as the American flag. Almost every day, I replay the story in my head. I laugh, I cry, and I’ve even punched my apartment wall. (The hotel manager wasn’t very happy with the new dent.) It’s a story some may soon forget, and some will experience it as vividly as I once did, in what seems like a lifetime and a half ago.

            My story starts out on a regular September day, with a blue sky and scattered clouds, as I watched the leaves outside dance in the chilly wind. I was bored out of my mind! As most Middle Schoolers are, I was a cynical bomb of hormones and agitation.

My mind was set on hating my parents for sending me to yet another school in yet another state. I actually almost liked my last school, back in New York, but once again, “Mommy Dearest” thought the city “was a bad influence” on me, so she packed our things and took us to a rinky-dink town in Michigan. Ever since the divorce, this had been my fifth school in the past four years. At this point in my life, I was positive I would hate Mom, Dad, and my aggravatingly optimistic little brother, Martin, for as long as I lived. I couldn’t wait for collage just so I could get away from all of it.

A familiarly annoying voice came from my left. “Hannah, I want you to be on your best behavior today at your new school.”

I was already getting irritated at her thick skull and lack of understanding, and I showed it, too. “Mom, this isn’t the first day of kindergarten, okay? Just leave me alone.”

Ignoring my last complaint, Mom continued, “I’m going to drop you off at the bus. After school, take the bus to the same stop, and I’ll pick you up there, okay sweetie?”

“Whatever.”

I stared back at the window. All I could think was I hate my life. I hate my life. I hate my life. I sounded like a teenage angst version of The Little Engine that Could. Why couldn’t I be born as an eighteen year old?

The car slowed, and then stopped. Despite Mom’s best attempts to sucker a smile or at least a reply, I just left her with a glare. She would say things like “Do your best, today!” or “Good luck, pumpkin.” or, God forbid, “I love you. Have fun in school!” After my silent retreat, I braced myself for what I knew was going to be a horrible nightmare of a bus ride. I proved myself right.

All along the isles were teens, and a whole lot of them: Loud teens that screamed to each other from the front of the bus to the back, to preppy teens that sang to their iPods together and acted like idiots. Bullies, nerds, every kind of stereotype you can imagine came to life on that mechanical hell. I wanted out, and right now. However, because the world hated me, the bus driver closed the door, and ordered me to find a seat. I looked around and searched for a completely empty seat. After I spotted one, I turned to the side and scooted my way through the waft of legs, garbage, noise, and some sort of squishy stuff that I just barely avoided, in the aisle.

Once I (finally) reached my destination, I practically jumped into the chair, and began to curse at how much my life sucked at the moment. After a little while, however, I felt someone staring at me. Now, when I first came onto the bus, some people stared, while most didn’t acknowledge my presence whatsoever. He was one of those who stared. I turned my head to have my green eyes perfectly meet deep, brown eyes, followed by a clear face (besides a few pimples) and light, messy blonde hair. He seemed shy, almost ragged, but had a warm aura around him, and I immediately felt the urge to trust him. (Why not? A cute boy that was nice equaled less time with Carrie anyway.) He definitely was attractive, as well, which I just saw as a bonus. On top of his head, however, was a New York Yankees baseball cap.  This made me put up a warning sign in my mind by force of habit. I suppose my way of thinking was like this: “He’s cute and shy, obviously a sports fan, which must mean he exceeds well in one or more sports, judging by his muscles too. A catch like that is probably already hooked. Either that, or there are a lot of fishers out there. He may also be stuck up and rich, to add even more to his popularity, despite those innocent eyes.”

I turned my head away, (although it did take some exertion, saying our eyes seemed so firmly locked in place) but some foolish part of me wanted to say, “Talk to him! He seems like a nice guy. C’mon. At least make one friend in this school!” So now, despite my best efforts, my wandering eyes somehow eventually came back to him. By now he stopped staring at me, like he was examining me for whether I was worth befriending or not, and failed the test. This thought made me mad, but curiosity almost always prevailed against my weak will. Little did I know how this one meeting would affect me in the future.

Quite honestly, I don’t even remember much of the school day. In classrooms, everyone would stare, even the people who didn’t realize the fact that I existed on the bus. In my mind I kept on thinking about the boy with the baseball cap, though. For some reason, those memorable brown eyes kept looking at me through my mind. He was only in my Science and English classes, so I didn’t see him much, (or at least, as much as I wanted.) The day went by pretty regularly for me, though. I met all my teachers, got my schedule, hated the food, and glared at anyone who would even try to talk to me. I was not going to make any friends. I refused to. I would have to leave all my friends within months anyway. I gave up on ever finding a place called home years before. Suddenly, baseball boy appeared in my mind again. I let the thought escape that maybe making one friend would be fine. After all, after the self-force of observation, he didn’t seem very popular at all. Sure, he had more friends than me, but he never seemed to say anything around others, and though he loosened up around his small group of friends, he still seemed… shy. He seemed to hold back a lot. Common sense caught the runaway thought, and I blushed, refusing to think about him again.

After school, I did what Mom told me to do, although I hated to. I didn’t want to ride the bus again, nor did I want to get into any sort of home or vehicle with Mom. It was less crowded on the bus ride home, and actually rather quiet. It gave me time to think. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something about this year that I knew was going to be… different.

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