SCARS

1

August of my junior year, I remember it clearly. I had been cutting the night before, so I was wearing a long sleeve, black sweater. It was just hot enough that I shouldn't have been wearing a winter sweater. We had an after school rehearsal for the musical that day and he was in tech. He got to rehearsal late and ran in through the auditorium, sliding into the seat next to me. 

He was kind of pale, but it suited him. And he was strangely muscular, even though he sat in front of computers and soundboards all day. His dark hair swooshed back into his gray beanie, and a couple of pieces fell out here and there. 

"Beckett." Ms. Aumis, our drama teacher, said from the stage, directing everyone's attention to the boy sitting next to me.

"Is there a problem, Ms. Aumis?" He asked, all too confident. 

"You're late." She said. 

"I know, Ms. Aumis and I'm dreadfully sorry about that. It's just, I was running behind on my work in my Journalism class so Mr. Dredick asked me to stay after class to finish it." 

Someone on the other side of the room coughed "Detention." 

"Not detention." Beckett coughed back. "You see, Ms. Aumis, I was running behind because my mother's business burned down last week and I had to miss a few days of school to console her poor aching heart." 

"You didn't miss any rehearsal last week." I piped up. 

"Well, I could never miss a rehearsal." He said with fake sincerity. 

"But you were late today." I whispered. He nudged me in the arm and I could feel my cuts burning. I winced and he looked at my sweater, concerned. 

"Nevermind that." Ms. Aumis said from the stage. "Let's get to work."

After rehearsal, Beckett stopped me outside the dressing rooms. 

"Hey." He said. "It's Willa, right?" 

"Yah, well, no." He cocked an eyebrow. "Technically it's Willamere but that sounds like the name of a suburban neighborhood so everyone calls me Willa." I should stop talking. "And you're, Beckett." 

"Yah, Beckett Oatridge. But all my friends call me Beck." 

"Well hi, Beck." 

He smiled. "Hi Willa." I returned the smile. "Can I walk you out?" 

"Sure." 

"So I can't help but notice that you're wearing a winter sweater in August." 

"I didn't know guys pay attention to what girls wear." I said, brushing off his accusation. 

"Only some girls."He said. I smiled. "But aren't you hot?" I blushed. "I mean, in the sweater." 

"Why do you care?" I asked, getting defensive. "Do you think I have something to hide?" 

"Why are you wearing long sleeves in August?" He retorted, as he stopped walking. 

I kept walking. "It's none of your business." He pulled me back by the wrist and I yelped. I could see the shock in his eyes as his suspiscions were proven true. But he didn't let go of my wrist. 

"I'll see you around." I said, painfully pulling my arm from his grasp. He watched me as I turned the corner of the hallway.