I sweep through the doors with my tote bag falling limp by my side. As I saunter down the hall, trying to make my way to first period English class, I keep my head turned down. You could say that I wasn't the type to vie for another one's attention. The linoleum floor makes small pitter patters as I pace myself, making a sharp turn. I quickly peer up at the ceiling clock, taking a breath of relief when I realize I still have five minutes left until class started.
It wasn't the actual consequence of being late that terrified me, but the fact that the latecomer always catches the wavering attention of the students. Of course the back of my mind usually breeds these fears, for not once had I showed up late. I enter the room.
"Veronica," Mr. Saunders nods, a pair of oval glasses resting on the brim of his nose. I smile politely, before taking me seat. Slowly, students begin to pile in the classroom one by one, all with the same plain faces. Each one the same, silent groans and slumped backs, poor posture and all. I reach into my tote bag, pulling out the desired To Kill A Mockingbird.
"I'm glad to see you've all brought your copies with you. Because I'm sure you all have read the books," he notes sarcastically. "I'm choosing not to give a pop quiz. But we will be having a discussion today and you will be graded on your participation. In other words, I want to see hands raised high in the air." His eyes squint, staring each and everyone of us down. My shoulders shrink and I try and cover my face. Just then, the door swishes open. My neck straightens, and I crane my eyes to catch of glimpse of the poor soul over the large, bear-like head of Nash Price.
"I was wondering when you'd show up," Mr. Saunders barks. "Class, this is Harry Styles, our new student. Please make him feel at home, and don't be too mean," he sighs, sounding quite bored. I quirk an eyebrow, and the boy finally steps into view. His features greet me like an old friend, and I almost have to will back the urge to smile. A head full of curly brown hair walks down toward where I'm sitting. I'm far too busy in studying his chiseled jawline and lanky yet taut body and it takes me a moment to realize he's sat down right next to me. I quickly avert my focus elsewhere, but I know the damage has already been done.
"Hi," he whispers. His entire body is folded, as he leans forward to face me. I nervously chew the insides of my cheeks and grip the edge of my chair painfully tight. "Your knuckles are turning white," the boy chuckles. In one swift movement he swishes his neck to the right, bringing his messy locks with him. Once the hair is gone from his face, he turns back to me. I'm almost taken aback by his striking emerald eyes. Then I sit on my hands so he can't have the satisfaction of teasing me. Harry asks my name, but I don't reply, careful so that Mr. Saunders won't see. Most likely he would have already if he weren't scribbling paragraphs on the chalk board.
"Please beautiful, I'd just like to know your name," he pleads. I turn my neck ninety degrees, hoping to give him my best cold stare.
"It's not beautiful," I hiss.But sadly, my words don't seem to phase him. Instead his mouth exhibits a first class smirk.
"Cute," he murmurs. "You know I once knew a girl-"
"Sh." As Mr. Saunders hushes us, Harry raises his strangely large hands in defense. His back slowly leans against his seat one more time and our gray haired English teacher tends to the chalkboard once more. I was a fool to think one futile scolding would make him back off. Harry leans toward me once more, and I roll my eyes dramatically, hoping he'd catch my drift.
"I just want to know your name," he laughs, looking highly amused.
"Veronica. But some people call me Ronnie." I give in, for now okay with my surrender. Harry slumps back into his seat, but his eyes don't leave mine. Something flickers in them, but I'm not sure what. I don't know what to do, so instead I stare up at the front of the classroom, pretending to be fixed on what Mr. Saunders is writing.
