Autumn Leaves

That Missing Cog

I hovered back after class, telling Ansel to go on ahead. He promised he'd walk really slow.

I needed a date with a book. When J-Dog plonked The Hunger Games in my face, I blinked.

"B-but... Aren't you reading it?"

"I am. You seriously think I don't have more than one copy of this gem?" To illustrate his point, he reaches behind him to his bag on the desk without even looking. Fishing around for a few seconds, he produces a second copy, a different cover this time, and less bruised. "That's your assignment. Finish this before next Monday. I don't expect you to have it done by Wednesday's class."

I frown. "But I've already... Watched the film."

J-Dog stares at me with piercing eyes. His brows look like vicious attack dogs.

"As have I. Repeatedly. But this is the book. Enjoy!"

Leaving me with a larger than life grin, he focuses on cleaning the board, and I thank him, hurrying out with a murmured goodbye. Ansel was only about ten metres away—and wouldn't you know it? He's walking really slow. Like. Really slow. Exaggerated strides, his legs slow windmills, arms punching the sky. As he turns, his mouth opening painfully sluggish, like a scene in a movie, I hurry over, pushing into his back with both arms. He stumbles forward, snapping back into pace with the rest of us. We laugh, and I brush against his side, letting out a long breath. First class done.

Recess. I've had a pretty lax weekend, but this is school, and though I'm used to recesses and lunch as an escape into my drawing, into my music... It also means an escape from people. Now what...? Do I follow Ansel and hang with his mates? I guess so.

We stop off at the canteen on the way back to our dorm, Ansel helping himself to a leftover croissant, stale by the crackle as he bites down into it. He doesn't seem to mind. I go for an apple, and then we make our steady way back through the chill, the rain at last given up.

We don't say anything. I love that he's my friend, but the fact remains we're still very different people. Ansel tosses his bag into the air, a little higher each time, always catching it before it touches the ground. I'd always associated American schools with lockers—thanks every high school movie ever—and I would hazard a guess that it's the same for Canadian schools. Asking Ansel about it, he shrugs, not too sure about this part of the world. Only that it's just easier to carry your bag around so you aren't clumsily lugging piles of books in your hands.

Back at our dorm, I check over my timetable, re-sort my bag for next class, then join Ansel, because I have nowhere else to be. OK, that sounds really harsh. But until I make some other friends. If I make friends... Until then, at least I'm not going into this place blind. However much doubt plagued me in the months leading up to this, that first day, meeting Ansel... I'm just gonna go ahead and call it fate.

Our hangout spot is the benches beside the Baudelaire dorm we ninja-d in and out of the other night. I recognise a few people, but the rest must be friends of friends. Extras. Everyone squeezes onto the two benches, me just managing to get my butt on the corner, but Ansel's fat ass is giving me issues. I end up on my feet, waving away their concerns, announcing I'm fine standing.

We talk. They talk, more like it. I'm the real extra here. Recess is short, thankfully.

Next up: social sciences. Whatever the hell that is.

***

Turns out social sciences is a bit of everything. History, geography, anthropology, economics (naturally), and law. Sounds like a rush. Our teacher is Mr. Taghmaoui, dark-skinned, his accent Canadian with a tinge of French. It is a very French country. I like his voice. It's exciting. Like Nick's. Everyone butchers his name, so he just tells us to call him Sacha, his first name. He's friendly, if a bit dry at times. He'll take some warming up to. No Ansel, but it's mostly introductions—the awkward icebreaker games, and then an outline of the course. An activity at the end, and then the bell rings for lunch, and honestly, I'm feeling mixed. Like, I want to be with Ansel, but as the gears fall into place, as school life resumes, I don't really factor into any of that. I don't fit in yet. I certainly don't fit in with his friends. No Carmine—Ansel told me he sees her infrequently—so I'm kind of left in the air.