The Way Back To You

Chapter 3

Don't forget to vote and comment!

(If you don't, you'll step on a lego)

Follow me to become a member of #TEAMBLOSSOMS!

4 MONTHS LATER:

Charity pokes me in the ribs and I let out a yelp, dropping the load of books in my arms. Mason pulls up behind me, stopping for a moment to laugh hysterically at my predicament. I set my jaw and force a smile.

"Yeah, thanks for that..."

Mason sucks it up enough to help me with my books and Charity provides me with a half-hearted apology.

"Sorry, it's just...The expressions you make...It was hard to resist!"

I shoot her a nasty look and stomp off to my locker. Mason sidles up beside me and leans his arm on the wall.

"Come on...You aren't mad, are you?"

I press my lips together, fully intending to shun them both out, but one look at Mason's puppy-dog expression makes me cave in.

"Oh my god...Okay, fine! You're forgiven!"

Charity smirks. "He's just worried you'll dump him as lab partner...You know, since you have such a great system working out? You do all the work, and he takes all the credit."

Charity reaches up and flicks the end of Mason's nose. He bats her hand away and frowns.

"Hey, I do work..."

He thinks for a moment, pulling both his eyebrows in. "I typed out that lab last week."

"Only after I wrote it out," I counter, laughing at him.

He places a hand over his heart and starts to back away. "Okay, that one really hurt my feelings. Why do I even hang out with you guys?"

Charity snickers. "Because we're the only ones who put up with you, besides your lacrosse buddies."

Mason turns away and saunters down the corridor pretending not to hear us. Charity turns to look at me with an unimpressed expression.

"I swear, that kid's either on drugs or drunk. Maybe both."

She runs her nails across the metal exterior of my locker as I shut it closed and smile.

"Probably both," I agree.

My locker swings back open and I pound on it, stepping away and waving at Charity.

Charity pulls on her tote bag and starts to fifth period, the time slot right before lunch. The part of day where our trio parts, Mason heads off to History, Charity to Biology, leaving me up to the dreaded Calculus.

This time, when I slide into my desk at the very middle of the classroom, everything is dead silent.

I set my bag down very slowly and look around, wondering what's wrong with everyone today. Why aren't the jocks jumping up on the desks and screaming like monkeys? Seriously, this is so abnormal!

I also notice our teacher, Mr. Tucington, is late. Talk about double standards...

I stare at the door, where I expect him to burst through, tugging on his tie and hauling his suitcase behind him at any moment with an excuse, but that doesn't happen.

I hear a jumble of voices out in the hallway and wrinkle my forehead in confusion, just like I imagine everyone else doing.

There's a long pause and then the sound of Mrs. Roberta, our strict but fair principle. Her heeled shoes tap down the front of the room and she clears her throat, nervously pulling on her high-collared shirt.

Mr. Tucington follows her and then a boy.

I stare at the boy for a long moment, taking in his tousled and messy hair, his untucked shirt and jawline.

It takes a while, but then something clicks. Why does he look so painstakingly familiar?

My gaze stays on the boy for the longest. I carefully observe his bored expression, his slouched position and the way he keeps his eyes glued to the chalkboard, refusing to give our class even a glance.

I snap to attention as soon as Mrs. Roberta walks across the length of the room and lightly brushes the boy's arm, pointing to a seat in the far back of the class...The seat behind me.

I let out an inaudible gasp and try not to sweat. I don't even know why I'm so nervous. I just can't put my finger on where I know this boy from, and he's already making me fret.

I tap my pencil rapidly against my notebook and count the number of times it bounces back, all while watching the boy slowly turn his head in my general direction, shrug, and then walk towards me.

He stops short about a foot away and then we make eye contact for a split second.

In that second, a few things happen at once:

My pencil fly's out of my grasp and hits him in the chest, I spot a flash of recognition in his eyes before he's distracted by the pencil, and he easily catches it with his left hand, setting it down on my desk, pulling his hand away, but not before he brushes my fingers and I'm frozen on contact.

He stops and the corner of his lip tugs upward. My eyes shift from his gaze of hazel-green, warm and familiar, to his mouth. I see the faint mark of a scar at the edge of his lips and then it hits me.

I remember where I've seen him before.

At urgent care a few months ago, the one who fractured his elbow defending Ethan from those bullies Yvonne told me about.

I mean to say something to him, to let him know I recognize him. To tell him I remember our encounter and wonder if he does too.

All that escapes my lips is a stutter and I look up at him in what I am sure is a dumbfounded expression. He smiles wider and gives me a slight shake of the head before dropping down at the desk behind me.

He knows. He recognizes me, I'm sure of it.

I turn around in my seat and gape at him. He raises his eyebrows at me and I turn back around. I lean forward on my elbows and squeeze my eyes shut.

There's a tap on my shoulder and I open them again before turning around and looking at...Alex...Yeah, that's it.

He leans in a bit, making my pulse race and I'm almost afraid he can hear it .

"You know...I never did catch your name."