Dylan Rhodes is finishing her last year of high school at St. Mary's, a notorious, private Christian school in the middle of nowhere. Previously having been expelled from her last 3 schools for misbehaviour, vandalism and misconduct, Dylan is prepar...
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"OUR FATHER IN heaven, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread-" I feel myself daydreaming, as the rest of St. Mary's humbly speaks the Lord's prayer. My eyes trail, drowsily, across the sea of students during Friday's assembly.
For the last three days, I've actively been investing my time and energy into the avoidance of Ellis and Harriet. However, it seems that when I want to evade someone, the universe only pushes them towards me. I ran into Ellis into the hallway twice and Harriet threw an eraser at me in Bible study. Mid-brainstorm of effective ways to avoid confrontation, my eyes fixate on a figure staring back at me in the assembly hall. Tristan sits in the midst of rows of boys. A dark curl dangles beside his eyes as I come to realize he is, in fact, looking at me. And just like me, he's not echoing the Lord's prayer, but merely sitting still, and gazing distantly in my direction. Tristan then smiles. His actions prompt an abrupt squeal and an eruption of giggles on my left. I turn to face the source of sudden noise and see Harriet and Pippa, seated at the end of my row. "I can't believe Tristan Myers just smiled at you," Harriet mumbles. I bite down on my tongue and look back at Tristan, who is unreservedly oblivious to the effect he has on the female population of St. Mary's.
"It's a shame he doesn't date St. Mary's girls." That afternoon, I, again, unwillingly find myself in the library, listening to Harriet's loud voice as she, and the rest of the group, survey the school grounds. The library is on the second floor and it is the only place in the school with a, somewhat, landscape view of the school's courtyard. The girls' eyes are, unsurprisingly, trained on Tristan.
"He'd never spare me a glance anyways," Pippa sighs, in defeat.
"Don't slump, Pippa. Any guy would be lucky to be with you," Imogen buts in. I resist an exaggerated eye-roll. Imogen's cliche reassurances have a habit of stimulating my gag-reflex. Pippa then proceeds to unhurriedly catalogue her flaws as justifications to why Tristan will never ask her out. I decide to call it a day. Prolonged self-pity parties aren't my strong suit, neither is artificial consolation.
"I'm going to grab my books," I tell Sophie. I walk down the empty staircase of the former church and ponder over how much I took ordinary conversation for granted. All those times I wasn't being scolded for speaking my mind, for thinking unorthodoxly or for being candid, are now sources of mere nostalgia. Not only the girls, but the staff foster a groundless detestation towards me, as an outsider; someone who wasn't raised with a silver spoon up their ass, under the eyes of God or with a set of saintly morals.
"And?" a voice cuts in on my train of thought. My eyes flicker from my books to the source of the voice. Tristan reclines against the lockers next to mine, his eyes studying my hurried movements. From closer inspection, I'm suddenly acutely aware of the discrete details of Tristan's face. The scattered freckles across his nose, the somewhat whimsical curls in his hair and the dark eye-lashes that bat, innocently, against his pale cheeks. A strangled noise emerges from my throat as I realize I'm staring.
