A blaring horn.
The screech of tires.
A sickening crunch.
I open my eyes slowly, a loud ringing in my left ear. What just happened? I think, blinking in confusion.
"Who is he?" I ask.
"You don't know him?"
"I've never seen him before in my life."
"...
Students clamour noisily through my English class, groaning about the day ahead, chattering about the recent drama, voicing their opinions on the culminating project. I start to head toward the back, where Micheal is sitting, dressed as always- in dark colours- when Amelia stops me. Literally.
She stands, arms crossed, with a pinched face, as if she's actively trying to contain her disgust. Her brown eyes are flashing, searching my face for any sort of ailments that would cause me to make such a 'poor decision' as to work with Micheal Sawyer. Her short blonde hair frames her face, just passing her shoulders and sweeping onto her green tank top.
I glance around, an eyebrow raised, before eventually saying, "Hi...?" The end pitches up, making the word sound like a question.
"What's gotten into you?" She demands quietly, almost- almost- sounding concerned. "You've been ignoring my texts, you've been ignoring my questions... And now you're working with Micheal?" She asks in disbelief as if me deciding to work with anyone other than her or someone in our clique was something otherworldly.
"Yes," I state, trying to keep the coldness out of my voice. She must mistake it for bitterness as she says,
"You know, we can probably get Reynolds to switch partners if-" She starts, but I cut her off, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.
"Why?" I ask, "Who are you working with?"
"Nicky, but-" She starts, but I interrupt her again, asking incredulously,
"Nicky? Why wouldn't you want to work with Nicky? What's wrong with her?" Nicky, a short, kind brunette in our class, is brilliant. She's already scored herself a spot at Harvard, unsurprising given that she's joined half the clubs and tried out for nearly as many sports teams. Dedicated, hardworking, and calm, all the teachers love her, and the majority of cliques want her. Sports girls loved her team skills, jocks love her knowledge of football strategies, nerds drooled over her because she knew calculus and had a pretty face, but our clique was the only one to claim her faith. Never has she been disloyal, and we could always count on her to help us with any math, science, English, or- you get the point. Nicky is amazing, so Amelia not wanting to work with her is like a child putting their two-dollar allowance in a bank account, making rational decisions, and starting a million-dollar company at the age of 12.
See where I'm going with this?
"Nothing, she's great!" Amelia defends, holding her hands out and shaking her head. "Nicky's great, but that's not what this is about!"
"What's it about then?" I demand, narrowing my eyes. I already know the answer, but to hear Amelia say it...
"You." She hisses as if it's obvious. "I don't want you to work with him, there are so many better people!"
"It's not like I'm working with Ivan!" I spit harshly, glancing around the room. Gesturing at Micheal with the back if my hand, I say, "He's smarter than you give him credit for."
"Why are you defending him?" She asks, exasperated. "You don't know him!"
I glare at her, not bothering to keep the ice out of my voice as I say, "Neither do you."
With that I brush past her, heading to the empty desk beside Micheal. I dump my bag and take a seat, causing him to look up at me in shock.
"Hey," I smile, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that I've done something wrong and the burning of Amelia's glare in the back of my head. "Do you mind if I-?"
"No, actually," Micheal interrupts, surprising me, "I was actually going to ask you to since we have this project to work on." He looks at me with an odd look on his face, like something is out of place or like its the first time he's seeing me.
"Right, that!" I say after a moment, laughing awkwardly, "So, I was thinking- you know, to make our lives easier- we could exchange numbers to text?" I ask, pulling my phone out of my pocket.
"Um," He pauses, looking unsure as if this is something vastly important, something that could change his life. I smile, trying to make this situation less awkward, but then he continues, "Yeah... Sure, that- sounds cool." His voice trails off at the end, but he pulls out his phone, opens it to contacts and hands it to me. I do the same with my own phone and we exchange numbers.
Taking my phone back, I open up a new message and send him a text.
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"Alright class, settle down!" Mr Reynolds yells from the front of the room, clapping his hands together. "Now I know you're all excited to get to work, but I do have something here for you guys here." He holds up a stack of papers with one hand, grinning falsely, and saying, "Worksheets!" The class groans, but he holds up a hand, "Well, not so much worksheets as suggestions. They're to help you, and to show me that you actually read the book. But-" He says, looking around the room seriously, "You don't have to do them." With that, he hands the sheets to a tall, red-headed girl- Emily- at the front of the room and they start to make their way to the back of the class.
"So, we should get to work, right?" I ask Micheal, who nods hesitantly, accepting two sheets from Emily and passing one to me.
"We'll fill these out now and figure out more later?" He asks, and I nod back, pulling out a pencil and answering the questions on the sheet.
We work in silence. At one point he acts as if he's going to ask me something, but he turns dutifully back to his sheet instead. Everything he does is hesitant, careful like he can't trust me. Sometimes I think I see him watching me, but he never addresses it or does anything to act upon his actions.
It's like I'm a puzzle he can't solve, an equation too daunting to tackle. He's doubtful and unsure, careful and cautious, but there's something else there too.
He almost seems afraid.
When the bell rings, he's out of his seat in an instant, bag slung over his shoulder and papers clutched in his fists. He's out of the door a moment afterwards, swept into the sea of students struggling through the halls.
I pack up slowly, and just as I reach the front of the classroom, a song starts to drift its way around me. Slow, lilting, and unforgivably familiar. I freeze and turn away from the door towards Mr Reynolds desk.
"What's up, Kayla?" He asks, glancing up from his monitor.
"What-" I take a few shallow breaths, trying to recall how to function. One pair of footsteps shuffles in behind me, then also freezes. I don't turn around, but finally manage to ask, "What song is that?" Mr Reynolds gives me an odd look and opens his mouth to speak but the stranger behind me beats him to it.
"Leo," Micheal says, and I swing to face him, a surprised look on my face. "Leo," He repeats, "By Ludovico Einaudi."
"Correct, Micheal." Mr Reynolds says behind me, and I swivel to see him looking equally astonished. When I turn around again, Micheal is out of the classroom, and the only noise left is the quiet tinkling of Ludovico's piano.
