A Girl Called Whisper

Two

I spend the majority of my time during the class trying to look at Whisper without making it obvious I'm doing so. She's in her own world of doodled flowers and under-the-desk texting and barely notices anything going on around her. I'm not the only one intrigued by her. I see girls eyeing her up and down, whispering and passing notes to each other. Boys eye her greedily as well, talking loudly and showing off for her attention, trying to make a lasting impression. I blend into the background. Cooper Nobody Nelson.

The bell rings to signal the end of class and for once, I'm feeling... confident? Excited? Determined? Whatever it is, it's a foreign feeling, but I feel it nonetheless. My chest puffs out slightly and my hands remain by my sides, unclenched. I want to speak to Whisper. I don't want to be a nobody today. I want her to know who I am, despite the fact that usually I would never do something like this. It contradicts my life goal of getting through secondary school unnoticed. If I think about it properly, I start to feel skittish and my fingers itch to curl, so I push my worries to the side and decide that the best plan of action will be to introduce myself to her, and to do it quickly before I lose my nerve.

What if she hates me? What if she laughs at me? What if everyone else laughs at me? What if my top is too plain for her? What if she's more of a v-neck kind of girl? I would never wear a goddamn v-neck.

I'm walking behind her, trying to work out what to say or how to go about approaching this self-set task. I never usually speak to people first. Christ, I hope I don't start sweating.

She has a strange gait, like a newborn, gangly deer. All limbs jutting out at awkward angles. I'm inspecting her knees with mild fascination when she turns around. Shit.

"I'm Cooper Nelson," I splutter quickly. I stick out my hand for a handshake and realise instantly that it's too formal for an academic environment. Hopefully she'll just think I'm more sophisticated than our idiot classmate counterparts. Or she might think I'm a sixty-year-old man trapped in a sixteen-year-old's body. It's a gamble. Why did I have to go and stick out my goddamn hand? I curse myself in my head and know that I will spend approximately the next six years hating myself for this exact moment every time I close my eyes to go to sleep.

After what feels like an hour of standing there like an idiot she smiles and grabs my hand.

It feels electric. I almost physically sag in relief.

"Whisper." She introduces herself with a handshake that's confident and strong. Dad always says a solid handshake signifies a powerful person. Whisper is definitely a powerful person, I can tell already. She doesn't even have a (mentioned) second name, like Madonna or Cher or something. Her fingers are laden with big chunky rings, like a knuckle duster made of jewels.

"Do you have any pets?" I quickly ask, because I need something else to say to keep conversation flowing and it was the first thing I thought of that didn't come across like I was a serial killer or a rapist. Also, who doesn't like animals? Even the mere mention of animals should illustrate myself as a caring and sentimental young man.

She looks a bit confused. "No.. I wish I did though. I had a goldfish when I was a kid, called Rupert. He died." Her voice is gritty like when you have a sore throat. I swallow reflexively.

"I have a dog called Max. He isn't dead yet." I inform her. "Max is a Basset Hound. He looks constantly depressed; I occasionally fear he may be mildly suicidal," I add.

She peers at me oddly for a minute, squinting her eyes at me as though trying to work something out. Then suddenly she snaps back up to attention. "Well, I'd love to meet him one day."