𝑾𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓 ➸𝑨𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝑨𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒕 ꟾ𝟏ꟾ

First String

[Majorly edited]-4/13/21

I

Twisting the key from the ignition, I stuff the keychain into my pocket and reach over to the passenger side of my aunt Sarah's 2005 Nissan Maxima and grip one of the arms of my backpack before slinging it over my shoulder as I exit the grey-tinted car.

Immediately, I begin stretching my legs. Sarah only lets me drive when she carpools with Melissa to the hospital so she doesn't like when I push the seat back as I tend to—okay, always forget to reset it. It also doesn't help that she's 5'8 and I'm 6'4 and as someone who hates standing out, being able to see over pretty much everyone's head isn't really a benefit for me.

The car beeps twice as I double click the lock button and quickly shove my free hand into my baggy, maroon hoodie that reads, "Athletic" in white, blocky letters which is pretty ironic considering I lack a lot in that particular department.

I glance around, searching for Scott and Stiles but ultimately come up short. Taking a deep breath, I plod towards the entrance of the school, my heart pounding harder and harder with each step. I wander to the left and stand on the sidewalk, away from roaming crowds that scatter all around the parking lot, most likely reuniting from the long—though it felt brief—Christmas break.

I stand awkwardly, stiff as a board as I survey familiar faces. I know most of my year's names but I'm sure a third knew mine in return. Most are conversing with others. Grand smiles and hugs, high-fives and friendly shoving, and of course laughter, is exchanged in each friend group. Turning around, I notice a few, more reserved individuals sitting on various benches, reading or chatting, however I quickly jerk my head to the left, feeling eyes on me. Immediately I'm met with the face of Erica Reyes. The moment our eyes meet, she tries to avert her gaze but, knowing she'd been caught, settles on a small tight-lipped smile, to which I return before she sticks her nose back into her book.

I continue people watching before someone at the far end of the quad, sitting on a single bench alone, catches my eye. Long, curly brown hair cascades over a brown jacket as she digs through a matching brown bag. I must have been staring too much as she glances up and around before her eyes land on me. I follow Erica's lead and try to look anywhere but her as I feel my cheeks already heating up, I scratch my head. She offers a small smile followed by an unexpected giggle and actually gives a small wave in my direction.

Is she waving at me? She can't be.

I twist around, making sure it wasn't one of those situations where the person is actually waving at someone else and you end up making a fool of yourself, which I tend to do often, but there isn't a soul facing her.

I jerk back, my backpack thumping against my back as it hangs on my left arm, before pointing at myself and mouthing a silent, "me" as my nose scrunches. Her right brow lifts, amused by my actions before she nods, a slight chuckle escaping from under her breath. I raise my arm up, but before I can return the wave, someone rams into my shoulder, knocking my backpack to the cement sidewalk and sending a short wave of pain down my left arm.

I bend over, picking up my bag before glaring at my attacker, Jackson Whittemore.

"Watch where you're standing, loser." He backs away, two other lacrosse players pat him on the back while laughing at my misfortune.

"Jackass," I mutter under my breath.

A frown grows as I turn back to the now-empty bench.

"Wes!" I glance over my shoulder, seeing Scott and Stiles standing next to a tree a few feet away from me.