What He Left Behind

One

I have mixed feelings as I arrive outside my homeroom class, not completely ready for my first day of senior year. My dad said that a new school in a new town means a new start. I know I could do with one of those. The thing is, we've been in Sacramento for two weeks now, and so far, my mom and dad have done absolutely nothing to make a new start. Instead, everything's exactly the same as it was back in Detroit.

The bell rings and all the students pile into the class, one after the other. I wait until everyone has gone in and found their seats before I enter, briefly glancing over my dark oversized jumper, black skinny jeans and combat boots. It's not the most fashionable outfit but it's my first day and I don't want to draw any attention to myself just yet. Knowing me, I'll do plenty of that later on in the year.

I'm a year younger than everyone else in my grade. Technically I should only be a junior, but I was pretty precocious as a kid, so I skipped a year back in elementary school.

There are two seats left in the classroom, both in the far corner. I sit in the one to the right, just as my homeroom teacher, who I'm told is called Mrs. McKinley, arrives. She sits down at the desk, tossing her mid-length dark hair over her shoulder before addressing the class.

"Good morning everyone, I hope that you've all had a good summer," she says with a smile far too wide for a Monday morning. She reads out a bunch of information that I in particular should be paying attention to, but I'm preoccupied. Whilst nerves aren't generally something that affects me, I still like to know what I'm dealing with. I scan the other students in the class, trying to establish who is captain of the football team and who is president of the chess club, who is the head cheerleader and who is the most popular guy in school. Of course, some people are easier to identify than others. It's clear that the guy with a football in his hands must be a pretty dedicated sportsman, and judging by the amount of people surrounding him, I'd say he's popular too.

Just as I am starting to figure out the dynamics of the class, the door to the room is suddenly kicked open. It slams against the wall, making a few people jump. Everyone, including Mrs. McKinley, stops what they're doing. The atmosphere instantly changes.

The quieter people in the class tense up a little bit. The jocks roll their eyes. The girls with perfect hair and a face full of makeup grin excitedly, trying to catch the latecomer's eye. I thought I'd got the social hierarchy here all mapped out, but this completely throws a spanner in the works.

The latecomer is tall and slim with long dark unruly hair, chocolate brown eyes and a nose ring. He's attractive; his facial features are strong and defined, his complexion clear. The look in his eye-liner rimmed eyes is a mesmerizing combination of menace and something else I can't quite put my finger on. He is clad in black skinny jeans and a black short-sleeved shirt, revealing a colourful array of tattoos on either arm, which, if I remember correctly, goes completely against the school dress-code. Whilst I know it's not right to judge by appearance, I can't help but sense everything about this boy screams trouble.

"Mr. Hemmingway, nice of you to finally join us," Mrs. McKinley remarks, "I hope you don't make a habit of arriving late or you will find yourself a regular in detention, much like you did last year."

"We all know you only give me detentions so you can spend more time with me," he teases, smirking. "I hope you didn't miss me too much over the summer."

"Sit down Charlie," Mrs. McKinley mutters, pointing to the vacant seat next to me. Charlie saunters over and I tense up, out of instinct rather than fear.

"Hey. Are you new here?" he asks casually, the smell of his cologne, which isn't quite strong enough to mask the faint traces of cigarette smoke, flooding my nose. His voice is demanding and almost brusque but I can't figure out if he naturally speaks like that or if it's intentional.