I remembered his smile. It was bold and bright, yet you could tell most of them were fake, for show. He surely had a real smile and laugh and even voice that no one was given the pleasure of hearing or even seeing.
I remembered staying quiet, not wanting him to notice me, because then he could notice I was writing, and then he might think I was writing about him, even though I most assuredly was.
He sat in the second row of Mrs. Callahan's fourth grade math class. He never quite knew the answer to math, but he always payed attention in our English studies.
All of these memories came flooding back as I looked up. I was currently getting my pencil from my bag which was on the floor, next to the desks we were alphabetically assigned to. He was directly behind me, since my last name Hann. As I grabbed it, I saw him looking around, tapping his feet rapidly and combing through his side swept hair with his fingers, over and over again.
"Alright class, I'm Mr. Drewig. Welcome to senior English. Grab your pencils and write me a short story of your choosing," he spoke, rudely tearing me from my memories. "You have ten minutes, begin."
"Margot," a whisper sounded from behind me.
It couldn't be him, could it? The boy I adored for two years? I thought he never noticed me, since I was always a year below him. Well I've always been up by a grade, but never had many friends because no one talks to nerdy, sixteen year old seniors. I suppose I should answer him since he didn't even need to ask my name, which I never thought he knew. How does he know my name? I've never spoken to him.
"Yes?" I whisper, turning around to face him.
His dark brown eyes fixate somewhere on my face and then slowly move to meet my eyes. His pupils dilate ever so slightly before he bites his lip, only to release it immediately.
"Can I borrow a pencil please?" He asked, his accent thicker than my own for some reason.
"Um, sure." I say slowly, taking out another pencil for him, making sure it's sharpened. "Only, it's the first day, so how do you not have one?"
"Well this is the last class, so I suppose I've lost my own writing utensil among the bustle between the previous classes, wouldn't you say?"
I could only nod, for his elegant usage of words and smooth tone of voice surprised me.
I try to concentrate on the boring and bland story I'm writing of the outcast child who ends up changing the world without a single person realizing it's he who's done the saving, but my mind travels back to old memories, the ones which have just occurred, and it begins to make up its own from the future somewhere, where he and I are happily together, which sounds much more obsessive than it is, I promise.
"Alright, and who would like to go first?" Mr. Drewig starts.
Surprisingly, everyone raises they're hands except for me. Mr. Drewig slowly walks towards me and stops.
"Are you two too good for my class?" He asks.
Two? I don't understand what he means until I see that he's also looking behind me.
I pray to god, and deep down, plead to the devil, that he doesn't choose me. Even if it's just a stupid story in front of my peers, I would probably have an anxiety attack and-
"I'll go." Says a familiarly smooth voice.
I sigh and realize I was silently hyperventilating and my hands were trembling.
He stands and clears his throat.
"She doesn't know me,
And why should she?
I'm just not good for her.
Anyone can see
That she's all I need,
But I would only hurt her.
And if I ever hurt her,
Which is inevitably true,
I'd never trust myself again,
And that day I would rue."
He plopped down back into the chair, the whole room silent. Everyone was in awe.
"I said short story, young man." Mr. Drewig said. "However, that was a very nice poem. Well done mister Healy."
