Windows

Who Are You?

It was a lonely Wednesday English lesson and I was hopelessly dawdling and wasting my time. I know we must be on the topic of classic romance novels but I don't really care. Well. I kind of care. I would have never admitted this to anyone, but - I have always wanted to know what it would be like to be in love. I read the romace novels that my mother obsessively gushes over when she goes to the library but I don't truly understand them. 

I've had crushes. There was a boy in 7th grade that caught my eye - floppy, black hair with blonde streaks and hazel eyes with big pupils. He never looked at me the way I looked at him. I wasn't in love with him; I didn't know him. Nobody's been in love with me. Nobody looks at me with adoration, nobody shades me from the rain, nobody keeps me warm in the cold. Ugh, that sounds so lame. But true.

I am alone.

But I guess I don't really need anyone. Not here, anyway. We'll be picking up and leaving soon enough,  when Mum finds some new guy and then has the routine of a bad break up and the classic, "Haylee, I just can't be here anymore." 

Some day we'll probably flee the U.S, leaving a trail of ex boyfriends in every state. I wonder where we'll go. I hope Haiti, so I can look after orphaned children, or maybe France, to eat baguettes. Many baguettes.  And croissants. Man, I'm hungry. Mum would probably fancy some tropical island where we'd lay on lawn chairs on the beach every day with little pink umbrellas poking out of our cocktails and never wear anything but grass skirts ever again. 

"Haylee? Are you listening?" I had totally zoned out.

"Yes, of course," I replied. Mr Barker crossed his fat little arms and stood above me. I would say towering, but Mr Barker is a stout man that vaguely resembles a hairy marshmallow.

"So, what did I just say?"

"Something about Shakespeare?" I asked hopefully. He raised his hand to his forehead dramatically, and sighed.

"Are you giving me cheek?"

"Are you going to fail me?" I asked worriedly. His frown deepened. I realised that remarks like that are often interpreted as 'cheek' by teachers. 

"This is the third time you've made a snarky comment to me. Detention. After school. I hope you're happy, Simmons." Everyone 'ooh'ed at me and made comments. Well, screw them. What do they know? They probably think Macbeth is someone from Jersey Shore.

So that is how, on a Tuesday afternoon, I met Tyler.

I stroppily walked to detention as the bell rang, ready for an hour of staring out a window at grass. I waltzed in, and there was no teacher supervising. But hey, this was a public school, kids did what they like. I sat down at a worn desk with rude carvings and gum stick to the bottom and within ten seconds I was already tapping a little tune out on the desk with my fingernails impatiently.

I glanced around the room and saw a clump of kids gathered around a desk as they attempted to set it on fire, two jocks throwing paper balls at a nerd (what was a kid with glasses and suspenders doing in detention?), a girl having an intense conversation about how Charisse is such a bitch,  and the boy next to me with black, tousled hair, and pale grey eyes. He had an olive complexion with some freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks, and he was wearing a grey hoodie with red Converse. Finally, a decent boy in this awful town! 
It was as if he could feel me staring, because he returned my awestruck gaze with a small smile, moved his hair out of his eyes for a second, then returned scribbling in his notebook. So I looked back out the window at the fascinating... grass. Teriffic. Then something made me stop in my tracks - though I wasn't moving anywhere. I slowly turned around to look back at the boy, hoping I didn't look creepy while doing so.