friday, november 21st

Okay. Round two.

You get to start over, I told myself at my locker, tired and definitely not prepared for today's French quiz, as I pulled on my mustard-yellow sweater over a striped turtleneck. It was a tight but stretchy thing that hugged my waist whilst not showing much. Even though I would definitely find myself pulling the sweater over my top self-consciously, there was nothing much to flaunt. I was an extraordinarily tall, gangly, awkward rectangle, my chest nearly as flat as my back.

Don't embarrass yourself, don't punch anybody, don't get emotional about Faye or Devan, just...lay low. Don't draw attention to yourself. I even managed to plaster on a bogus smile on my otherwise depressed-looking face as Bella came prancing over to me. She was pretty much my only other friend in the textbook definition of friendship (i.e. she wasn't a total jerk, and she wasn't dead). Bella wore button-down cardigans with knee-length pastel skirts to school almost every day and kept her pristine white-blonde hair into a neat little bob. As you can imagine, she wasn't very popular, but she was notoriously famous for letting people borrow her pencils.

"London!" she cried as she came near me, throwing her arms out and latching them around me in a hug. Though she was barely five feet tall, that girl had an iron vise when it came to hugs.

"How are you dealing? I know Faye and Devan were really close to you. I can guarantee they're safe in heaven now, London. The Lord is taking good care of them. Do you want to come by my place later and watch a movie and eat muffins? My mother says you need to be around a friend to deal with the pain." She looked genuinely concerned for me, which made me soften a lot. Looking down at her big brown bug eyes and pleading expression, I sighed. I needed to appear strong, and I knew if I went over we'd talk about Faye and Devan the whole time, and I'd break down all over again. My vision was already becoming fuzzy just by mentioning them.

"Sorry, Bella," I said, "I'm not sure now's the best time to come over. I still need to handle it by myself, wrap this all around my head. Maybe in a few weeks?" I found some truth in that; I just needed to get to the point where I could stand talking about them without collapsing into myself. It would come.

"Okay." With one last bone-crushing embrace, she skipped off to her locker and left me alone. I grabbed my stuff for third-period French out of my locker, then slammed it shut, my sweater catching on the door.

"Oh, come on," I grunted, quickly spinning the dial on my locker to get it open. It took three tries because of my jittery hands. By the time I did get it open and free my sweater, the bell had already rung. French was on the other side of the school.

⸺⸺⸺

I might as well have had a spotlight over me as I walked into French late because as soon as I stepped through the door, twenty heads swiveled around in my direction. Self-consciously, wrapping myself in my long yellow sweater, I slid into my seat on the left side of the room, near the door. Ms. Moraeu gave me a look as I walked into class, a look of confusion that jarred with her usual menacing glare she gave to all tardy students.

As I shuffled around in my seat to get situated, it was dead silent. I tried to hide from prying eyes, especially Ms. Moraeu's, by slinking behind the girl in front of me. I didn't know her name but she liked to hum when she did her work and she kept me well hidden with her enormous head of bouncy curls. After a heavy, tangible pause, Ms. Moraeu continued with her lesson, saying she'd be pushing the quiz back a few days since some of us weren't that prepared. Even hidden by the girl's hair, I could still feel the teacher's gaze burning into me. I shrank even lower in my desk.

"Oh! I almost forgot to mention," she said in her heavy French accent, and she was smiling, "we have a new student. Arrow Fischer, come up and introduce herself." Her yellow teeth were bared, her words laced with undertones of menace.

That's when I noticed the person sitting next to me. The seat creaked as he rose from his spot. He was here this whole time? I thought, biting my lip. I watched as he casually sauntered to the front of the class, leaning against the whiteboard. At first, I wondered, Seriously? She's going to make him do this? We haven't done this since, like, fifth grade. Then I looked at him. Really looked at him. That lean yet muscular build, slightly tanned skin, lush chocolate curls, full lips and brown eyes.

Brown eyes.

And everything clicked all of a sudden. That was him. Him, from the day I hit Claudia. Him, who understood. I bit my lip so hard it bled, not able to take my eyes off him. Blood rushed to my ears, roaring so hard I couldn't hear anything else until he smiled a full set of pearly whites and then spoke.

"Hey, I'm Arrow. It's a weird name, I know. I moved here a week ago from Michigan... uh, I like dogs. Specifically Welsh Corgis. And I don't like school very much." Despite prompting some giggles, a few flirtatious glances from the girls, and a disapproving sigh from Ms. Moraeu, I was about to throw up. The floor swayed beneath my feet.

That was him. That was his voice. The voice in my head. The boy from my dream I had last night, the one I'd forgotten until now. It was him. But...it was impossible! I'd never seen this guy before...

The world spun around me, all the sounds blending and conjoining to create one awful chorus of utter mayhem, and I shut my eyes. I might have whimpered.

"Miss Rhodes? What's going on?" The teacher's exasperated voice was barely audible behind all the blood rushing and coursing and churning and roaring in my ears.

"I...bathroom...need...to..." I didn't wait for a response before I sprang out of my seat and rushed out of the room and bolted to the nearest bathroom, locked myself in a stall and heaved over the toilet for a good ten minutes.

In the hall. When I punched Claudia. His eyes.

That was him.

Everything. The boy in the hall. The voice. The dream. All. Him.

What the hell is going on?

⸺⸺⸺

I didn't come back to French. I was still trapped inside the stall, hunched over the toilet, weak, limbs shaking. At least I was calmer now, my head stopped buzzing, my heart rate slower. I didn't realize how long I'd been in here until the bell declared the end of third period, and I muttered, "Shit."

If I went back into the class to grab my stuff, I'd have to explain why I'd left in the first place. Nobody would believe me, let alone no-nonsense Ms. Moraeu, telling stories about a voice in my head that was actually the guy in my French class who was in my dreams before I'd even met him. I couldn't lie and say that I felt sick; she wouldn't believe that. I'd just have to leave my stuff there. Sighing, I pulled myself up to a standing position, leaning against the wall on shaky knees. I went to slide the lock from out of its place when I heard the shuffling of girls ambling inside the bathroom, maybe three or four of them. I heard one go into a stall, but the rest probably just stayed to chat and reapply makeup.

"Man, that new guy is sexy," one of them gushed. I sort of recognized her voice. Crap. She was in my French class. If I came out now, they'd all ask me why I'd left.

A chuckle rose from another, bouncing off the walls in the empty space. "Yeah, but it's not like you've got a chance with him," the other girl sneered.

"Why not?" the first girl whined.

"Cause you've got a fat ass, Lindsay."

I heard two more chuckles fill the space outside, mixed with a gasp, probably from Lindsay. "Hey!" she objected. "That's not fair! I'm sure he wouldn't be interested in your big nose, Rachel."

They went on like that, firing insults at each other so vulgar I winced behind the stall door. Then I heard a flush, and the click of a stall door opening, and then a pair of footsteps pitter-pattered to the sink. As I heard her washing her hands, she said, "Guys, give it up, okay? You're both ugly bitches and he won't want to date either of you."

After a series of scoffing and complaining, the one that was (probably) Rachel wondered aloud, "Well, who do you think he will date?"

"Eh, he doesn't seem like the dating type," the other girl assumed. "Give it a week or two and he'll be hooking up with someone like...Ashley Mitchell."

"No way. Ashley just got braces; she's a total mess." This time it was Lindsay that answered. Her voice was penetrating, not helpful to my ears with the echoey bathroom walls, and slightly adenoidal.

"Mackenzie Killian, then," Rachel offered. "Everyone's always into her. She's really annoying, though. Thinks she's better than all of us."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

They went on conversing for a few more minutes, throwing out name and suggestions, the third girl who I found out was named Sarah and (thank goodness) not in my French class, turning them all down. Ugh, would they ever leave? The bell had probably rung already.

Finally, finally, after what seemed like eons of me leaning against the stall, uncomfortable and desperate for escape, Sarah decided that she'd had enough of her friend's wild assumptions and improbable predictions and decided to pack up her makeup and go to class. Lindsay and Rachel left shortly after, but not without a snide comment about each other from each girl. After I was sure they had left, I exhaled and hurried out the door.

I left my planner in Ms. Moraeu's room, which I would probably need for the rest of my classes. I'd have to go back and get it on Monday. If I'd even come to class on Monday. I didn't know.

Instead, I rushed to my locker and got everything else I'd need for American Lit, trying to avoid everyone in sight. It was kind of hard; the halls were narrow and clogged with students of all grades. It was even harder to stay inconspicuous when you're my height; my head poked out of the sea of people. Gradually, the hallway widened and split at the side, and the students filtered out, leaving breathing room and personal space for me to rush to my class, which was still a couple of hallways away.

I guess I wasn't looking where I was going because I walked right into someone and stumbled backward. "Oh, sorry," I said, plucking my things off of the floor and getting back up. Until I saw who it was. Him. Somehow, he was taller than me; maybe an inch or so. Guiltily, I realized Lindsay had spoken truth in her previous comment; he was hot. Well, not exactly. His features were unsettlingly ethereal, too exquisite to be of this world. The boy was beautiful. Embarrassment painted my cheeks.

He gave me a tight-lipped smile, strands of gorgeous dark curls falling over his eyes. He handed me my planner and French binder, saying, "You left this in class. I wanted to pick it up for you. Lucky I found you, right?" I gave a tiny nod, then shivered. His tone was cheerful, but something about his voice; rich, husky, a wisp of darkness, that gave me chills. Or maybe it was just that he was the voice inside my head.

I grabbed my planner and binder without taking my eyes off his for a second, clutching it so hard my fingertips turned white. "Thanks," I mumbled, using all my willpower to pry my gaze away from him. He nodded in response, then started to walk away. The hall was empty now.

I couldn't take this. Biting my lip so hard it bled, I said, "No, stop." He did. I took a breath.

"You're the voice. Inside my head. You're the voice from my dream. Who...who are you, really?" My voice was shaky. I internally scolded myself.

He turned around. Slowly. He came closer until we were only about a foot apart, meeting my stare with those impossible brown eyes. Those eyes. They were poetry, those eyes, but I was illiterate.

His gaze flickered with the light of uncertainty. But it passed within a millisecond, short enough for him to answer without hesitation, "I don't know what you're talking about." 

✽   ✽   ✽

So, it's getting even more confusing now. Apparently, Arrow is the face from her dream and the voice inside her head? 

That doesn't make any sense, does it? 

Was he lying when he said he didn't know what London was talking about?

Keep reading and find out!

XOXO ~brooklynrose~