I settle into the seat, taking a sip of my coffee and leaning back. I flit my gaze to the girl and let it wander down her profile.
"Pass this behind you, please." Brown hands the boy in the front row a packet which makes its way to me.
The girl keeps her attention ahead, not deigning to look my way.
The professor signals to the board. “You’ll want to copy the adjustments to the syllabus.”
Realizing how incredibly unprepared I am, I reach out and gently touch the girl’s arm to get her attention. I whisper, “Do you have an extra pen?”
Her jaw tenses, but she doesn’t move. “Yes.”
“Can I borrow it?”
She exhales and turns to rummage through her backpack. “Here.” She shoves the thing across the table at me.
“Thanks.” I click the top and jot the stuff onto the paper.
She takes her hand and sort of dusts off the spot where I had touched her like she’s trying to get rid of boy cooties.
The old me would have never given her this reaction.
I study the area my finger grazed her and recall the way it felt. I shouldn’t care about the strange electricity that seemed to crackle at my touch, but I do.
I narrow my eyes when I notice something unusual. Her forearm appears to have makeup on it, and near where she rubbed my touch away, it reveals a purplish-green hue under it, sort of resembling a bruise.
The more I take it in, the more I realize that’s exactly what it is.
People get hurt all the time—why would she feel obligated to cover it up?
My mind races at the implications. I fight to pay attention to Brown ramble on about course expectations and extra credit opportunities, when the only thing I’m concerned with is what happened to this seemingly very good girl.
The rest of the class goes by at both a rate too slow and too fast. I glance over at my seatmate every now and then, but she’s completely focused on paying attention.
Class is finally dismissed, and students funnel out. I try to dawdle, but considering I don’t have anything to pack up, I look like an idiot wasting time. And if I keep this up, Brown will catch me on the way out and lecture me about being late.
I slowly sneak out the door when the girl is almost done gathering her stuff. I lean against the wall outside of the room, and for no apparent reason, I wait for her. I have no clue what I’ll say. I guess I could probably start with apologizing for being a dick, but she’s probably past sorry at this point. And having her hate me is the best option for all of us.
So, what the hell am I doing?
There’s just something about her that draws me in. She’s beautiful, obviously, but it’s notonlythat. There’s this pureness to her. This mysterious light that shines through my darkness. This longing to know her, to be around her. Even if it’s strictly platonic.
The people in the hall pass in a blur along with each antagonizing minute.
When I no longer hear chatter inside the room, I poke my head in to find it completely empty except for the teacher I need to avoid. My gaze falls on the door on the opposite wall. She must have gone out that way instead.
But did she do it because it was convenient, or was it to avoid me?