Continuum (4 page)

I have a hard time focusing on his words and the images on the screen, all I can focus on is watching the new boy.  The way he fidgets in his seat when Mackenzie leans over to whisper in his ear.  The way he jiggles his leg like he was ready to bolt the minute the bell rang.  The way he runs his fingers through his hair.  I find myself wondering what it would be like to run my fingers through his hair.  What was wrong with me?  He likes Mackenzie.  Not that it would matter either way.

The lights switch on five minutes before the end of the period and Coach Morris dismisses us early.  As I make the descent down the bleachers, I catch the new boy looking at me.  

His eyes are full of curiosity as our eyes meet.  He starts to smile but I quickly look away.  I really have to get a grip and stop seeing things that weren't there.  After all, he was Mackenzie's new conquest and everybody knows how much she hates to share. 

In a daze, I walk to English and take my usual seat.  Mr. Murphy starts laying out the entire rest of the semester before us, rattling off percentages each project and exam are worth.  Just because we are seniors doesn’t mean we don’t have to work hard.  He assigns so much reading for the week that my eyes blur just from going over the list.

I am almost relieved to be heading into Calculus.  Mrs. Bojovic hands out a pop quiz to us one-by-one as we enter the room.  I'm starting to detect a theme for this school day.  When I finish, I can tell I am the first one done with my exam.  However, I remain seated.  I try my best to melt into the background with teachers as well, so I never turn in my exam first.  Nor do I ever get all the questions correct even though Calculus comes easily to me.  The desire to feel normal is emphasized when you know you’re abnormal.   

After 30 minutes elapse, Mrs. Bojovic begins to call for the last quizzes still outstanding.  She spends the rest of class explaining the concept of the limit of a function.  Most of my classmates are hanging their heads dejectedly over their open Calculus Book.  Another day, another failed pop quiz.  I pretend to be following along in my book, but instead I'm contemplating whether or not the new boy almost smiled at me.  What is wrong with me?  We haven’t even spoken a single word to each other.  I don’t even know his name.  When the bell finally rings, the classroom empties out at top speed lest Mrs. Bojovic assign extra homework.

I head upstairs to French class.  Even Monsieur Martin seems moodier than usual.  He drills us on our knowledge of the imperfect subjunctive conjugation by asking us to create a sentence.  The class's lackadaisical attempts seem to agitate him further.  When poor Scott Richardson mispronounces harmonie, Monsieur Martin slams his textbook down on Scott's desk.  

He throws his hands dramatically in the air and starts pacing around the classroom before stopping in front of Scott's desk again, “Are you even trying?  Have you learned nothing in your three years of taking French lessons?  Your pronunciation.  How many times do I have to tell you?  Pay attention to the 'h.' Aspiré and muet.  Do you hear the difference?”

Scott hangs his head and stares down at the book on his desk, his voice slightly shaky as he apologizes, “Désolé, Monsieur Martin.”  Monsieur Martin snaps up his book from Scott's desk and continues his pacing around the classroom.

And each student has presented his or her sentence, Monsieur Martin pulls a DVD out of his desk drawer with a huff.  He turns on the television bolted above the blackboard and puts in
La Reine Margot
.  He plays it without the subtitles as our punishment for not perfecting our French.  He spends the rest of class brooding at his desk in the corner of the room, muttering to himself in French.  

When the bell rings, I practically sprint out of the classroom.  Instead of heading to art, I make a detour to my locker and grab my jacket.  It’s early in the semester to start cutting class but my near perfect GPA allowed for some wiggle room when it came to my attendance record.  The strange vibe in the air and the strange encounter with the new boy has left my head pounding.  The weekend couldn’t start soon enough.  Sneaking out through a side door, I taste the crisp fresh air of freedom and my head feels a bit clearer already.  

Ethan

It’s midway through September when Indian Summer comes to Everest Heights.  I am standing in the pounding heat of the midday sun, my sweaty silver gym t-shirt clinging to my heaving chest.  My heart is racing like it’s trying to escape from my ribcage.  I lean over resting my hands on my knees, trying to force air into my lungs.  Standing across from me with a mischievous grin on his face and shaking his head is Sam Jordan.

“Nice try, Ethan.  You’re fast but I’m faster.  I’m a bit disappointed.  I thought you were a track star,” he says as he takes off his sweaty t-shirt and tucks it in the waistband of his shorts.  Sam is about four inches taller and about thirty pounds heavier than me.  In theory, since I am smaller I should be faster but his six-day-a-week training routine really showed.  I was still working out but hadn’t been running regularly since last school year ended.  The twinge in my side is telling me I might need to start.  

I had been chasing him up and down the length of the football field for the past forty minutes.  Our gym teacher, Ms. Andrews, is too busy flirting with Coach Morris to notice the rest of the class is scattered around the field doing nothing.  The girls are openly admiring Sam, giggling and whispering to each other.  Sam is barely out of breath standing in the end zone, football tucked neatly under his arm.  I really needed to get back to training if I had a prayer of keeping up with my newfound friend.

I follow his lead and chuck my sweaty shirt as I pant out my reply, “Former track star.  So it’s not really fair.  You have football practice twice a day.”

“Aw, c’mon man.  I invited you to tryouts.  You could’ve been chasing me up and down the field five days a week,” he says good naturedly.  “Plus this is flag football.  And I’m a quarterback not a running back, so no excuses.”  He thumps my back hard, nearly knocking me forward into the grass.

I regain my balance just in time, “I would punch you right now if I had the energy to exert.”

Sam laughs heartily, “Let me grab us some water.  Man it hasn’t been this hot since August.  I must have lost at least a pound or two in sweat.”

Normally, I would have pegged someone like Sam to be a jerk.  Athletic and good looking, boys wanted to be like him and girls fawned over him.  But in reality, Sam did not have a mean bone in his body and was quick to share a laugh.  After being grouped as Biology lab partners with Sam and Liam, his childhood best friend, we had all become fast friends.  Every party, every cram session, every video game marathon, I got a text.  It was nice to feel like one of the guys for once.

As I wait for Sam to return with our water, I concentrate on taking deep, slow breaths to even out my breathing.  I watch as Coach Morris’s second period gym class runs laps around the gym building.  Clusters of kids are making slow rounds together, spending more time chatting than running.   I spot my mystery girl running laps by herself with headphones on, lost in her own world as usual.  

“Hey, Sam.  Who is that girl with the long dark hair, wearing the headphones?”  I nod my head toward the group of runners as he returns, clutching two bottles of water.

Sam turns to look over at the runners.  When he faces me again, he is smiling knowingly, “That would be Fallon Pierce.  And whatever you have in mind, you can forget it.”

I roll my eyes.  I had known him for a few short weeks and had been introduced to half a dozen girls that he was currently “seeing.”  I can’t believe Sam is lecturing me about girls, “I don’t have anything in mind.  I haven’t even been formally introduced.”  

Sam tosses me a bottle of water and unscrews the cap of his own bottle taking a quick swig before replying, “Well don’t expect to be formally introduced, good sir.  Fallon... well let’s just say she likes to keep to herself.”  

I can tell he knew a lot more than he was letting on.  “She’s very pretty,” I say casually as Sam drains his bottle of water.

He groans nearly choking on his last mouthful of water.  Crushing the empty bottle, he shakes his head solemnly, “There you go, Ethan.  Getting ideas.  What did I say about getting ideas?”

Now I was really curious, “Why?  What’s her story?”

Ms. Andrews blows her whistle signaling our unofficial break and Sam starts jogging back to midfield, “C’mon Ethan, water break is over.  Let’s see if you can manage to lose this game with a shred of dignity?”

Groaning, I follow him at a slow jog but I never take my eyes off my mystery girl.  Fallon Pierce.  Now I knew her name but she was still every bit as mysterious as the first day I saw her.

Fallon

The art room is my only sanctuary in this whole school.  The popular kids rarely take any courses past the one year requirement.  If they choose to continue in the arts, they choose film or theatre class with the hopes of one day becoming famous.  The fine arts are the perfect medium for me because I prefer to be the observer.

I spend art class outlining a triptych of a series of Romanesque sculptures inside cathedrals that I had been wanting to paint.  When class ends, I place a couple more touches to my art board before carefully placing my sketches inside my portfolio.  I hang my portfolio in one of the cupboards lining the wall before grabbing my bag and heading back toward the main building.

I buy a ham sandwich and iced tea from the cafeteria before heading to the picnic tables.  I open one of the doors leading out of the cafeteria--the only place in the whole school where the air conditioning actually seems to work.  The heat is suffocating as the cold air of the cafeteria is sucked back in as the door swings shut.  It is almost 90 degrees outside with not a whisper of wind and the sun is directly overhead making the air stifling. 

I pick a table with a little bit of shade from a nearby tree and roll up the sleeves of my black t-shirt.  My back is damp from my book bag and my long hair feels oppressive, sticking to the sheen of sweat that has formed over my forehead.  It’s not my most glamorous but I’m grateful for the quiet time.  Between bites of my sandwich and sips of iced tea, I add some finishing touches to my Gothic cathedral drawing from the other day.  

A lunch tray filled to the brim with food lands with a thump on the table across from me, abruptly startling me out of my concentration.  I drop my pencil and my gaze travels from the tray to its owner.  I am surprised to see the new boy standing in front of me.  I frown at him, feeling a mixture of irritation and confusion at his interruption--turning into surprise and maybe even a little pleasure.  My expression remains unchanged.  I wasn’t used to people approaching me and I’m my usual guarded self, wary of why he’s even here.

I can’t help but notice that up close, he is even better looking.  His carelessly tousled hair drinks in the sunlight, burnished gold dancing through the chestnut strands.  His eyes are the color of a cloudless sky, twinkling with mischief.  And his smile.  His smile completely derails my train of thought.  Whatever biting remark that was on the tip of my tongue a second ago dissolves.

Even dressed casually in navy shorts and a broken in white v-neck t-shirt, he manages to look effortlessly cool.  It’s probably his how snugly his t-shirt fits over his perfectly formed chest and muscular arms.  I turn away and do my best to concentrate on the trees behind him before I speak.  Yeah, he really doesn’t belong out here with me.  

It takes a moment before my brain reconnects to my mouth.  I look at him pointedly and say, “I'm sorry, I know you're new.  So let me get you up to speed.  The cafeteria is through those red metal doors right over there.”  

He runs his hand through his hair, a nervous gesture, and his smile wavers, but his voice is confident.   The sound is like velvet in my ears, the tones so warm and rich.  “I was feeling a bit overwhelmed today.  It’s pretty crazy in there.  More suffocating in there than out here.  I just needed a breather from all those people.”  

“Well that's why I'm out here.  Alone.”  I sweep my hand toward the rest of the picnic tables.  Every one of them empty.  “There’s plenty of tables available.”

“I didn't think anyone would be out here.  Plus, this seat was open,” he replies, a playful smile on his lips.  He kicks his legs over the bench and sits down across from me.  My thoughts jumble as his eyes bore into mine, full of curiosity.  I hold his bold stare but don’t reply--I don’t think I can at this moment.  I really hope my breathing isn’t as loud as it sounds in my ears.  

Suddenly he reaches across the table startling me and I pull my hands off the table.  His fingertips land on the corner of my drawing, sliding the notebook toward him.

“Wow, can I see this?  This is really amazing.”  

I feel heat rush to my cheeks, embarrassed at my reaction to his reaching over and by his praise of my drawing.  “It’s nothing, just a doodle,” I mutter as he studies the drawing.

I reach to pull the notebook back.  For a moment, our hands touch.  I pull back immediately, my hand is all sweaty-- a combination of heat and nerves.  His smile falls and I am very aware of hostile and weird I am being.  Of course, I don’t have the first clue on how to change that.  My instinct for flight is screaming in my veins as those inquisitive blue eyes search my face.

Flustered, I look away from those too curious eyes and start gathering my things from the table, “I’m sorry, I gotta go.  Enjoy your lunch.”   

Ethan

I can only watch as Fallon haphazardly stuffs her things into her bag and takes off before I can even begin to gather my objections.  She practically runs off toward the forest preserve, her dark hair trailing behind her.  I start to stand, torn between the desire to follow her and to honor her choice for being left alone.  I sit back down, burying my head in my hands.

I feel like a total idiot.  Way to be smooth.  What is wrong with me?  Not that I consider myself charming and likable but generally people people were charmed and liked me.  I had been too forward.  Sam warned me that she liked to keep to herself.  She was pretty clear about that herself.  She was all stop, red light and I was flooring the gas the whole way.  Normally, I was good at reading people but I had let my curiosity get the best of me.