I always walk with one hand dangling by my side. Just in case there someone there who’ll grab it and whisper”run”. I kind of just want to see where I end up. Would it be magical? Terrifying? Romantic?
In all honesty, I know it wouldn’t likely be any of those things. It would just be a big mess of police involvement and drunk teenagers. People ‘round here seem to constantly have a bottle in hand. Especially the kids in my school, who think going around with a knife in hand and alcohol in their systems makes them some kind of badass.
But that doesn’t stop my hand from lazily floating by my leg. I debate whether or not it’s a stupid notion every day even though I always do the same. My arm hangs all the way from home to school, through the building, and into my form (when I actually turn up). Then Sir gives me an earful for this or that, clothes or earphones or detention.
Today it’s my earphones. I thought I had a failsafe method of concealing them. Just snake one through my shirt collar and keep the visible part hidden under my hand. He still spots it, and confiscates it. Since my best mate Darren always carries spares, it doesn’t bother me. Sir just goes back to the front of the class and continues droning. For ten minutes, I’m treated to a speech on the importance of the correct use of apostrophes knowing full well nobody cares. Great.
Then, late as always, he walks in. He looks, oh-my-gosh, so perfect with his sandy coloured curly hair gorgeously ruffled by the weather. His eyes are looking to the floor, practically begging me to stare at his abnormally long eyelashes. His thumbs are hooked in his trouser pockets as he trudges over to his seat. Sir pretends he doesn’t even exist. Most people do because he isn’t like them. He isn’t chavvy in the slightest, and he only seems to hang out with Sariah. Some people think they’re dating. I’m so jealous of her.
For a brief moment, I think I see his eyes glance at me, but I immediately attribute it to wishful thinking. Before he can even pull out his chair the first period bell goes and everyone scrambles out the room. Darren thinks I’m mental, but I treasure the moments I have to see him, however small they may be.
Speak of the devil and he appears. Half way down the corridor someone jumps on my back and covers my eyes. I’d recognize those ridiculously feminine hands anywhere.
“Oi, fairy fingers, Get off of me!” I grin, knowing he’ll hit me for that comment. He does.
“Jesus Christ, Darren. One of these days you’re gonna break him.” I hear my friend Chris say as he peels Darren off me. Always the most sensible of our little trio, even he cracks a smile.
“I think his heart’s already broken,” Darren says “Did you hear the news, Sam?”
I shake my head, expecting something trivial and stupid.
“Someone saw Patrick in Le Café Noir on Saturday with some random girl from St.George’s.”
“Huge whoop actually, for you anyway. She was sucking his face like a vacuum cleaner in a washing machine.”
By this point we were outside of my class. I turned around so quickly I hit myself with my bag. One look at his face told me he wasn’t joking. I gave him the “we’re talking about this later” glare and went into my geography lesson.
I was wishing now more than ever that someone had grabbed me and ran this morning. It wasn’t like I had any rights to him. He was a year older than me, and I was 99% sure he had no idea I existed. Somehow, things seemed like they might just work out for my benefit. They usually did. I would have to go totally spies mode and grill Darren for answers. Gossip circulates quickly, and people love to embellish rumours just to stir up some trouble. Why was I even panicking, anyways? It wasn’t as though I liked him or anything like that. I just love pretty faces, and his was the prettiest I’d ever seen. Yet for some reason my heart felt tight when I thought about some trashy girl violating that pretty face of his.