[under construction]

  

        The crowded hallways echoed with student voices, lost freshman, and teachers helping the newbies. I stood leaning against the tiled wall, on the sidelines of the constant moving mass of sweaty human bodies. Being a junior, I watched the fish flopping on land and laughed. The hallways were mass chaos before the first bell of the morning. It was only a matter of time before students were accepted into the cliques that thrived off of pure drama, and also produced freshman clones of their senior counterparts. Somewhere down the hall, drama already begun and a girl fight erupted.

        Glancing toward the noise, I identified Anna Miller, a blonde-haired sophomore, and Nicky Patterson, a red-headed stubborn girl in my class. Every passerby either shifted away from the drama or was inevitably sucked into it, like Michael Sanderson, editor of ChatterBox, the school newspaper. Michael, top of his game, pulled out pad and pencil, and a thin Canon digital camera hung loosely around his slender neck. Anna had successfully grabbed a handful of Nicky’s hair, and Nicky pulled on Anna’s fake gold hoop earrings dangling from her small earlobes.

        My gaze shifted to a nearby passerby, who ducked her head to her shoulders to truck slowly through the crowd. Her dark sepia hair was swept up into a messy-but-adorable fashion. I never saw her before, and I assumed she was a freshman.

        Someone tapped my shoulder. I turned to find a smiley, happy version of my good friend, Eddie Whitmore.  I grinned back at him, glad to see him, too.

        “Hey there, Ed,” I greeted him, taking note of his new close-cropped haircut and new Hollister clothes.

        “Hey, Jake, have you seen the catfight? Those chicks were going crazy!” He asked, beaming, delightedly amused.

        “The beginning of it, anyway,” I kept the freshman girl to myself, just for a little while at least. “How was your summer, Eddie?”

        He grinned and rambled off about his soccer tournament his team successfully won. Though, I can’t say I’ve ever attended one of Ed’s soccer games. He jabbered about his football practice and how he tore his ACL at the first practice and how he had surgery to repair it. Eddie showed me the scars. I wasn’t very gifted with athletic abilities, as Eddie was. He and I were a mismatched duo, but maybe that’s why he and I were best friends since elementary school.

        The five minute bell chimed, and I admitted to him I needed to drop my stuff off at my locker. Off I walked down a hallway or two to my trusty locker of two years. I skillfully twisted the combination lock and opened the locker. A couple pictures of cute women, one year old photos, were taped on the inside of the blue locker.

        “Ah, morning ladies,” I smoothly cooed. Their motionless faces watched me as I shoved my Tony Hawk backpack in and made sure my schedule stayed in my back pocket.

        “Sorry, ladies. New year, new photos,” I apologized sincerely to them when I removed the tape from the backs and tossed the pictures away into the surprisingly empty trash can.

        I weaved my way through the students to my first period-Chemistry, with Mr. Burgeson, an elder gentleman whose sarcastic humor certainly did not enthuse the majority of the student body. I was the last one to enter the door, probably sealed in Mr. Burgeson’s torture chamber for life. His new reign of terror began.

        “Morning, class. The rules are: no talking, no electronic devices, no acting like moronic apes, no interruptions, no cheating, and nobody is allowed to be dumber than a box of rocks this semester,” Mr. Burgeson droned. The previous year, news circulated through the school about a senior in Chemistry who circled around the classroom as “Mammal man” but the teacher found no humor in it, and generously handed out Mammal man a week of detention. Lucky me, Mr. Burgeson teaches first hour, though it should be highly illegal.

        “We’ll jump right in. Here are your books,” he continued in the constantly monotone voice as he passed out copies of Chemistry: The Outlook of Science. Every kid groaned, and in result, Mr. Burgeson threatened detentions for everyone. The book, width of a large dictionary, weighted about ten pounds. The lesson on atomic structure drolled on for what seemed like hours, with plenty of added worksheets to complement the book assignment. The bell finally saved us.

        My next class, Music Theory, would most likely be filled with fish, which is freshman. Almost everyone in the junior year arranged this class in their schedules the first year; however, I was the exception, so the office placed me into Music Theory to give me extracurricular credits. My thoughts on the class- not thrilled.

        The teacher, female and good-looking, stood behind a music-note-decorated podium, a very stylish and modern design. The old desks, situated in a semi-circle around the podium, operated differently than the other desks within the school. The desk part, made of laminate, opened up so the desk acted like a chair. In one desk sat the really cute girl from the hallway this morning. I felt my heart skip a beat.

        I chose a seat beside her, her clothes black lined with purple. Plaid purple and black bows kept her hair in place. She wore black jeans and purple converse. For being labeled “goth”, she was a hottie.

        Too shy to say anything at all, I glanced at her, watching her draw an outline of a tree in black pastel. She shaded in the outline, making the full shape black as night. One branch, I noticed, resembled a lopsided four, rotated to the left.

        Once everyone found a seat, in which I was completely oblivious to, the young music teacher cleared her throat and buried her nose in the attendance list.

        “…Matthews, Jake,” her voice sang from behind the single sheet of paper that acted as her shield. I tensed, waiting for the girl next to me to reply to her name.

        “Here,” I replied. She moved on down the list, calling out the names with an occasional “She’s not here today” reply or “He moved away”, thankfully told from helping students.

        “Webb, Kandie?”

        “I’m here!” The girl next to me piped. She shot up like a beautiful daisy. Kandie, huh? Unsure, I held out my hand towards her.

        “Hi, I’m Jake,” I introduced. What was I doing? A freshman, really? Am I crazy?

        She shied away from my hand, but smiled sweetly.

        “Name’s Kandie, nice to meet you,” she looked my way. Her voice sounded like a perfect violin melody, but her eyes were so very blue, like the Caribbean Ocean. I think I stuttered. Her eyes pierced the surface of my soul, penetrating it with ease. The teacher introduced herself, thankfully, for Ms. Conrad ruptured my trance.

        “Jake? Hey, Jake,” Kandie whispered softly. I barely heard her over Ms. Conrad.

        “Yeah?” I asked back, keeping my eyes to the podium.

        “Well, I hoped we could sit together at lunch, if that is okay with you.”

        Ms. Conrad quickly shushed us.

        Lunch couldn’t come quick enough.

*         *                                      *

        This school possessed two cafeterias-one cafeteria was built as an add-on a few years back because of the increasing number of students. There were even two different lunch periods to help lunch be uncongested, but honestly, the cafeteria was overrun with underclassmen and upperclassmen all searching for their seats. My heart pounded as I skimmed the faces around me, looking for Kandie. She, to my delight, found me first. With cold lunch in hand, Kandie followed me to the table in the far corner of the larger, older cafeteria. That table had served as my table since freshman year, and I was not about to relinquish its services to some new fish with nowhere else to sit. Eddie, already at our table, devoured his scraps of hot lunch like a deprived, starving box person-aka hobo. We joined him, my lunch unaccounted for.

        “Hi there,” she greeted Eddie with a gleeful grin, “My name is Kandie. I’m a freshman and recently moved here from Burnet, Texas.”

        I listened intently to Kandie talk about her life in Texas. I learned she grew up with an older brother, but he stayed behind. Kandie lived with her mom until about a month ago in the summer when her father decided to change locations and Kandie thought that the move would bring some good to her life. Eddie purchased ala carte and he munched in quiet bliss. Still hungry, Eddie left to buy more.

        “Texas isn’t anything like Wisconsin is. This state is all green and covered in leafy foliage and vegetation. Texas is just a brown wasteland and there is hardly any color at all-”

        “Hey, sorry, but what do you think about love?” I so rudely interrupted, distracted by the thought of dating her. Her face contorted, and Kandie’s expression changed.

        “Love? It’s just a game people spend their time playing, getting their hearts broken in two, only to go out and do it time and time again.”

        I left it at that. Maybe she would change her mind if we hung out some more. I shrugged in response. I felt a small surge of disappointment, but I dared not to show it. She searched me for an answer.

        “Just wondering,” I reassured her, lost in the deep depths of thought.

        “Okay,” she replied, half unconvinced, “You know, I moved here with my dad almost a year after my parents split. Mom still lives down south with my brother, and dad wanted a change of pace, to start over again. I mean, it hurts and all, but I’ll adjust.”

        She continued on, talking and explaining about her parents and how they had fought constantly. As she rambled on, each word after another sounded more painful than the last. I pretended not to notice the intensifying sting in her voice. I listened contently to her, her expression growing more depressed after each lingering word sputtered out of her mouth. She missed her family; that much was crystal clear. The bell rang and we both stood. Kandie, at last, noticed I consumed nothing but her words. She mumbled an apology.

        Pretending not to hear the apology, I asked, “Could I walk you to class?”

        Kandie nodded, her face illustrating her gratefulness.

        “Please and thank you. I’m not entirely sure where math is,” she mumbled, flushing red in embarrassment as she looked down at her shirt and her fingers twiddled with a tailing string. I lead her down the halls, dodging lost fish, and delivered her safely to her Algebra One class.

        “See you,” I whispered softly after she disappeared into the classroom. I turned to walk down the hall to my English class when Kandie wrapped her arms around my waist, her head against my back.

        “Thanks, Jake,” she whispered and departed again. I couldn’t help but smile at her gesture. Down by the English room, I caught a younger girl looking, well, staring at me. Smoothly, I strode past her into my class. Her eyes followed and burned the back of my head.

        I surveyed the room and chose a seat at a front row table with Harvey J. Malcolm, a small guy with dirty blonde hair and a skinny frame, but pursued an active life as a hefty magazine reader with good taste. Harvey reminded me of a still-life statue that read the same page, pouring over every small detail. At the end of the day, the boy could recite on line form every article and advertisement.

        I pulled out a sheet of paper and let my mind wander freely as the wind. On the blank sheet, my pencil began to form organized letters subconsciously

 

My heart skips a beat every time I glance at her; the feeling is unreal. I feel as if my very soul warms at the sight of that precious girl. Her touch seems like jolts of electricity coursing through my veins, bringing to life all of my senses and enhancing them to new heights. Each second spent with her is a cherished memory born and kept safe. This feeling, this emotion, is incredible, new, and so powerful. So genuine. Listening to her speak is an honor and a blessing; her voice is heaven floating on air. Our conversations may only be a one-way street, but I haven’t missed an angelic and deeply-rooted word out of her fragile mouth. Her dark sepia hair contrasts with her deep, clear blue eyes. Her frame is slim, and her hands are warm, but slender. Those same hands create a sensational voltage on my skin, a feeling that works it’s way into my system, down to the center of the soul.

 

I read over what I wrote, and my hands gripped the sheet and crumpled it. Closing my eyes and breathing softly, I realized I was falling. I was falling deeper than I could have ever imagined. I unwrinkled the paper ball and folded it into my back pocket. At that point, I knew something needed to be done.

My last two classes were spent devotedly thinking about her. The message was written completely about Kandie. After all, she moved to Wisconsin from Texas. This had to be fated to be…right?

The last bell signaled the end of the first day of school. Dashing through the crowd, my mind raced faster than my feet could ever carry me. Bolting down the last stretch of hallway, my sneakers squeaked to a stop, an almost smoothly executed move if I hadn’t stumbled when my eyes caught Kandie’s. She giggled at my clumsiness. My face burned red with heat.

“Hey,” I huffed, out of breath from my trek.

“Hey, yourself,” she giggled, an uplifting smile planted on her face, spread from cheek to cheek. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

“Oh, well, I hoped to catch you before you left for the day,” I explained, outstretching my arm and putting my hand onto a cold metal locker neighboring hers. Kandie looked me straight in the eyes. Some wise man once said that the eyes are the window to the soul. Eddie said it’s just built-up gas.

“Yeah, I’m still hanging around until I call my dad,” her tone sounded semi-happy, but the usual sparkle of her eyes vanished into the light blue depths of her iris. Nodding in response, I watched for her eyes to re-ignite. It never came.

“Do you want a ride, Kandie?”

“A ride?” Her head cocked to the side, registering the words in her head. Kandie, a little out of it, nodded. My hand swiftly moved to the center of her thin back and guided her out the school doors into the almost barren parking lot. Kandie willingly walked to my beat up car.

I’m not a gearhead, but I owned a ’96 Chevy Impala SS, really in rough shape. The inside, stripped to a bare minimum, I bought prepackaged with a sub over for one hundred fifty bucks. I thought it was a decent price for a gutted ghetto car. The seats, however, were still intact.

I opened the passenger door and Kandie slid inside my silver Impala. I closed her door and swung myself over the hood to my side and jumped in. she seemed unimpressed. I dared not to ask about her slightly depressive-hopefully-over-reactive mood or about her stranger-than-normal behavior. Instead, I fired up my Impala and drove us out of the north parking lot whose boundaries expanded bigger than the west lot. The spot cost me one hundred dollars for a single school year; I would be crazy if I didn’t use my spot for that insane price.

Author's Note

Just a rough draft, and it's not finished quite yet. Tell me what you think so far. Highly appreciate it :)

Reviews

[Tina Kline]

I really really enjoyed this a lot. The story pulled me in and I would like to know how this relationship works out and what ever else could happen in this story.