"What a terrible feeling to love someone and not be able to help them."
Jennifer Niven.
"You're new," Miranda says sympathetically to Wyatt. "You don't know who your defending!"
"No," Wyatt disagrees. "I know who I'm defending and I'm defending her regardless of how wrong you think I am!"
"Can...can everyone j-just settle down?" Mr Thunderman whispers.
I could barely speak. At first, I thought it was all some act Wyatt was putting on but then I saw the sincerity behind his actions and said: "no, he's really doing because he thinks the mistreatment I go through is unfair. He's doing it because he's my... friend?"
"Wyatt it's okay," I mumble. "Stop."
"How could you ask me to stop!" He screams. "They told you to go kill yourself!"
"It's fine... I..."
"Okay, I've had enough," Mr Thunderman interrupts. "Valentina, you're alright, aren't you?"
Looking around the faces full of hatred, I decide to go with the answer which will cause less trouble.
"Yes," I mumble. "I'm fine."
I hear Wyatt kiss his teeth.
"You've got to be kidding me," he mutters.
"Wyatt, you've done enough," Mr Thunderman dismisses his statement. "As for you Miranda, you will no longer be siting next to Valentina. Instead, you will be seated at the front whilst Wyatt will be seated at your previous desk."
"But..."
"Understood?"
Miranda, given the fact that she has no choice, huffs, moving her stuff to the front and cursing under her breath. Wyatt then proceeds to take his belongings, dumping them on the desk next to mine, frowning.
"N-now," Mr Thunderman stutters, his indecisive behaviour soon returning. "May we begin?"
The class groans their reply.
"This semester, we will be studying Shakespeare. I believe you are all familiar with the play 'Romero and Juliet'?"
This time, there is no response.
"If not or if so, it doesn't matter but this semester I want us all to be able to answer this question: how does Shakespeare use the theme of love, hatred and tragedy to invoke a feeling of tension? I want us all to be able to answer that with confidence by the end of this unit," he says, handing out an extract of the play. "You will all need an eraser, highlighter and pencil in order to annotate this piece of writing..."
Love, hatred and tragedy. Two of those things are a daily part in my routine and one of those things I lack. Overall, the question is interesting so I'm wondering how I'm going to answer this.
"Hey," someone says, "can I borrow an eraser?"
Rummaging through my pencil case, I find my spare eraser and leave it on the edge of the table. I already know who the person is and I'm too embarrassed to look him in the eyes.
"Thanks," he retorts.
...
I spent the rest of the class in silence. It's not like anyone wanted to talk to me anyway so it actually made my life a lot easier. Working hard, taking notes, avoiding Wyatt. Eventually, time passed and I was free to go, but that's when he stopped me.
"Val, here's your eraser," he calls.
Quickly, I snatch it out of his hand, our fingers lightly touching. We stand there in the middle of the corridor, bodies brushing past us, occasionally shoving us out of the way but we remain in our own world, our feet planted to the ground. The curls of his hair lay against his forehead in lazy, soft spirals and his green eyes reflect the light of the hallways, full of want. It doesn't take a perceptive observer to realise he wants some type of reassurance, he wants to know if he's doing the right thing.
"Yeah, great, thanks," I sigh.
However, Wyatt doesn't listen because he's already running off into the crowd.
"He's going off in the wrong direction," I think.
Biting my lip, I stare at the eraser. Seeing that the cover is slightly torn, I rip it off completely, perceiving a few written words.
Meet me.
"What?"
That's when I turn the eraser cover over and see a note written into it, using ink pen.
"Meet me at your special place after school."
Is that why he left in a hurry? Is that why he went in the opposite direction to the exit?
Sprinting through the mass of people, I find myself becoming irrational, receiving judgement from those who I barge on the way. Sometimes, I stop to say sorry but other times, I'm only focused on my destination, not wanting to know what would happen if Wyatt leaves before I get there.
"Please don't," I secretly plead inside of me. "Please don't go before I have the chance to explain myself."
Almost approaching the staircase, I run even faster. Again, turning the corners, stepping past wet floor signs. The only difference is that in this particular instance, I don't care who follows me.
I make it, skipping two steps at a time, hauling my bag over my shoulder, breathing heavily as I turn the door knob.
When I open it, light shines on him and he turn around to face me. Smiling, he puts his hand in his pockets, tilting his head.
"Good," he says. "I though you'd never show up."
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Because you're sort of unpredictable," he says as if it were a fact.
"I am not," I disagree.
He shakes his head.
"Don't worry, I'm unpredictable too. That's why I like you," he whispers, grinning like a maniac.