2
Always Sorry
~Noah~
I let out a yawn as I get into Kyle’s car, wishing already that I hadn’t agreed to ride with him so I could skip school. First day of senior year.
This past weekend went by quickly. I slept practically all day on Saturday, feeling jet-lagged from coming off a flight to ending up at a party. The rest of that day was spent lounging around, unpacking and checking up on my bike. I went for a quick ride around town with it before tuning my guitar and spending a quiet night in my room, playing around with a new song.
Sunday found me jamming with Kyle in the detached garage in his backyard. I was impressed with his skills at the drums. He was better than my drummer in the city. I found it hard to wrap my brain around that, but I guess you have more time to practice without distractions. Kyle admits he started playing when he was seven, which means he has had ten years to hone in on his skills and add his own flare. I’m impressed.
When we pull into the busy school parking lot, I scan the surrounding crowd hanging around the parked cars. Some kids are waving to others as they pull in. Some are sitting in their cars, puffing on their cigarettes, trying to be discreet about it. A few couples are making out, in and out of their cars. I get a whiff of pot coming from two cars down. Yep, like any other high school.
“Come on; I’ll show you around school really quick.” Kyle climbs out of the driver’s seat and throws his bag over his shoulder. “It’s pretty simple, really. There are two floors, four hallways. Bottom floor’s hallways are labeled A and B. Second floor’s, C and D.” He grabs my schedule from my hands and points to my first period class as we walk toward the school building. “See? C12. Second floor, front hallway.”
I snatch my schedule back from him. “Got it.” I’m such a grouch in the mornings.
“No problem,” Kyle mutters warily, sneaking a glance at me as I down the remnants of my coffee.
I close my eyes, thinking how I am going to have to buy a thermos to make it through the days. One cup of Joe will not do it for me anymore.
I toss the empty Styrofoam cup into the nearest trash can and take a deep breath. “Sorry for snapping. I can’t jump into the swing of things so fast after sleeping in all summer, you know?”
“I got it, dude. No worries here.”
I ignore the dude drop as we continue walking into the school, which is packed with bodies. It sounds like an amphitheater with all the voices trying to yell over everyone else. I feel an instant headache coming on.
Kyle looks down at his watch. “Five minutes. I’m down here in hall B. The stairs are right there.” He points at a door that is being held open by the sea of bodies going in and out of it. “There’s another set of stairs at the end of each hall. Got it?”
I feel like he thinks I’m an idiot when he talks to me sometimes. I know he means well, but this school isn’t even a quarter of the size of my last one. The layout is pretty cut and dry. I don’t think there is a possibility of getting lost.
“Yeah, I got this.” I turn around and head toward the stairs.
On the way up, I’m met with a lot of wandering, appreciative female eyes and lots of scornful looks from the jocks. The scornful eyes, I’m not much accustomed to. New guy syndrome. That’s what it should be called. New fresh meat for females’ pleasure and males’ dislike.
I politely smile at the female hellos and nod an understanding to the males’ jealousies before leaving the stairs of sin and making my way down the hall to my classroom. I find it easily and quickly grab a seat in the back, watching all the students file into class.
I like to people watch. People are the same everywhere you go. They all form cliques, whether that be with over ten people or a couple. All of them have their own tastes, usually centered around their music likes or their hobbies. For example, punks like punk music, cheerleaders hang with jocks, skaters, teen pregos, the artists, the drama club, the band geeks, dead heads. See? Cliques: an exclusive group of individuals with similar interests or goals, disregarding outsiders.
So, where would I fit in? Hmm, senior year, new kid, only knows cousin … Guess I’m cliquing with him. Besides, we both like music. I’m sure we can stir something up with that. Maybe one of his friends is a bassist. I have some new music I never shared with my old band. Maybe we can …
That thought is halted the minute she walks in. Long, soft waves of brown swish inside the doorway. Below that hair is a petite, very petite, package full of curves. Flawless ass wrapped in some tight jeans, tiny waist, full breasts seen at a side profile, outlined in a gray V-neck shirt. Those soft globes peeking out as she inhales. The ideal hourglass figure.
I haven’t even seen her face and I’m already picturing what I would do to her. I want to feel her skin. I can imagine how silky it would feel, how soft and conforming to my grip. How it would feel under my lips. Taste on my tongue. I want to lick her back. Every curve of …
Again, my thoughts come to a halt. My erection stops mid-growth.
Her face. Those eyes.
My heart stops. It literally. Fucking. Stops. I don’t even think I breathe.
I’m not a fan of clichés, but from my reactions—my stopped breath, stopped heart, the jaw dropping, eyes devouring, not to mention, sexual thoughts paused … and now my heart is beating like I ran a marathon, quick breathes, heart attack approaching. If I believed in it, I think I am experiencing love at first sight. And from the looks of her—paused mid-step, eyes locked on mine, rapid breathing, mouth parted, now trying not to look at me—I would say she is experiencing the same dubious phenomena.
Her face, if it had to be described in one word, it would be angelic. Her skin is impeccably fair, with a pretty blush to her cheeks. Her eyes are big and doe-like, so sweet, innocent, and the most beautiful shade of blue I have ever seen. They are fanned by the thickest lashes, and the arch of her brow begs to be outlined by a finger. Her lips are the closest to natural red I have ever seen on a girl. And I know it’s not makeup; there isn’t a stitch of it on her pretty fresh face. Her nose … I want to press a kiss to that little nose.
What the hell am I saying? One look at this girl, and I am a puddle of mush.
My heart starts back up and everything seems to move in fast-forward for a minute. Kids are rushing to their seats; the teacher is sorting papers into piles, stapling as she goes; books and notebooks are slapped onto desks; bottoms are dropped into seats. However, me and the girl are frozen. She is still standing motionless at the door, and I’m motionless in my seat.
Our eyes meet again, taking each other in slowly. I can feel, literally feel, the burn of her gaze as they pass over me. Neck is burning, shoulders, arms, chest, abs, the leg that’s sticking out from the side of desk. And then back up. Even my hair feels like it’s being singed by her gaze. Our eyes lock again as we both remain in our position, not looking away now.
A shove to her back finally breaks her out of our locked gaze. She mumbles an apology to the ox of a guy who nudged her before he grabs her arm and pulls her to the two empty seats in the front of the room.
Of course she would have a boyfriend. An over-protective ass of one by the death glares he’s aiming at me. I stare back silently, not giving anything away as I watch him face the front of the class and sit down.
I remember that back; the back of his head. Those jeans look familiar, too.
I startle as I realize he’s a much bigger ass of a boyfriend than first impression. He’s the guy who was fucking blondie against Chelsea’s house the other night. Son of a bitch doesn’t deserve someone like the angel sitting beside him.
What am I thinking? She looks like an angel, but for all I know, she could be the world’s biggest bitch.
“Don’t even go there,” a male voice speaks from my right.
I look over to see the pothead guy from the party the other night. I look at him quizzically.
He nods his head toward the front of the class, toward her. “She’s unavailable.”
“I see that.”
Pothead shakes his head. “That’s not her boyfriend. She doesn’t do boyfriends. She’s too good for that. That guy … Troy … doesn’t see it like that, though. She won’t date him, and he won’t let anyone near her. They’ve been friends since kindergarten. His daddy is the mayor, and her daddy is the D.A. They think their shit don’t stink.”
Not the impression I got, but okay.
I look back up toward the front and spot her looking at Troy, who is staring at the ceiling, tapping his pen annoyingly on his desk, before she glances back at me through the curtain of her hair. She sees me staring at her and quickly looks down, a pretty blush coloring her cheeks.
That move tugs a small grin from my lips. I unabashedly continue to stare at her, waiting for her to look up again. Within seconds, she does.
Another tug pulls at my lips, but I try to restrain it.
Our eyes lock for a few heartbeats, a slow smiling forming on both our faces.
I can’t wait to see that smile directed at me every day. Senior year is starting to look better, and I thank God I didn’t skip today. I don’t think I will skip a day this year. I will even come to school with the flu as long as it means I get to see her beautiful face and that stunning smile and those eyes sparkling with enjoyment at our second staring impromptu.
“Claire,” the big guy next to her snaps, and her attention is automatically pulled forward, away from me.
My eyes linger on her hair before I slowly look over at ox-man, who is shooting eye daggers at me. He gives me an imperceptible shake of his head while I raise an eyebrow at him in challenge.
There is no way this guy is going to scare me off from talking to her. He might have scared the rest of the male population away, but that won’t happen with me. If I want to see her—and I do—then I will.
I want to make her smile. I want to hear her voice. I need to touch her skin to see if it feels as soft as it looks. I want to run my hands through her hair and curl the tips around my finger as I look into those deeply blue, deeply hypnotizing, big, round eyes.
~Claire~
I have never been attracted to anyone in my life. None. Zero. No one. I haven’t even swooned over famous actors or rock stars. Just never have. I have never felt that first amazing rush when your skin tingles, electricity dancing along your skin. Such an amazing, euphoric experience. It’s like you are aware of every part of yourself. You imagine you can feel the blood rushing through your veins, feel your heart stop and then speed up, faster than it ever has. A huge adrenaline rush. You can even feel every hair follicle stand up. The moment your breath hitches before you unconsciously hold it because, suddenly, butterflies flutter around in your stomach.
God, it’s such an amazing feeling.
I have never felt anything like it until I walked into my first period class on the first day of my senior year, seventeen years old.
I keep an eye on Troy, who is having some words with a boy for doing some unknown discretion against him. I see Nikki down the hall, giving me a smug look like she one-upped me by having sex with Troy the other night.
When are girls going to learn I couldn’t care less if he sleeps with them? He’s a brother to me. My little, big brother; that is how I refer to him since he’s a year younger than me yet so much taller than my five-foot-four frame. He’s actually almost a whole foot taller than me.
Standing on the threshold of the classroom, waiting impatiently for Troy to finish his threats and making sure his fists don’t start flying, I feel eyes on me.
I turn around to go ahead and take a seat in the front of the class where I can keep an eye on Troy when all the amazing, tingling, electric, heart-stopping, heart restarting, breath hitching, breathing stopped, eventually breathing competing with heartbeats, butterflies, raised hairs feeling overcomes me.
In the back of the room, sitting casually back in a desk chair, is the most striking person I have ever seen. Just … striking. Brown, thick, wavy hair that any girl would kill for; dark brown, hungry bedroom eyes; a proportional nose; luscious lips; a firm, chiseled, movie star in the making jaw. Those arms, that chest, the leanness to his waist, all accentuated by his tight on the arms, loose on the waist black T-shirt.
His long legs are spread out around the desk in front of him, distinguishable inside a pair of loose-fitting jeans. He looks fit, and not in the scary, natural-testosterone filled way Troy looks. He looks fit in the runner, natural push-ups, no weight lifting, but I can still kick anyone’s ass stereotypical bad boy kind of way. He is … hypnotic.
His eyes draw me in the most. They hold so many emotions, like lust, simmering low and melting to … wonderment? There is also appreciation and mostly surprise. I have seen lust on a guy’s face, but that emotion quickly vanishes as we stare at each other.
Wonderment and surprise are a first for me when a guy sees me. Appreciation, I am well aware of that look.
I never feel embarrassed throughout this whole devour each other act. Shy, yes.
His expression looks how mine feels—star-struck.
His attractiveness lights up the room, too striking in its richness for a girl not to stare. And stare I do … until Troy nudges me in the back a little too hard.
When I steal a look back at him, I see the most adorable smirk on his face, almost like he wants to smile but doesn’t want to give one away to the rest of the room. It is a small smile for me. My smile.
The rest of class goes by excruciating slow. Between stolen glances, I feel his gaze burning a hole in my head. Throughout the entire class, I am highly aware of my body. Every movement I make is slow and concise, not wanting to make a fool of myself. Every breath I take comes out deep, since I keep forgetting to breath. I am so self-conscious. I can’t concentrate on anything outside of my body. My thoughts are consumed with stolen kisses, sweet caresses, longing stares, a fantasy relationship with the boy sitting in the back.
As class dismisses, I look back again to see him still sitting there, still staring at me, with that little smirk on his face. I give him a small smile in return and am rewarded with a full-blown smile that shows perfect white teeth and one dimple on his right cheek. It leaves me breathless.
I can’t help it; my smile grows even more. I don’t know what has come over me. I want to giggle like a school girl, but I don’t feel like one. Instead, I feel like we have known each other all our lives and are sharing a secret from the rest of the world.
I haven’t even talked to the guy yet, for Pete’s sake. I don’t know what his voice even sounds like. I need to know.
I need to go up to him and say hi; see where it goes from there. He must be new because I have never seen him. I can ask him about that. That sounds like a good plan. However, what if he’s a player? What if these stolen looks and beaming smiles is his modus operandi? He’s too gorgeous. He probably knows it, too. No, I can’t speak to him. His allure is already too strong.
The goal. Focus on the goal. I don’t have time for relationships, or teenage drama and heartache. I don’t have time to fantasize about kissing him, running my hands through his hair, and lying next to him so I can look closer into his eyes as he holds my hand.
This school year is going to be miserably long.
“Come on,” Troy breaks me out of my thoughts.
I startle a bit at his intrusion, still staring at the gorgeous boy who hasn’t made a move to leave, now staring at me with a confused look on his face. I realize that my smile is gone, wiped away into a frown as my thoughts darken.
I turn toward Troy to see him giving a hard look at the guy. I nudge him with my shoulder to get his attention, and then walk past him and out of the classroom. We have different classes next, and I really don’t want his company right now. I prefer to stay in my own despairing thoughts, though I know it’s inevitable that he will follow me.
As I make it to my classroom, which is only a couple doors away from my first period, I break out of my thoughts to realize Troy did not, in fact, follow me.
I spin around, alarmed at what he could be up to. I know he didn’t miss the glances I shared with the boy. I should have been more insistent he leave with me. I know what he is capable of—using force to prove his point if threats don’t sink in. And I am positive threats won’t scare away the new kid. He seems too … confident.
I rush back to the first period classroom to see that my fears were correct. Troy is bent over the new guy’s desk, hands gripping the edge, dangerously low to his face, most likely whispering intimidations. The new guy is sitting upright in his chair now, confidently in Troy’s face. He doesn’t show an ounce of fear. I see no sweat marring his brow. No shaky hands. He is either incredibly brave or stupid. I hope not the latter.
I come up behind Troy, not letting him know I am behind him. Other kids are walking into the class, eyeing the scene warily. These two guys don’t seem to care or see anything else around themselves until the new guy’s eyes flicker to me for a second. Then he speaks with a more raised voice.
“People aren’t objects. You don’t own her. From what I hear, you two aren’t even a couple. And from what I saw the other night, if you really do like her, then you have a poor way of showing it by fucking some blonde up against a house.” His voice is so deliciously seductive; smooth, deep, sending chills up my spine, causing my skin to break out in goose bumps. I was right about his confidence; it oozes from his voice. There is a hint of an accent there. He sounds like he’s from the north, but there is something foreign about it, too.
“You don’t know shit, you pussy pretty boy. As for the chick, she doesn’t matter. She knows the score with me and Claire. No one else matters but her, and she knows it. My life and Claire’s is none of your damn business. Stay. The fuck. Away from her, or me and you are going to have some serious issues. You feel me?”
“Nope.”
As Troy’s arm starts to swing back and new guy jumps to his feet with his own fist up, I decide it’s time to intervene.
“Troy,” I snap.
Troy’s fist automatically drops to his side as he swings around to see me standing behind him.
“Claire,” he whispers apologetically. “I … I—”
“I know,” I console him. “You’re sorry. Always sorry.” I sigh with exhaustion over his games. “Let’s go.” I grab his huge arm, coaxing him to follow me, and he surrenders without a backward glance.
I glance back once to see the new guy still standing where we left him and mouth, “Sorry.”
He nods once, looking calmer than a moment ago, with his hands clenching and unclenching into fists at his sides. He tilts his head to the side as he watches me leave and gives me small, understanding smile.
So many things are spoken in my sorry and his smile. I’m sorry for what Troy said to him; how he threatened him. I’m sorry that Troy was right; he needs to stay away from me. His smile says he understands, but he’s not giving up. His smile says he’s bound and determined to ignore Troy’s threats and my sorry to having to stay away from me. His smile says he won’t give up until I am his.