And then we kissed. I thought about it every two minutes over the weekend. I thought about it last night when I got home, replaying every second the way his hair felt under my hand and how his lips tasted.
His waist. That was the first part of him I touched, solid and warm. I wish I could touch him again.
But no. Instead, I have to return to real life. It’s the first Monday morning of term two, and I’m sitting in the library on a plastic chair with the rest of Easton Grammar’s Year 12s. Mum is giving a speech, welcoming us all back for a new term and reminding us to put in our best effort into our studies. Since it’s her first year as the principal here, she’s eager for this year level to graduate with top marks, reflecting well on the school and her leadership.
Mum’s wearing a sky-blue pantsuit. It’s new. At the start of the year, she bought a whole new wardrobe. New year, new job, new town, new her, she said.
If I didn’t share her surname, I wonder if people would know she’s my mum. Her hair’s light, like milky coffee, while mine is espresso brown. I suppose we have the same straight brows and hazel eyes. Also, my mum always looks serious, and I’ve been told I have a resting bitch face.
Winona didn’t look serious or like a bitch. I think today marks almost six months since I last spoke to her.
Mum wraps up her talk, then hands off to Mrs Ferguson, the Year 12 coordinator, who projects a PowerPoint onto a whiteboard and begins a presentation about applying for university scholarships.
I know I should pay attention, but I already did all the research I needed on scholarships months ago. I know exactly which ones I’ll apply for, how much money they reward, and what ATAR score I’ll need to win them. I’ve created a spreadsheet to calculate my living expenses for next year and how much money I’ll need to save up by then — or win from scholarships — in order to be completely self-sufficient.
I tune out the presentation and return to the memory of the guy in the closet. Even though I couldn’t see him, I could tell he was big and strong. Broad shoulders. Defined arms. I wish I could go back and touch him all over.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have left as soon as I did. But I knew I had to get home before Mum got cross with me. And also…
I liked kissing him, and I didn’t want to be tempted to spend more time with him because that meant that when it all ended, it would feel worse.
It already feels bad. I enjoyed it, but every time I think of him, I’m hit with regret and longing. Even though I know it’s impossible, I wish I could talk to him again.
I didn’t recognise his voice, but like mine, he lost half of it to the party. I don’t even know if he goes to Easton Grammar. At the party, there were loads of people who I didn’t recognise, and I later found out they went to a different school.
But what if he did go to my school? What if he was in this room with me right now?
I scan the crowd of students around me, all wearing blue, white and navy uniforms. Girls wear checkered dresses, T-bar shoes and long white socks, while guys wear short-sleeved topswith the school’s logo embroidered on the breast pocket and navy shorts.
I’ve been at this school long enough to know the names of everyone in my year level — it’s quite small, only a hundred students. At my old school in Melbourne, there were three hundred in a year level.
Let’s see… the only gay guys I know of are Noah and Henry, but they’re a couple and out, so it wouldn’t be either of them. I can cross out all of the girls. As for the rest…
There’s Tim, who’s probably my closest acquaintance here, and his friends, who are all studious types. There are the gamer guys, who spend most recesses and lunchtimes on their laptops in the library. There are the athletes who play football, soccer, cricket and tennis, and while I haven’t actually spoken to any of them, I must admit that they are tall and fit and good-looking.
There’s also a bunch of guys who don’t have any particularly unique hobbies or traits and seem pretty average. Like Ethan, who I guess is known for hosting parties. He’s friends with Ricky Sullivan, who seems loud and obnoxious. There’s also Aaron Wynn, who I suppose is cute if you squint your eyes, with his ink-black hair and brown eyes, but I’ve sat next to him in maths class for long enough to know there is not a lot going on in the space between his ears.
Yeah. I don’t think anyone here is my stranger.
Maths is in the double period between recess and lunch on Monday. My teacher, an ancient Mrs Johns, is the only teacher I have who enforces a seating arrangement. On my first day at Easton Grammar, when I walked into this class, she asked my name and checked a diagram she’d drawn out. “Jude Seymour, you’re over there,” she said and pointed to a desk in the back corner of the classroom. It was the desk furthest away from the front, so I felt like my learning had been sabotaged untilI realised Mrs John was an ineffective teacher with convoluted explanations.
So, I suppose the upside of my seat is I have the privacy to study the way I like, which means I pre-learn everything and then use class time to complete practice questions. The downside is I’m trapped between the window and the student sitting beside me: Aaron Wynn.
I’m early to class, but Aaron falls into his seat just as Mrs Johns enters and begins the process that’ll take at least 5 minutes as she tries to connect her laptop to the whiteboard.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I reply.
Aaron opens his math folder and takes out the exercise book dedicated to notes. Most of the time, he jots down a few sentences and spends the rest of class drawing. They’re actually really good — little mushrooms and adorable rabbits and great sharks with jagged teeth. Sometimes, I find myself watching as he draws and consider complimenting him, but I wouldn’t want to sound like I approve of him wasting precious learning time.
I must be staring at his notebook for too long because he suddenly stiffens. “What?” he asks me.
“Nothing.”
Mrs Johns is still trying to connect her laptop to the whiteboard. I think about how I should try to be more sociable. I don’t want to end up feeling like I have no one to talk to at the party again. Not that it’s guaranteed I’ll be invited to another one.
So, I try my best at small talk. “Did you enjoy the party?”
