The bell rings shortly after. Fourth period is English, then I head to my music class, taking a seat at the back.
I’m staring at my phone when a sixth sense makes my neck prickle. Ophelia walks into the room, heading for the desk beside mine.
She pauses, nostrils flaring—so close I can feel the heat off her skin—then veers away, sitting across the room. Snubbing me.
My interest spikes.
I ditch my screen for the pretty flush of her cheeks, just a few shades lighter than her lips. Thick tape is holding the broken arm of her glasses together, and behind the shaded lenses, her white eyelashes are long. The subtlety of her colouring intriguing among a sea of winged eyeliner and riotous glitter.
Chemical calm washes across my jagged brain. Dopamine, serotonin? One of the feel-good ones.
She sets out a pad of large manuscript paper, notes already penned in the top staves, and a school-issue iPad with its pencil. I let her get comfortable, then, when the teacher walks into the room, scoot across and take the seat next to hers.
Ophelia tenses, gripping the edge of her desk, knuckles like stone.
Under my breath, “Your move, Snowflake,” but she doesn’t rise from her seat.
“Phones off,” the teacher says with the disinterest of standard practice. Then his voice perks up. “I see we have a new student today. Welcome. I’m Mr Van der Valk, and could you tell the class your name?”
“Damien Kade.”
A girl in the second row turns with a frown, then leans towards her companion, whispering something that makes them both giggle. The rest of the room pays no attention.
“In music, our ears are the second most important way we process these lessons, so the rules are no phones and no talking, unless I open the class to discussion.” He glances around at the other students with an expectant air. “And what’s the most important way we process music?”
The room stares back silently. Ophelia shifts, obviously knowing but clamping her lips tight around the answer.
Judging from the worn fabric of her uniform, she’s poor. Probably a typical scholarship know-it-all, although her current restraint shows more social awareness than most.
“Ourbrains,”Van der Valk says when nobody volunteers. “Our brains are the most important. So, no distractions.”
I nod until he turns away.
A minute later, choral music pours from the overhead speakers, the triumphant refrains of Handel’s Messiah. Ophelia opens the iPad, enlarging the screen until it could be seen from space, the score scrolling across the page, keeping time.
The class is silent; the Hallelujah Chorus’s repetition occasionally punctuated with Mr Van der Walk’s commentary.
When Ophelia’s face tilts, I get glimpses of that unsettling eye movement from before, irises stuttering as if her vision is drilling deeper than surface level. Like she could burrow into the dark heart of me.
I shiver, frowning at the goosebumps and raised hairs on my arms. Chills.
No one’s ever given me chills before.
Leaning close again, I whisper, “Would you—”
The music stops. “Quiet please, Damien,” Mr Van der Valk calls. “Don’t make me tell you again.”
“Sorry, it’s just… I don’t have the score, so I—”
“Ophelia? Could you please share your screen with Damien?” Then back to me. “Wait after class and I’ll get you sorted.”
The music resumes and when the screen angle doesn’t change, I adjust it, purposefully brushing my little finger against her wrist. She whips her hand away, jaw muscles bunching as she rubs away my touch.
Minutes later, I straighten and press my thigh against hers, enjoying the warmth of her skin through the thin wool of my trousers. When she moves, I chase her, keeping contact until I have her pinned against the wall, no escape.
And just like that, music’s suddenly my new favourite lesson.
Van der Valk gestures me forward when the bell rings. “It’ll take a lot of time and effort before you’re equal with the class, but in this one instance, I’ll let you study the crib notes.”
