Past
I’ll never forget the day we met. Linc walked into Mrs. Martin’s fifth grade classroom with a big smile on his face, so confident and sure of himself, wearing a pair of square-toed cowboy boots and a button-down plaid shirt.
“Class, this is Lincoln Matthews.”
“Linc,” he corrects.
Mrs. Martin gives him a warm smile. “Linc. Welcome him to the class, everyone.”
We all give our obligatory welcome as Mrs. Martin points to the empty desk next to mine. “You can follow along with Sylvie today until we can get you a textbook assigned.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He slides into the vacant desk closest to mine, pulling a notebook from his backpack. I turn my attention back to Mrs. Martin as she continues her lesson. I don’t want to look at him, but my stupid eyes keep shifting to the left.
“Hey,” he whispers, scooting so close the tops of our desks are now touching.
“Hey.”
“I’m Linc.”
“I know.”
“And you’re Sylvie.”
My eyes shoot to his. “Figure that out on your own, did ya?”
He smiles and it’s different than the one he entered the room with. That one was full of confidence mixed with a smidgen of arrogance.
This one is brimming with curiosity.
Reaching for my textbook, he pulls it closer to the center of our joined desks. “Where are we?”
With my index finger, I point to the problem Mrs. Martin is currently working out on the board.
But he doesn’t look at the problem.
He touches my wrist.
Electricity zings through my body, discovering nerves I never even knew existed.
“I like your bracelets.” His voice is barely a whisper as his fingers move to inspect several woven bracelets lining my arm. The friendship bracelets are something my best friend, Rachel, and I like to do when we’re bored.
We’re bored a lot.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Does it take you long to make them?”
“Linc, no talking please,” Mrs. Martin scolds, her eyes darting back and forth between us. “Sylvie, you know better.”
I grit my teeth, quickly returning my attention to my work. I hide behind the curtain of my long, blonde hair, my cheeks burning with embarrassment and something else I don’t quite understand. This stupid boy has been sitting next to me for less than five minutes and I’ve already been in trouble.
I ignore him. Refuse to acknowledge him. That is until a piece of notebook paper is placed in front of me.
I’m sorry.
It proclaims in scribbly, stupid boy handwriting.
