Bryden:GIF of Matilda, in church, sticking her tongue out.
I watch as she glances at her phone, the corners of her lips tilting up. Sam’s typing something in response, if the slight movement of her shoulders mean anything.
Collins:Are you being a hater, Mr. Montour?
I lick my lips to keep from grinning.
Bryden:I’ve never hated on anyone in my life.
Collins:That’s not what it looks like from here.
I tip my head and key in my next reply.
Bryden:Maybe it’s time for some glasses, onzaamiziinsiwi.
Collins:Care to translate that, big guy?
Bryden:It means scrappy or fierce little one.
Collins:I don’t know if I should be offended you called me scrappy or flattered you think I’m fierce.
Bryden:Tough decision.
Collins:Admit it.
Bryden:What?
Collins:You’re obsessed with me.
My heart tugs at that.
I might be. But there’s no way I’m telling her that.
Bryden:I think you should focus on the lecture. You might miss something important.
Sam reads the message, a soft breath escaping her. She doesn’t look back, doesn’t acknowledge that I completely changed the subject. And that’s what I mean about her seeing me. She doesn’t make it awkward and always keeps things playful. Though sometimes I can’t tell if it’s her being my friend or something more.
For the next few minutes, I fight to follow my own advice and pay attention to the lecture. But no matter how hard I try, my eyes find their way back to Sam. One moment she’s twirling her pen between her fingers, and the next she’s chewing on the cap. But the next time I glance up, I don’t look away. It’s Jackson I’m focused on now. He’s slouched low in his seat, his good foot pressed into the back of Sam’s chair.
She rolls her neck but doesn’t give him the satisfaction of looking back. That clearly sets him off because he pushes the sole of his boot harder into the chair, causing Sam to jerk forward. Her mouth is moving, and if I had to guess, she’s cursing him.
I shift in my seat, jaw ticking, heat flaring in my chest.Everyone around us is oblivious to his bullying, or at the very least pretending to be. She sits there, shoulders tensing with each deliberate movement from Jackson. A comment here, a hit to the back of her chair there. They’re small reactions, tiny flinches that are so subtle they’re barely even there.
But I see them. Her discomfort, the petrified silence, it’s the loudest thing in the room. She’s afraid, and I don’t need context to see that.
In the beginning, I understood why Jackson—why everyone—was upset. In the matter of one night, everything he’d worked for had been snatched right from under him. No finals. No nationals. Any chance he has of going pro is now entirely dependent on how well he recovers—if he recovers.
So he’s angry, fine. But this is getting to be ridiculous. No one deserves this, especially Sam. And maybe I’m biased. These last few weeks of getting to know her, I’ve seen the light she brings to a room.
She’s not the aggressively loud, problematic person they claim her to be. She’s the opposite, and as I sit here, watching as Jackson continues to act like a middle school bully, I can’t help but sense that there’s more to the story.
My foot drops to the floor before my brain catches up. Eyes follow me as I stand, snatch up my duffel and phone, then step into the aisle. But I pay them no mind, my vision tunneled on Sam. Everyone at the front of the room continues on without a care in the world, while those closest to me whisper among themselves.
I don’t rush or make a sound, just take one step after the other, one row, then another.
Jackson leans back in his seat, lifting his hand to flick his pen cap at her back. It lodges in her curls, and she isn’t even aware. I’m close enough to hear his and Christina’s group now, thesnickers and the amusement they get out of giving someone else a hard time.
“What’s she going to do about it?” I hear Christina say, not even trying to be subtle.
