Page 14

My pencil falls out of my hands and drops onto my foot. Nora’s not even in the room, but I can hear her cackling into my ear. Yet again I’ve dropped something when he’s near me. I’m almost tempted to cry and bury my face into my hands, but I choose not to since I’ll just embarrass myself again. Quickly, I pick up my pencil and set it back down on my desk.

He drops his backpack beside his desk. Across the front pocket, the lyrics to Green Day’s “Wake Me Up When September Ends” are written in Sharpie. Lines about always remembering someone when they’re gone, to sleep until the month is over. I don’t know the cute guitarist’s story, why he chose to handwrite these beautifully tragic lyrics, but when I notice the letters are thick with crooks at the edges, my heart cracks.

It feels like he’s noticing me reading the lyrics on his backpack, so I open my notebook and, across the top of the page, write SMARTake Notes Session One. From the corner of my eye, I notice he’s scrunching his face and studying the side of mine. Is he trying to figure out whether or not he recognizes me? My face burns. I keep my head down and darken the S. My eyes decide to betray me and slide to the corner. He’s staring at everything on my desk. As casually as I can muster, I examine my notebook from front to back. He doesn’t react. I inspect my planner and the pencils lined across my desk like a picket fence. Nothing’s wrong with anything.

An “um” hums through my ears. It takes several seconds to figure out it’s directed towards me. I turn to the cute guitarist. We’re finally looking at each other, my heart pounding, and I notice there’s gold rimmed around his pupils. I almost turn away, but my eyes can’t seem to stray from his.

“Were we supposed to bring all of that?” He nods at my pencils and notebooks.

I’m not sure what I was expecting him to ask, but it definitely wasn’t that. Luckily, his question wasn’t, Are you the girl who dropped her ice cream on her foot at Golden Marketplace?

Nerves shake through my body. Handsome or not, a stranger is still a stranger. But I can’t just ignore his question. That would be mean.

I answer, “I think so.”

“Did they send out an e-mail?”

“No.”

“Are they going to hand us anything?”

“They might, but I, um, like coming prepared.”

He blinks, his face blank. “Coming prepared,” he echoes. “That’s a good idea.”

I think about how to respond to this, but nothing comes up, so I let the silence hang between us.

He glimpses at everyone in front of him before he looks down at his desk.

The door swings open, and a man in khakis and a purple button-down shirt enters, binders and an SAT textbook held in his arms. There’s a wreath of autumn orange hair around his balding head. He passes by the rectangular row of windows, and, through the flood of conversations, his dress shoes squeak across the floor. He sets everything down on the desk in the corner, and across the middle of the whiteboard, he writes his name, the blue marker squeaking as he spells out Mr. Daniels. He turns to everyone, clasps his hands together, and grins.

“Hello, all,” he announces, and everyone turns forward. The ceiling light glints a moon across his bald head. “Welcome to day one of SMARTake Test Prep. As you can see, my name is Mr. Daniels, and I will be your instructor for the reading section. Hope you all brought something to write with and write on.”

The cute guitarist makes a face that says oh shit. He looks at my notebook, then his eyes lift to mine. Scratching the back of his head, he asks, “Can I have a piece of paper?”

“Sure.” I tear out a sheet.

His face relaxes when I hand it to him. “Thanks.”

“Um...” I hold up one of my pencils. I almost raise my voice because it sounds too soft.

Surprisingly, he looks up and sees my pencil. I’m not used to people hearing me right away. I usually have to repeat myself. This boy must have a good ear.

“Oh, right.” He takes it from my hand. “Thanks, again.”

“You’re welcome,” I say.

A smile spreads across his face. It’s sweet and gentle, with dimples deepening into his cheeks. I tighten my lips so they don’t curve into a goofy grin.

Mr. Daniels says, “We’re going to go around the room and introduce ourselves. Please say your name, your grade, and what school you go to.”

He starts with the girl sitting in the front seat of the first row. About six more people speak, then it’s my turn. Chloe and Klyde give me a flinch that says, when did you get here? All eyes stare back at mine. Anxiety storms through me, and my arms stiffen.

“I’m Emilyn,” I say shakily.

Mr. Daniels cups his hand around his ear, and others lean forward.

“I’m going to be a senior in August,” I continue, my voice shaking even more, “And I go to Freedom High School.”