Ghost Bird Fanfiction: Sang's Lyric, The Story of Sang Sorenson's Mother

Humanities with Taylor

I had plenty of time to grab breakfast and make it to my humanities classroom. Humanities was a combination of English and History, and it was taught by two teachers. It lasted two periods, and was, some mornings, painfully hard to stay awake in. I stood by the door, which was still locked, and waited for the bell.

Some students hung out in the quad in the mornings, chatting with friends or making out. Others stayed in the parking lot until the very last minute, no matter what the weather. It seemed like each group had a place to gather. When I had moved here, and had to figure out the social system of the school, this was one of the hardest things to get. In some schools, I could hang in the library, in others, by my locker. But here, classes and the library were locked until the first bell and the teachers arrived. The hallway by my locker was adopted by a clique of girls who would gather in a big circle and stare at their phones while giggling and looking over their shoulders. It was hard enough to get to my locker without getting eyerolls and comments from them, let alone just stand there, waiting for first warning bell.

"Good morning, Lyric," a polite voice said. 

"Good morning, Mrs. Young," I replied, as the History teacher unlocked the door. 

I took my seat; the one in the back corner, closest to the door, and pulled out my three-ring binder while waiting for the rest of the class. I took out Dr. Zhivago and was soon completely engrossed in the description of the funeral of Yuri Zhivago's mother. It was so vivid, and so sad, that I felt a lump start to form in my throat. 

"Hey Crash," a deep voice said next to me. "How were the trails this morning?"

I jumped at the voice and stared up. Taylor, the boy from last night, looked down at me, a crooked smile on his face. His hair was wet, like he'd just taken a shower, and he had a plaid shirt over a grey henley and jeans. He had nothing in his hands and no backpack on his back. 

"How do you take notes?" I asked, confused.

His crooked smile got wider and he sat in the desk across from me. "Don't need notes, Crash," he said, tapping his forehead. "I store it all up here." 

I noticed a drawl in his voice, like he was from the south. I stared for a second before mentally shaking myself and nodding.

"Let me know if you want to borrow a pencil," I said quietly, students filing into the classroom quickly now, and the volume raising exponentially. 

"I'll let you know what I need, Crash," he said in a tone I recognized as teasing. 

I felt myself start to smile, but I quickly bit my lip and stared back down at my book. 

"Okay," Mrs. Young called out. "Everybody get out a pencil and a piece of paper! Pop quiz! I want to make sure you actually read Dr. Zhivago last night." 

I pulled a piece of paper out of the notebook and grabbed the extra pen I had put on the top of the desk, holding it out. 

"Do you..." 

I looked up at the voice. Taylor had moved closer to whisper to me. His face was so close to mine I could see the shades of green in his eyes. He had a self-deprecating smile on his face that disappeared and became serious as his eyes roamed my face.

"Here," I whispered, getting his attention.

His eyes flicked down to my hands, and the smile appeared again. His eyes creased at the sides, and I noticed he must have been squinting against the sun a lot because he had different shades of tan around his eyes. They flicked back up to my face and I felt his hands on mine as he took the paper and pen from me. I couldn't stop the shiver that encompassed my body at his warm touch. 

He winked at me. "Thanks," he said, and pulled away. 

I blinked, suddenly feeling like I was missing something. 

"You're welcome," I whispered, and pulled back into my seat, facing forward again. 

"Hey, Lyric," I heard a mock whisper and looked up. The boy in front of Taylor had turned in his seat and was looking at me.

"Yes?" I asked politely, wondering if he needed a pencil too, and mentally cataloguing the contents of my bag. 

"If you're handing shit out," he said. "I know what you could give me."  His hand grabbed his crotch, and though I didn't really understand what he meant, I certainly understood his intention. 

My face flamed and I looked down quickly at my desk, mortified.

I heard the scraping of a desk sliding across the floor and looked over to see Taylor kicking the kid's desk forward with his foot. "Shut the fuck up, dickwad," he said.

The boy's face flushed, obviously he hadn't expected anyone to say anything. He narrowed his eyes at me before giving me a sickly sweet smile. "My bad," he whispered, and turned back around in his seat.

I gripped my pencil tightly, and waited for Mrs. Young to call out the first question.

"Crash?" Taylor whispered tonelessly to me. 

I looked over at him questioningly before returning my gaze to the front of the room. "He's an idiot," he told me. "Ignore him."

I bit my lip to keep from smiling and nodded my head. I looked over again. His face was serious and he gave me a smile. 

"Thanks for the save," he said, wiggling the pencil at me.

I nodded again, feeling my smile widen.

"With what is Yuri Zhivago's mother buried?" Mrs. Young called out, getting my attention.

I started writing my answer, but my mind was occupied with the two boys I had met, and how, in the space of a morning, they had somehow managed to make me feel like my entire life was improving.