One shots

1. Pens, pencils and paint

If a boy could ever be described as pretty, it would be him. The one that sits in my row, one from the back and three seats over. It is a treasured moment when he lifts his head from the scrap book he protectively carries around, rarely taking a break from elegantly scrawling over the pages. There are odd occasions when I pass him in the corridor, a rucksack strapped to his back and book crammed underarm. I sigh in discontent, he doesn't notice me. But then I fear most people just float by in his peripheral vision, shapes that fail to build any kind of solid image. He keeps few friends, only a couple that are blessed to be within his company. I long to talk to him, but I fear rejection.
I think he likes to draw. What, I do not know. But it captures his entire attention. And I selfishly wish that it was me he so intently cares for. The curve of his red lips is continually trapped between his teeth in furious concentration. And what beautiful lips they are, full and heart shaped, other mouths do not hold anything in comparison. Like a cupid's bow. I imagine it would only take one kiss, one kiss to fall in love with the boy possessing a shock of chestnut curls that flick and camber upon his head. There are times, unfortunate times when the glide of the pencil does not please him. It is in these moments when fingers will tease out the soft curls, straightening his fringe into an unintentional quiff as his brow furrows and he attempts to right the mistakes made on the paper. It twinges at my chest to see him disapproving of his own work, but I love to see his hair pushed back, to see his face.
I had never seen that shade of green before, not until that first day of History class. Clumsy footsteps had led him along the path of bumping into my chair. I didn't get an apology, instead it was a flash of wide forest eyes. Maybe that was why he neglected the spare desk to my right, opting for a couple of seats over. He was embarrassed.
***
We're sat outside on the grass in the park running alongside the college building. Most students prefer to be out in the open at lunch, even though it's a bit nippy, the breeze is welcoming after being cooped up inside for lessons. The surrounding grass is beginning to prickle, especially wear the rugby team practice for matches.
I place another crisp into my mouth, Beth then handing the shared bag to Alex. The conversation for the past ten minutes has been filled with ponderings of what to give siblings for Christmas. Organisation is one of Beth's strong attributes, this perhaps an explanation for why this discussion is taking place when the leaves on the tress have only just begun to transform in colour. It's my favourite time of year, the path leading up to the entrance of college is lined with trunks that appear to be ablaze with fiery reds, browns, and oranges.
I can see him. He's with his friends. And apparently he's heard my silent prayers for him to come closer so I can admire him without the obstruction of other students. His dark crown of curls doesn't look out of place in these autumn months. To challenge the cooling wind he wears a warm looking parker to match the colour of his eyes.
"Who are you so intently staring at?" Beth laughs.
I've been staring? I'd hoped my observation to be more covert. But from the look on my friends' faces I've failed in my attempt at casual scanning.
"Have you ever spoken to him before?" I blurt out, unsure of what else to say.
My question lingers for an uncertain moment. Maybe they do not know the individual I am enquiring, but I do not want to make my ponderings known by pointing him out.
"The weird one?"
I can tell by Alex's scrunched nose that she's instantly judging him. And granted, his image is far from conventional, but I wouldn't have categorised him so harshly. It's probably the metal in his ears. The rings that frame the small flesh holes in his lobes. And I could have sworn I caught a glimpse of tattoo a few weeks back. The radiators in our classroom were broken, the heat almost sweltering despite the chill from outside. I'd removed my cardigan early on in the lesson, trying to regulate my temperature. He'd had the same idea, catching hold of his jumper from the back of his neck and pulling it up. In the heavenly seconds that followed, it was all I could do to not fall off my chair as the fabric of his t-shirt rode up with the jumper. It was on that day that I'd been blessed with a fleeting glance to his tummy, part of his chest, small running patterns of ink caressing his skin and a bleeding lip. I'd bumped my head on the desk in my endeavour to witness the in-part removal of his clothes and bitten through my lower lip. It was worth it.
"He's not weird." I stumble to his defence.
It was a mistake. Two pairs of eyes are brightening, glittering with the promise of my torture.
"Oooo," Beth teases, "Belle, you like him."
I hate it when they do this. I'd told them about the employee I thought was attractive in Costa; the one with the cute smile and brown eyes. They'd all but asked him out for me in the few visits we made afterwards and I found it embarrassing to say the least. It was almost impossible to hang out at the coffee shop without them giggling and encouraging me to talk to him. I think he's gone away to university now, that's what I'm hoping anyway. There is a part of me that believes he couldn't stand the girlish laughter any longer and up and quit to find a new job. I pray that isn't the case.
"Do you fancy him?" Alex questions me further.
I spin my body slightly to witness the conversation taking place between the curly haired boy and his friends. I'd thought the coffee guy was cute, but that was until I'd seen my sketching boy. He blew all the others out of the water.
"I think he's absolutely beautiful."
***
"We've got to go. Beth needs to hand in that form before class and I've got to talk to Mike about my coursework."
The roll to Alex's eyes say it all. I'd never met Mike, her teacher, but he sounded like bit of a conceited arse. There were very few girls who selected Geology as an A-Level, and it was assumed that was because females weren't suited to that kind of practical, earth science. Sexist comments were thrown around in the class, to which the favoured boys thought were hilarious. Alex and the handful of girls had done well to stand their ground but I knew she found it frustrating beyond belief. I desperately hoped that the new class of first years would be a large group of strong, opinionated females, who would ask questions at every opportunity they got. That would shove a spanner in the works.
History on the hand was a good mix of boys and girls, there never seemed to be one dominating sex which proved a success in drawing ideas together and working in groups.
"Ok, see you later." I smile.
I watch as they walk away together across the expanse of green carpeted grass. He's still where my eyes left him, talking to his friends. I try to stand as gracefully as possible, working up the courage to walk past him and over to the base of another tree. The tree I use as a reading spot. I collect the neglected crisp packet, shoving it into the depths of my bag to dispose of later.
I feel a little disappointed when I go by unnoticed. I don't really know what I was expecting, it's not like he's given much attention or interest to me before. My chest rises to inhale and heavily exhale in a defeated sigh. It definitely wasn't my intention to exude the pathetic yearning school girl image, but I fear that is what I have become. And all because of him.
My body slumps into a leaning position, sliding down the rough trunk to sit. I rummage within my rucksack for the book I have been reading for the past couple of days. Once produced, my fingers dance between pages, seeking out the small paper bookmark I keep which likes to hide and nestle closely to the spine.
I'm glad I've worn boots today, my toes may have fallen off otherwise. I jest with the idea of putting my hood up, an extra blockade against the wind. It's a good idea and I instantly feel more comfortable as the soft fury lining soothes the redness my ears are accommodating. The length of my hair flutters, tickling at my face and uncovered expanses of neck.
A few pages are skimmed before the need builds up inside. I have to turn my head 90 degrees to watch him. But as I do I become distracted by the swaying of alight branches in canopy above his head. Just one. One leaf swirls, curling and floating in the air in its descent towards earth. It's a pretty flutter of warm orange, like an ember from a crackling fire. He's watching it too. But his eyes never meet the ground to witness it make gentle impact. They're on me. And I don't know what to do. It becomes apparent that no amount of swallowing will cure the dryness in my throat. And I desperately wish to banish the flush that has crept up to my cheeks. But luckily any possible interaction is taken from my control.
He bends to the leaf at his feet, scooping it up and delicately cradling it as he opens his prised scrapbook. It is safely tucked away in the pages, and I wonder what it will be used for. A keepsake maybe, but why this day, what significance does it have?
The tree creaks and rocks in the wind, almost morning at the loss of another cherished leaf. He carries it away in the book, returning to the shelter of the college building with his friends. I choose to remain outside for a while, the coolness in the air doesn't bother me, comfortable with sitting and immersing myself in the story. But all too soon it is time for me to attend my lesson. At least I'll get to see him again. He makes the sometimes dreary historical topics much more bearable.
***
Today George is ill. Although I do not wish him to be unwell, he is a large boy, his body is one of the two between me and my penned beauty. On a normal day I have to lean my body forward, unnaturally laying my head nearly on the desk to catch a fleeting glance around George. I pretend to attentively write notes on dates that hold historical importance only to watch the boy scratch away at his page. But today that is not necessary. He is within my view, determined eyes fixated on the images carved out by his own pencil.
I like to watch him work. His hands are almost always stained in ink and I imagine him not bothering to scrub the dark shades printed onto his skin. There really isn't much point, they will be blemished tomorrow and the next day, for as long as he sketches and scribes. Some days I wish to be invisible, to cautiously observe the words he formulates into sentences, matching the scribble of pencil.
"Kelly, switch seats with Annabelle."
Those are the words my class hears, a command from the teacher to relieve us all of the chatter Kelly has caused. But they hold a different meaning to me. She occupies the seat next to him. Kelly was so lucky to find that spare seat at the start, the one we were assigned to for the rest of the year. While I mull over these thoughts in my mind she has come to stand behind me. Her throat is cleared, a polite way of telling me to shift.
I gather my belongings, dragging my rucksack along the grey lino flooring to the seat which has been recently vacated. I sit quickly, not wanting to hold up the lesson any longer. The blue plastic chairs are torture on my body, refusing to provide any comfort. Perhaps that is their purpose, to force students into compliantly sitting up straight, to encourage attentiveness in class. But in reality it does little for the young people surrounding me, most either leant fully forward onto their individual desks or slouched back with their feet outstretched.
His foot taps against the table leg, something I would have ignored if it were George. But it's not, and I become distracted as the scuffed white converse continue to lightly beat. The quiet noise induces wonder at the thought of him reciting a song in his head, allowing it to consume his body, so much so that it leaks out into a physical action.
The teacher is either oblivious or unconcerned by the sound and she continues to dictate a past event. I witness the permanent marker glide over the white board, different colours for differing importance. It's increasingly difficult to concentrate. He is there beside me and if I listen closely enough I can hear the puffs of air he exhales onto his page. I fight the urge to subtly turn to him, but soon it's too much for me to bear and I have to see him.
My eyes start at his feet before scanning the impossible length of his jean clad legs. Part of him is hidden behind the desk, but I don't mind. The thick knit of his navy jumper conjures images of rainy days, hot chocolate and cuddles on the sofa. I bet he has good cuddling arms, ones that could create a love bond around your body, never to let you go. The collar of a plaid shirt frames the base of his neck. He sports a hat today. He must have retrieved it from his locker before class. I haven't seen him in one before, not a beanie anyway. He'd worn a snapback in the warmer months, and I about collapsed upon walking into the classroom that day. But now the majority of his soft looking hair is covered, concealed under the black material. However, the flicks that escape over his forehead are evidence that his curls remain.
As I silently assess in day-dream what it would feel like to tangle my fingers through his hair, I have neglected to notice the forest eyes now focused on me. He stares, big eyes shining in possible confusion at the girl who was silly enough to get caught in her calculating gaze. I feel my cheeks bright with heat as I hastily turn my attention to the blank page in front of me. Embarrassment. I sink a little lower in my seat, my heart with it, unsure of how to handle the situation. I will my dirty blonde hair to curtain and close around me.
I'm without knowledge of the time passing before I steal another glance to my left. He's gone back to his pencil and paper. My tense muscles ease the strain they were once burdened with but this time my curiosity floats to what is being drawn on the canvas. I can only describe it as hectic. The grey colouring of the pencil prints astoundingly vibrant images, despite the dull shade. People, busy people, individuals unaware they are being trapped and sketched onto pages within a scrapbook. Landscapes, some beautiful, others desolate, unloved. And there are images drawn in which I am unsure of their origin or meaning, perhaps an insight into the workings of his wonderful mind.
My exploration if short lived as an arm scoops protectively around his work. Pages are flicked away until a blank canvas is revealed in the book, a completely new one, nothing to see or admire. He thought I was intruding. It wasn't my intention. Guilt presses heavy in my chest and I unwillingly bombard my mind of possible thoughts he may be having.
Why is she being so nosey? What's wrong with her? She must be a bit weird. I wish I could get away from her.
I am called upon with a question but I don't have the answer because I wasn't paying attention, not to the goings-on of the academic lesson anyway. When it comes time to leave I prolong the effort of packing away. Soon the class has filtered out and I'm left with the boy. It always takes him a little while to gather his belongings.
I stand before his desk without thinking, frightened that I may have chickened out.
"I-I wasn't prying.." He glances up, ceasing the movement of his hands. "It wasn't my intention..." My ability to speak coherently seems to have scrabbled around the maze of desks, escaped out the window and made a dash across the college playing field. The only words I can successfully speak are "I'm sorry", before I make a speedy exit out the door.
***
I sit in my usual seat, accustomed to the afternoon sun that glints through the broken blinds drawn across the window. It feels strange to be back in this position, and I long to eliminate the distance between myself and the sketching boy. But I know he wouldn't want me there, not after what happened a couple of days prior. He probably thinks I'm lacking in any self-awareness or intelligence. The only first impression I had to make on him and it was a babbling mess of words.
Regardless of my preoccupied ponderings I begin to set my things out for class as more students descend on the learning space. Habits can sometimes be a nuisance, my forgetful nature rendering me ill prepared for the lesson and without an instrument to write with. The pen which usually inhabits the spine of my notebook has either been misplaced or forgotten, something which is a regular occurrence. I may have to ask George for one. However, as my fingers blindly descend into the depths of my rucksack, I become aware of the pencil laid upon the surface of my desk.
It has been chewed at the end, the black and yellow paint flaking away from the wood. The pencil stands shorter than a new one, its height evidence of constant use and obvious sharpening. My mind sparks possible reasons for a pencil to find its way to my desk, another forgetful student perhaps, an assumption that it was mine to begin with. But these appear unreasonable as the owner of this pencil is now staring at me from three seats over and one row from the back.
If it were possible for your heart to hammer out of your chest, mine would have fought its way to freedom and taken flight. His pencil. I hold his pretty eye contact long enough to see the soft curve of his pink lips. He's smiling at me. At me.
I reciprocate the gesture his mouth makes and his eyes sparkle before setting them to work at aiding in his drawing. My heart and mind have soared so high that it takes a couple of minutes to drag them back to Earth and focus on the lesson. I take his pencil in hand and begin to scribe the teacher's words. It's only then that I realise he must have noticed me before, before I had spoken to him. How did he know that I would forget my pen if not have witnessed my ill prepared nature in times already passed?
I sit through the lesson with a warm glow radiating, and will myself not to adorn the silly grin for any longer. My right hand nervously twiddles the pencil between my fingers, continuously glancing to the clock and the countdown that ticks by in my head.
28 minutes until the end of lesson.
21 minutes until I travel the short distance to his desk.
14 minutes until I try to talk to him.
2 minutes and we finish early.
The class is reminded of the homework due in the next couple of days, the prompt met with a universal groan. Except for me. I'd had that work completed a short time after it was handed out. My worries aren't centred around if I will get it in on time or not. The concern lies with what words I'm going to formulate in order to speak to him.
I pack away swiftly and what seems like seconds later I'm up and out of my chair.
"Thank you."
It's a good solid start. I hold the pencil out between us and I watch as his vision drifts from the object to my face.
"You can keep it, I've got a lot more."
His tone is soft and low humming. I've heard him speak briefly before, but it wasn't directly to me; and I'm secretly thankful for his casual nature, I didn't want to give it back.
"I'm Annabelle."
"I know."
And there it is again, his close-lipped smile, but this time it encompasses more of his features, stamping a dimple into his cheek. The last time I came this close into his personal space, it had been somewhat of frantic fluster. But as I stand to the side of his cluttered desk, I carry more confidence to study his physical characteristics.
There is a freckle spotted perfectly to the side of his mouth. A thick sweep of dark lashes frame his eyes, and I humour myself with the thought of them creating a light breeze when he blinks. When he opens his mouth to communicate further I noticed how straight and aligned his teeth are. He must have a beautiful smile.
"I'm Harry."
He has a small nick in the form of a scar to the right under the curve of his lips. The endearing mark provokes intrigue, but I ponder no further because he's looking at me to speak.
"It's nice to...meet you," I say.
It's a silly comment because we have been in the same class for the past two years. But it is only now that we are properly acknowledging each other. It makes me feel exposed, so close. I've wanted this for so long. My vision strays to his book, unable to remain united in our intimate eye contact.
"That's pretty," I compliment, willing him to divide his attention.
It appears to be a complex tattoo design, intricate and close weaving. He couldn't have drawn that. Surely not. I don't have time to ask him though because my geography teacher is leaning into the door frame. Her smile is wide, and I know she wants something, probably my help at the open evening next week.
"Annabelle, can I talk to you?"
"Of course," I oblige.
She lingers, a sign that the enquiry is going to take place immediately and my presence is needed elsewhere, much to my dismay. I inform Harry, even though he's sat here and he's heard.
"I have to go."
"That's ok."
I'm disgruntled to walk away from him but the promise of seeing him the following day eases the unhappiness weighting on my shoulders.