80s??? H

He came in through the classroom window

The teacher called role. One by one, students called out some sort of recognition so they weren't recorded as absent, correcting the teacher on the pronunciation of their name. Even the most simple names get called out wrong. You'd expect an adult in their mid 30's to be able to pronounce a name like Laura or a slightly different spelling of Madelyn, even if it is the first day. Surely they'd seen the name before. Maybe they do it on purpose.
Michael sat in the right corner of the room, farthest from the large paned windows, though it was only 6 desks away. His hair was bleached blonde and long on the top, draped wavy bangs flipped over to fall down one side of his head. The other sides were close cut, but not shaven. They were long enough for the hair to grow into soft curls. His hair was streaked with random dashes of a pale pink and he had small black gauges in each ear. His clothes were contrasted to the rest of him. They were relatively neat, a nicely ironed shirt and new pants. It lowered the odds of the teachers saying anything about the rest of his appearance. The students watched the teacher write on the board, explaining about an essay they were to write on their summer reading book. No one read it.
No one ever does.
The quiet classroom was sent into a soft shuffle, hair brushing against shirts and overcoats, fabric shifting as few students directed their heads to the window. A fiery haired boy sat at the cill, moving tactfully and slowly. He wore a rough leather jacket, softened by years of over use. It was a woman's cut and it had been desperately pieced back together multiple times to cover the years it wore. A single piece of duct tape laid hidden on the inside, holding together a rip that sat over the right breast, though the damage was hardly noticeable unless someone had cared to look. Under this he wore a thin fabriced shirt that was slightly too short and rode up when he moved. The shirt read "im a pepper" and the vibrant red it used to read was dulled to a more pinkish shade. On the bridge of his neatly sculpted "broken nose" sat dark lensed, round, purple glasses like those of John Lennon. They mirrored away anything that tried to look in his eyes. He slid the window up slowly, the painfully soft sound of wood gliding against wood, moving his fingertips to gently push the frame above his head for him to slide into the room, undetectable. His leg slowly lowering to meet the tiled floor as he dreaded a possible squeak or nitch to come from the ancient window. 4 girls in the windows' surrounding area held back giggles, few of them letting out small stifled breaths to replace them. The boy raised a finger to his lips as he looked at them. They knowingly tried to look away, down at their desk and covering their faces slightly with their hand to lower possible suspicion from the teacher. One twirled a pencil in her hand to distract herself. The boy lowered the window back to its place, kneeling slowly to the floor and getting on his hands and knees. He crawled across the classroom floor, crawling under the girls dresses and under their skirts, getting a soft giggle or a playful kick from each that he passed. Not that he had to go that way, an open isle was merely a few inches over, but he liked it. Not the part where he looked under girls skirts, because he didn't. He didn't even glance near them, he kept his eyes forward or on the floor even though he had every chance in the world to get a peek. And he wanted people to believe he took it. He made sure of it. He made sure that everyone around him thought that under those dark abyss glasses, he was staring at the girls. Because he wasn't enjoying the open skirts, or the girls giggling and blushes or the soft teases he knew went through their minds, (not that he despised this). No, he liked the attention. A weird kind of attention. He liked it when the whole world was looking to look away, all eyes on him and no eyes at all. His eyes locked on the floor ahead of him as a short nosed boy called out from the corner with a nasally, accusing voice.
"Ms. Metis, Jaime snuck in through the window!"
His eyes widened. He froze in his crawl position on the floor as he felt all the eyes drift onto him. This was the wrong kind of attention. A silence rushed over the room, grins growing on the observers who tried so hard to look away. Jaime stayed put, his eyes drifting up to the proud boy who was convinced he had gained the teachers love and trust from this example of loyalty.

Ethan you fucking Judas.

"Mr. Byrd, if you'd please get to your seat and stop distracting the class."
Jaime stood slowly, shoulders slumped and eyes locked fiercely on the snivel nosed bitch whosmtsts goes by Ethan. His actions were compliant but his eyes burned with revenge. He dragged his backpack across the floor, holding it by the strap as he lugged his feet across over the tiles, plopping and slumping down into his desk chair, which was 2 desks over from the inner wall of the classroom. Michael watched the boy take the seat ahead of him, but avoided immediate eye contact. He twirled his pencil in his hand and tried to focus down at his notes.

Michael zoned out, staring at the fibers of his paper. The minutes passed and he could hear the hands of the clocks ticking and sliding past each other, gliding in to place. They seemed to match his heart beat, slowing it into a soft rhythm. The tip of his pencil stayed rested against the paper, keeping still. The teachers voice became a white noise in the background of his thoughts. Jaime tapped his fingers on his desk, slouching slightly. The tapping sped before he snapped his head left, then right. He pursed his lips before looking back at the teacher as his leg shook slightly beneath him. Suddenly, he leaned out of his chair, stretching his torso back diagonally to Michaels desk, which he could barely reach. His neck craned to look up at the boy who tried so hard to ignore him. His hand pressed against the hard tile floor, keeping him propped up. He could feel the pressure of his blood pooling in his pale fingertips. His eyes looked up through his thick red-brown lashes to lock onto Michael. He stayed there in silence, the students turning to see the flame haired kid that would go so out of his way just to make a memorable introduction to the boy with the foreign face.

"Have you got a pen?"

He whispered not so quietly, in no way meaning to remain low-key. He didn't mind the embarrassment of everyone staring.

Michael, on the other hand, did. His face turned bright red. Everyone was looking, staring, and this kid. Turning to him mid lecture to make a statement, a shout that screamed look at me, I see you.
It made him absolutely irritated. His hand squeezed his pencil like it wanted to snap, the led suddenly pressing hard onto the paper to create a dark mark. He reached in his bag, his eyes remaining locked on the paper. He couldn't look up, he wouldn't know what to look at. He grabbed a blue pen, handing it to Jaime with a single short glance before casting his eyes back to the paper like nothing happened. Jaime lingered for a moment, evaluating the situation. He slowly pulled himself back to his desk, the eyes of the crowd leaving with him.