The Dreamers [ONC2020] | ✓

Two | Finn

The boy with the red beanie arrives late.

The door bangs shut behind him and everyone turns in their seats to stare with equal parts curiosity and annoyance. From her spot at the front of the hall, the English professor sends him an impatient glare. He gives her a wave that's meant to be apologetic but instead looks blasé, and snags the open seat beside me. I watch as he drapes himself over the desk, chin tucked in the crook of his elbow, one knee bouncing furiously under the desk.

There's grass stains on his jeans and pine needles tangled in his brown curls and a smear of dirt on his cheek. I'd seen him on my rush to class, emerging from the woods, looking like he'd tripped and tumbled down a hill. He'd noticed me and waved. The right thing to do would have been to wave back, or offer to help, or let him know that a first year English class was going to start soon and if he was in it, to hurry. Instead, I'd been startled enough by his gesture to break eye contact and walk away without a second glance, embarrassed that he'd caught me staring.

I lean back in my seat, listening to the professor go over course attendance policy. I'd chosen this spot because of its location in the back corner of the lecture hall. If I was lucky, I could get the whole row to myself and not have to worry about the cramped seats and lack of room. Instead, I am hyper-aware of another person sitting next to me, and overly conscious of keeping my arms tucked in and out of his space. It is a little annoying that his right elbow goes over the edge of his desk and onto mine. I inch my notebook away and stare pointedly at his arm, but he doesn't notice. Then I consider poking him with my pen and decide against it.

The professor continues outlining her grading scheme. She mentions several major essays before she adds, "We will also have in-class discussions and partnered assignments."

My stomach fills with uneasy butterflies. I've never been fond of group projects, and I don't look forward to the inevitable search for a partner. The professor continues, ignoring the murmuring that follows her statement, "On that note, I'd like you to turn to your neighbor and introduce yourselves, then share your favorite literary quote. You have five minutes."

I try to project my silent displeasure to the professor telepathically, but she either never receives the message or is ignoring my despairing gaze. The butterflies in my stomach crawl up to my throat and I try to swallow them down as best I can.

I glance sideways and see that the boy with the beanie is looking at me. He straightens and gives a sheepish grin, then sticks out his hand. There are band-aids with little comic-strip style designs wrapped around his fingers, curled around the joint and covering the nail. I wonder if he'd gotten those injuries this morning and feel a little worse that I hadn't approached him to help.

"I'm Sean," he says. A corner of his mouth dimples when he smiles. "I think I saw you this morning? I recognize the white hair."

I lift a hand to my hair, momentarily confused, but then I realize what he's talking about. I had dyed my hair platinum blond a couple days before coming to school. Seeing myself in the mirror with white hair still comes as a shock.