"Four days till Friday!" A ginger boy — curly red hair and a cardigan over his uniform, yells over the bell and in the hallway as he passes by my locker. He does that thing where you put both hands at the sides of your mouth to make your voice come out stronger and baritone.
It's going to be the sixth time. The sixth time today someone's choosing to disregard my ear-health by literally screaming whilst only being a few centimeters away from me, but it's fine.
Okay, it's not but I get it. At this time of the year, everyone's usually pumped for football season, and it's even more special this year since Tyler's on the team. Yet I'm really more excited for the review I'll be giving, how it'll be pasted up on numerous boards in the hallways with my name signed at the bottom. I love staying low, however the little recognition, that ten second fame or you know, is highly appreciated. And usually has me goofy grinning on the inside whilst keeping a straight face on the out.
Well, I guess I'm also excited to see Tyler play too. Live. The last time I did, I had my sister -willingly, anyway- manipulate dad into letting us go all the way to New York for vacay. The plan was to stay in the front row, when the game was over, walk up to Tyler and say hi, see where things go from there. Nothing ever went on from there, obviously, as I obviously couldn't say hi. Though I did walk up to him. Which is worse when I think about it 'cause I ended up looking like tilapia out of water, not uttering a word, and he, of course, gracefully excused himself.
Now that's many years ago.
Bringing out four books from my locker —one belonging to my best friend, I hear my name called from across the end of the hallway.
The first time it's barely audible, and with the many conversations ongoing in the hall, it sounds too vague to be certain.
But then I hear it a second time, much closer. "Melissa!"
We find each other in the crowd, she's right by the stair case looking like she just raced down, and I'm, well still by my locker. Before I can say a thing, she's speed walking towards me while I just stand there, feeling a bit awkward since with the amount of people she has to corner, it's taking a while to get to me. And I'm still standing.
T has her long chestnut hair in a ponytail that bounces as she keeps walking over, all buttons on her blazer left open, exposing her extremely short tie. Steph has always joked about how T's hair should be on the cover of a shampoo, talked about how it could be a career path since T hadn't known what she wanted to be when the topic came up one day, but with how soft and shiny it looks especially now, I'm thinking Steph has a point.
On getting to me, she grabs my shoulders in both hands, "Hi."
"Hi..."
She lets out a giggle as she gestures for us to move closer to my locker to avoid being in the way. "Pamela told me that you're with her homework? Her Spanish assignment and that you could help me with mine."
"Oh. Oh, sure." I offer, checking the books in my hands for which one's Pamela's. When I find it, I hold it out to her already waiting hand.
"Could you also help check mine out— You're of Spanish decent right?"
"Yeah,"
"I've already done it but it'd be nice to get the approval of a Latina."
I blink. And choke on a laugh due to how she put it, but she's oblivious so I just shake my head, taking the note from her. My eyes skim over the opened page, it's only when I spot an error that I hold my hand out for a pen.
"Problem?" She squeaks, pushing her head under mine then moving away with a quick apology when her hair covers the page.
In a matter of seconds, I'm done adding things to that need to be added, and subtracting what never had to be there.
"Thank you!" She greets, taking the note back. "So much." I'm about responding non-committal when she adds in horrible Spanish accent, "Or should I say, Gracias mi chica." before running off back where she came from.
Well.
That was horrible Spanish. Extremely horrible. I hope none of her exams in the class are verbal.
Yet It's good she came. Now all I've got to do is grab my stationery and go for class. Calculus. Not a favorite but I leave the comfort of my locker area to join the mass of students probably headed for class as well.
Coach's whistle stops the boys from playing, and also blocks my ears for a milli-second as it's so loud. I think Coach knows. And I think he likes it.
From the bottom of the bleachers he sends me a thumbs that I respond to by awkwardly nodding and sending a smile his way not knowing what else to do. I almost sent him a thumbs up too. Not sure it'd have been... the right thing to do.
School hours are over actually, but I chose to stay for football practice. Pamela also wanted to stay despite there being no cheer practice today. Claimed she could call an impromptu practice session, also added something along the lines, "and if any of them have a problem with it, they could as well quit the club." So, I begged her to go home. That I was fine on my own, and that there's Nathan who could drive me home. At the precise moment, I wasn't sure if Nathan even showed up at school, but I crossed my fingers that he did.
He did. He also showed up for practice.
Coach gives him a solid pat on the back as he jogs past him with a group of other guys that play on the team.
Meanwhile there's Tyler. Who's been making it hard to breathe anytime he raises the hem of his shirt to clean sweat off his face, revealing abs I could already guess where solid, but didn't need to see. Like he's doing now.
But I turn my gaze back to the jotter on my laps, going through everything written, because Tyler's abs aren't what I came here for. Not satisfied. With the notes, I mean. As always. While, yeah, right now there are alot of grammatical errors and even missing conjunctions due to how fast I was going, I'm actually never satisfied. Even when it's over-with and printed out. I think Danielle's right about me being a bit of a perfectionist. Just a little bit right. But I'm still always happy to see parts of it get hung on the hallway walls.
Shaking my head, I shut the jotter shut. All that would do for today. I mean, it just has to. But as I'm about leaning down to get my water bottle from the ground, I contemplate leaning the whole way down. Perhaps become one with the ground.
Because why is he coming this way?
God, no.
No.
Our first eye contact is when Tyler climbs the first step on the bleachers. Then pauses. His face seems bare of any expressions, like he's not even thinking— which I'm sure he isn't because where is he coming to? I know we've never had any cordial agreement of not speaking in school but...
But I thought we did.
My mind blanks out when his goes for the next step, body getting closer, till he stops right beside my seat.
God, no.
"Hey."
I first let my eyes roam round the field to see how it is, I'm mostly met with busy boys and vast green grass. Then I train my eyes to him, though blink away almost immediately. "Hi."
"Is there a problem?"
"No. No, why?" I pause the motion of my pen on paper I'm really not planning writing on.
"I don't know. If it were up to me, I'd say there is."
"There isn't." I clear my throat and look at him. "But, Uh, why are you here?" Mierda. I would slap my self across the face if that wouldn't make this more uncomfortable- Melissa was there really no better way to ask?
His eyebrows are bushy. It's what I notice first when a hint of hurt flashes across his face but I'm still not certain if it's hurt since it's gone as soon as it came.
His lips part. "How's the report coming up?"
"Good... Yeah, good." I'm this close to adding, "is that why you came?" But I'm also wiser this time.
Instead I add a choice of better words like, "I'll be done with it by the weekend, and everyone's doing a great job."
"And me?"
I freeze, but remain my gaze ahead, on the field, like the grass is greener than it was yesterday and I'm fascinated by it.Why is he asking that? "Everyone's doing a great job."
"And me?"
"Tyler," It's the only thing to come out of my mouth when I turn to the side. His lips form a coy smile before he lowers himself to a seat, our arms instantly brushing. His eyes are so striking. They're striking. And his lips again are wet for some reason. "Do you really need an opinion from me? You're from the NFL."
"Is it that hard for you to tell me how I'm doing?" his voice comes out as a breathy laugh and he leans back in his seat.
I keep my groan on the inside. The proximity is killing and I wonder if he can tell.
Hoping he can't, I take my eyes back to the field. Try my best to look unbothered. "So, what do you want? A royal banquet, pat on the back?"
"Maybe."
I look to him again, and for a truly odd reason, he actually seems to... perhaps not exactly need it, but he does seem to care about my opinion.
So pursing my lips first, I nod. "You're doing great. Tyler."