I struggle to block the blinding lights that press harshly on the wounds of my sensitive eyes. I take comfort in sitting towards the back of the classroom and test my confidence by prostrating my head onto the desk to answer for my yawns. It isn't long before my deceit is withered.
"Aamirah!" Ms. Pharrel tries again.
I elevate my head too quickly and wrestle with the lights yet again. Many blurry eyes pierce through me. I catch Adam turn in amusement; my stupidity reflects in his facial expression.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to a red fused teacher while focusing strictly on the amateur drawings etched into the desk.
Ms. Pharrel quickly moves on but the anger follows in her lecture.
As soon as she mentions assigned partners, ice water awakens an interesting form of adrenaline in me. I tap my fingers on the desk and stand up to colder air once my name is announced.
"Christian" she follows. Nobody stands up. She stares at the class list and other paperwork.
"He's moved schools," she bites her lip in frustration. I sit back down and take comfort in working alone.
She continues calling out names until most of the seats are empty. Voices begin escalating towards the posterior of the class. After a while, I look around to find only one person left, other than myself.
This day could not get any worse.
Ms. Pharrel rummages through her course plan and scans it. Then, she looks up from the paper and analyzes us thoroughly.
"You both had identical grades junior biology," she fascinates with bewildered eyes.
"This is perfect!" her hands clasp in glee.
I gape at her while Adam starts grabbing his stuff.
"Can I please work on my own," I implore. This quickly arouses an offended expression from Adam.
"No, you may not. Both of you join the rest of your peers, we have wasted enough time as it is," she presses, her eyes showing no sign of negotiation. I wonder if this would have gone better if I hadn't slept in her class.
I take a seat beside Adam. My heart pounds to the proximity. The smell of his cologne dances into my nose and intoxicates my thought process.
"Like old times," Adam leans in to whisper. I gulp loudly. If it weren't for my father's condition taking up the entire space in my brain, I would have rummaged a reaction. But I don't.
For the remainder of the class, I work up the courage to swallow the complications that this arrangement will inspire.
"See ya," he slurs.
"Yeah," I voice. The anxiety of this reunion troubles me enough to forget about my other worries. Only for a moment.
The remaining periods involve teachers making it their goal to throw as much homework as they can at us, regardless of it being the second day.
At lunch, I tell my friends about my father's condition and they collectively work to make me feel better. The lingering discomfort that rots from their uneasy expressions doesn't help. I feel like a broken glass they are afraid to hold.
During free period, I run to my locker to collect my things. The railing surrounding the cafeteria facilitates a view of a concentrated Adam seated at one of the lunch tables. I marvel at his olive skin glistening in the light; slicked hair and strong jaw. His long fingers grip the pencil with motivation. I find myself amused by this foreign incentive; I've never seen him work before.
Like old times.
I inhale those words before turning away in fear of being noticed.
On my way down, I read mama's text message with joy.
Your father is out of the sterilized room, come by when you can.
Even with a smile, the knots in my gut grow. Seconds from seeing my father, nothing else matters.