The rest of the class is silent but clearly entertained. They stare on audaciously, with only Ben and a few others wearing looks of pity on their faces.
I refocus on the woman talking to us. She's about my height, so there will be no avoiding her expectant gaze once she turns it on me. Her hair is scraped up into a tight bun, with dark wispy baby hairs hanging down from her temples. She has some acne scars marking her khaki complexion.
As she lays into Tyler about making it to class on time, I try to place her accent. The speed of her speech makes me think it may be from DR, but it could just as well be from somewhere in Latin America.
Tyler bows his head and mumbles something that I can only assume is smart.
"¿Qué? No puedo oírte, Señor Crowley," she quips, her tone impatient.
He lifts his head, and I can see him glance between her and the class. He blinks slow and rolls his tongue out, using it to draw his lower lip back in.
"Lo siento, yo no .... mirrar.... el hora."
That was ...not bad. Not good, but not bad. The teacher must have been thinking the same, because she gives him a terse smile before correcting his sentence.
"Veo que tendremos que revolver a artículos y verbos en el próximo examen. ¿Y tu Señorita? Tarde en el primer día," she tuts in a disapproving tone. I was right. When she faces me our eyes are level, and hers are already as disapproving as her tone.
"Mis disculpas Señora, todavía estoy aprendiendo el diseño de la escuela. Tyler y Angela me estaban ayudando a encontrar mi camino."
She's silent for a moment, and I'm distracted by her halo. It's blue, but its ...textured. Like it an impasto. I get the impression of sinking my hands into something powdery and soft, like...like confectioners sugar.
"Hablas bien, y con confianza. ¿Dónde aprendiste?"
I straighten up and dust the non-existent powder from my hands, wiping it onto my jeans. Hopefully, she doesn't think I'm being rude for staring at the side of her head.
"Un poco aquí y allá," I shrug, and it isn't quite a lie. She must sense it though because she stares at me a little bit longer than necessary before signing my attendance slip and gesturing for the three of us to sit down.
We make it to our seats, and I'm unsurprised to see Tyler drop into the chair next to me. Angela moves to the aisle behind us. After arranging myself comfortably enough to take notes, I settle in and concentrate on the lesson. She seems to be covering tenses. Her teaching style is the kind I like, conversing with the students as she gives us the information, even if it is in spanish. The visual aids she uses are good too, a combination of videos from YouTube and projections from the textbook.
I'm writing down a reminder to ask her for a copy of the textbook, when a balled-up piece of paper lands on my desk. Based on the direction it sailed from, the scrap probably contains Tyler's handwriting. I can't imagine that whatever it says is so pressing that he can't wait until class ends. Moving the paper to the corner of the desk, I continue writing.
Not even a minute passes before another ball careens into the desk, this time hitting my hand. I look up, making eye contact with him. He gestures towards the paper but I ignore it, choosing instead to keep staring him down. He decides to start mouthing his message instead. I turn my attention back to the board, trying to catch on to what Colón is saying. Though she's still teaching, her eyes are clearly focused on the desk next to mine. I decide that she must have noticed what is going on. If he continues trying to get a reaction out of me, at least she knows it'll be justified.
As it turns out, nothing needs to be justified because she takes the attention away from me by announcing a surprise quiz. There are some groans from around the room, but mostly the rustling of notebooks as people take a last glance at their notes before placing them away.
She gives me the option to participate or sit it out considering I haven't been here for the previous lessons. I opt in, since I could use the practice anyway.
It's as bad as I thought it would be. I even finish up a little early, and Colón let me leave after giving my quiz a quick once over, and handing me a slightly beat up textbook. I'm definitely out of practice, but my spanish is still more than serviceable. Elijah would be proud.
There's a loud squeak as I trip against the tiles. I ignore it and keep on my way to my last class, thankful the halls are still relatively empty.
The Gym is a standalone building, not hard to miss once I make it outside. The football field beside it boasts another "Home of the Spartans" sign, in case you didn't notice the one in the parking lot, or the office, or the hallways of the school.
As students file in through the door, they're greeted individually by the teacher. She somehow perfectly embodies the title "Coach", dressed in a tracksuit zipped up to her chin, metal whistle she swings back and forth on a lanyard, and dark hair ponytailed-under a yellow and blue dad cap. When she calls my name, it's much softer than I anticipated.
"Did you already pick up a gym uniform from the office?" she asks, nodding me off to her side so other students can continue to enter the gym.
"Uh, no. I didn't know that I needed one," I admit. No one mentioned a uniform, and I didn't even know that the school required one. Looking to the back of the gym, I can see a few people have already changed into what I'm missing, which ain't much. A grey shirt with the school logo splashed across the front, paired with dark blue sweatpants that read "Spartans" in yellow down the leg. A few have on what one of my former fosters would call pum-pum shorts, and others rock basketball shorts.
"It's alright, they usually pass them out when you get your schedule. Now that I think of it, we may not have any left this far into the semester."
I guess it makes sense considering the student population here isn't exactly fluctuating. I nod in understanding and try not to be disappointed. I'd been excited to exert the excess energy I've felt building up for the past few days, but it looks like I'll have to wait.
"I'm usually not supposed to allow anyone to participate unless they're in uniform, but seeing as how this is an oversight by the administration, I think I can make an exception. I might have some shorts in the office if you want to borrow them. Of course if you would rather sit out, I won't count it against your grade. My sister would never forgive me if I did"
Her face is kind as she attempts to divide her attention between me and the other students. I can't help but scrunch my brows in confusion when she mentions her sister.
"Oh, she probably hasn't thought to tell you yet with you're still settling in," she says, focusing her attention fully on me. With her facing me head-on, my mind makes the leap as the words leave her mouth, "Wendy Weber is my sister."
I can see now that they share the same face, though Mrs. Weber usually covers hers with a significant amount of makeup.
I know the realization must be expressing itself all over my face, because she starts laughing.
"You're welcome to call me Coach Karen while here at school. We can figure out the rest later when we're properly introduced."
I force a cursory smile, "Right. I actually brought my own change of clothes." I pull them out of my bag, and she gives them a once over. I'm glad I checked my schedule last night, otherwise I might be staring down somebody's used gym shorts. With an affirmative nod, she points me in the direction of the locker room.
I'm starting to be able to tell where the school spends most of its budget. Their sports department must be receiving more than a fair share of the pie, if the new equipment and decked out interior of the locker room are anything to go by. My last school didn't even have a functional form of the later, we had to change in the bathroom down the hall. This place has shower stalls and body length mirrors. If I was anymore vain, I'd be salivating at the potential this place has for post-workout selfies.
My point is immediately proven as a few girls come in and begin taking pictures in one of the mirrors. I pay them no mind and begin to wiggle out of my jeans, kissing my teeth in annoyance when I realize I forgot to remove my shoes first. I pull the grey leggings out of my bag, double-checking my reflection for panty lines once I have them on. They aren't too bad, and anyone staring back there will just have to deal with it. I slip off my hoodie and the tank top underneath. Before I can replace them, one of the girls from the group call out to me.
"Oh my gosh, are those real?"
From here it looks like she's staring at my bra. These white girls are WILD. First the one at lunch asking if I'm on a diet, now this one asking if I've had work done? I glance down at myself and crinkle my brow. I'm a calm C-Cup, that's not even that big for her to be questioning their authenticity. She comes closer, still trying to examine me. The other girls follow behind with shared interest, blocking off my exit. This situation starts to feel eerily familiar. I drop my left foot back and keep my arms ready at my sides. None of them are close to my height, although one of them has some weight on me. I know that I could beat their asses individually, but all three might be a different story.
"Is it made of amber?" the first girl asks, throwing me off.
"What?" I snap back, cautious in case it's just a distraction.
Her eyes widen, probably not expecting my response. She points to my belly button, "The ...your piercings?"
Oh. Oh.
I may have jumped the gun a little bit. Good thing I know not to make the first move, otherwise ...Devyn would not be happy.
"Yeah, they're real. It's a barbell though, so it's really just one piercing. And it's carnelian, not amber. "I state while slowly pulling the top over my head. Now that I'm sure they aren't trying to jump me, I sit down to work my feet into sneakers. They continue to pepper me with questions about how long I've had it, where I got it done, whether or not it had hurt. They finally start to get dressed themselves, complaining about the dumpy uniform and expressing how lucky I am that Coach let me wear my own clothes. This surprises me because all three of them pull on the pum pum shorts I saw on a few girls outside. I think the shorts are a decent step up from those terrible sweatpants, but I keep that opinion to myself.
They deposit their things in the bright yellow lockers before taking one last selfie, which they invite me to join. I decline, taking longer than necessary to pack up, even pulling out a sharpie to write down 'lock' on my hand so I can remember to bring one on Thursday.
A whistle blows outside, presumably telling us to hurry the hell up. They wait for me and we all leave together. I jog over to the bleachers to set my bag down in a spot I'll be able to watch it, then go to join the crowd of students next to one of the volleyball nets. However, my approach slows and damn near stops when I see a familiar head of honey blonde. He's standing at the back of the group, taller than everyone in the room. His attention is towards the teacher, but something about his stance makes me feel like he's somehow watching me too.
Maybe I can just stay back here? Pretend like I'm tying my shoe or something. Nobody would even notice that these are slip ons.
Just as I'm about to bend over, my stomach gapes open. It happens so fast that I lose my breath. Oddly enough, I don't panic. I'm somehow able to keep my head while I look around for the culprit. Blondie hasn't moved any closer so it can't be him. I hope that it's at least Rusty, because he'll have the decency to stay away. Out of my peripheral emerges a huge linebacker of a man.
Why is he so damn big? Like, I'm sorry for whoever's womb he came out of, because I know he had to be a big ass baby. How do people even grow that tall? What do you have to eat? Whose gene pool do you have to swim in?
While I'm squinting at the back of his head, my eyes travel down a few inches and I take notice of his neck. He's the same sort of ashen white as the others, and many shades paler than the rest of the predominantly caucasian class. I bet if he turned around, I'd be met with them same gold eyes. He strides forward, stopping beside Blondie, and the hole closes as fast as it had opened. It only lasted a few moments thankfully. My heartbeat is still relatively steady, and I don't feel the immediate need to run away. I guess the panic only hits with longer exposure?
"...any questions?" I hear. I know I've fucked up as the class releases a chorus of negatives. Giving all my attention to them made me miss everything Coach said. I glance around, trying to catch on to the instructions the other students have begun following. They seem to be splintering off into trios or quartets while Coach is busy wheeling out basket full of volleyballs to the middle of the courts.
"Hey Mika, do you want to warm up with us?"
It's one of the locker room girls, and I'm even more happy that I did not punch her in the face earlier. Something tells me that if she had waited just a few more moments, I would have been ambushed by several other groups whose members look thoroughly disappointed to see me accept her invitation. Including Lil' Hulk over there.
Fat chance of that. Whether this sense of calm is a fluke or not, something in me still wants to scream 'DANGER! AVOID AT ALL COSTS!' only it's more like a casual warning that I can't bring myself to freak out about.
I join the group, making sure to position my back towards the padded gym wall. If one of them comes near, I'll be able to see it coming.
"So what are we doing? Stretches?"
The girl to my left answers first, pulling a scrunchie from her wrist to tie back her black hair.
"We're supposed to do a one minute wall squat, 25 jumping jacks, 25 sit ups..." she continues listing off a few more basic exercises. I hate to admit it, but it sounds slightly intimidating. I was excited to get moving earlier, but now I'm remembering how long it's been since I did a structured workout. The only physical exertion I've participated in lately involves a Megan Thee Stallion track and a body length mirror.
The apprehension must show on my face because the girl across from me smiles and offers to take things slow for me. They even ask what order I'd like to do the exercises, and I say it's their choice.
I follow through with the stretches they show me, and try to keep up with them for the rest of the workout. I gather that two of them are on the school's volleyball team, and the other plays rugby. It makes me feel a little better about struggling through the sets, considering they must be used to doing much more than this.
They save the wall squat for last, which is something I can actually handle. To take my mind off the burn in my thighs and the thought of what my head is going to look like when I take this scarf off tonight, I observe the other people in the gym. Most are still going through the exercises, though a few have moved on and are passing volleyballs back and forth between their group. I turn my head so that the two super-pales are in central view.
There is no way they just had his size in stock, they definitely had to get his uniform custom ordered. He's like what, 6'6? And they want me to think he's a teenager? If he ain't at least 21...
You know what? That is none of my business. People see me and think I'm already in college. It's usually older men trying to holler, but still.
What is my business though, is how hard the blonde one is staring me down. No subtly at all, just dead in my face like he was waiting for me to look at him. He looks away for a moment to pass the ball back to his large partner, but just like earlier, I can tell he's still aware of me.
Maybe that's why when the big guy decides to return that pass with a very, very hard spike, he can't follow up. The ball reverberates off his forearms with an intense ring, sending it sailing up to the ceiling. It comes speeding back down at an angle, headed straight for where we're squatting on the wall. My body moves in a way I didn't tell it to and I slap the ball just before it can hit the girl next to me.
There's a moment where I think everything is fine, and then the pain radiates from my palm and up my wrist.
"Son of a -"
"Oh my gosh, girl are you okay? I didn't even see that coming!"
I shake my head and try to massage the pain away. Theres more talking around me but I don't concentrate on it because my hand really fucking hurts. It's like every newton of force in that ball decided to take a dive off the top rope and hit me with The Peoples Elbow.
How hard did he hit that freaking ball?
"Mika?"
I look up from my hand to see Coach Karen and a small crowd behind her looking at me with concern. After asking for permission, she takes my hand and examines it.
"Where did the ball hit you?"
"Mostly on my palm."
The red is slowly fading, but it feels kind of puffy. She rotates my wrist a few times and asks me to push against hers. I'm able to do it, but let her know that the skin feels like its about to split.
"This is definitely going to bruise, but you should be alright. It doesn't look like you hurt your wrist or jammed any fingers. I'm sure Mr. Cullen would love to get you an ice pack from the First Aid station while he apologizes, wouldn't he?" She steps aside, revealing the duo who put the ball in the ceiling. Though her eyes are clearly on the big one, he acts oblivious and turns his head to look at Blondie. He looks back, entirely unamused. Maybe it's the pain, but I didn't even notice when they got so close. The hole is certainly there, resting uncomfortably in my stomach like a meal I can't digest.
"Emmet, you know I meant you, and you know that I know it was you."
He turns back, both his eyes and his tone screaming incredulousness.
"Jasper was the last one to touch the ball!"
His voice is hella deep but still sickeningly pleasant. I was right, they're just as golden as the others. Almost the same color as Blondie, though his seem a bit deeper, not as vivid.
"Yes, after you spiked it at him with no warning. I know it's been a while since we last had class together, but you should know better than that," she reprimands, handing him a key ring. Some of the students disperse by themselves, but Coach has to shoo others away.
He palms it and sighs deeply in resignation before turning to me.
"I guess you're with me then."
"Nah, I'm good," I say. I dont want his help in the first place, but if he wants to act like the whole thing is such an inconvenience, then he can take that attitude somewhere else.
"Give me the key and I'll get it myself."
That snaps him out of it real quick. His partner lets out a little chuckle, suppressed but rich and dulcet. I narrow my eyes at him, but he's careful in keeping his attention on the disbelieving mountain of muscle between us.
"What? I was just joking, I don't mind-"
"I'm. Good." I state firmly while reaching my hand out, palm up, thankful when it doesn't shake. He hesitates. Maybe trying to figure out if I'm joking too. Maybe trying to think of a way to change my mind. Maybe because he can tell that the pit in my stomach is quietly waiting to eat its way out for every moment that passes between us. If it wasn't for the calm reserve I'm still somehow hanging on to, I know it would have eaten me alive by now.
My hand is still throbbing though, and he looks way too indecisive for me to keep standing here. I start to think I'll have to just take it from him, when the blond boy plucks it from his grip. He glides closer, easily side stepping his now sputtering partner, and gingerly places the key in my hand.
"Please excuse my brother, he usually isn't this much of a meathead."
I'm so caught off guard that I can't stop the gauff that wells up my throat. Meathead? I haven't heard that insult since primary school. And he said it like he was genuinely apologizing for his brothers meatheadedness.
Also, brother? And Coach said 'Mr. Cullen' earlier, but she wasn't talking about Blondie. Ernesto said the other Cullens were in college, and I figured the one I haven't run into yet must be Dr. Cullens' husband or wife or something. That puts the count up to six walking catalysts that could throw me into a panic at anytime. Really seven if the college thing was just a rumor.
Laughter and curiosity aside, I'm ready for this interaction to be over. I offer him a curt nod of appreciation before I round the both of them and go to ice my hand.