As usual, I get too engrossed in my reading and am almost late for class. Sitting next to Hazel, I take out my
books when Damon appears in front of our desk.
"You dropped your phone in the
hallway," he says politely.
"No, I didn't." I look in bewilderement as he drops my smartphone in my
hand. Damon smiles mischievously, walking
over to his desk as Ms. Evans enters the class. Wouldn't I have noticed if my
phone had fallen on the corridor during our altercation? Not really...I was too
preoccupied with him to notice anything else. My skin heats up at the memory of
his closeness. I swivel to ask Hazel something
and find her staring at me with curious eyes.
"Do you have anything to share
about your morning?"
"I read a book," I mumble.
Ms. Evan starts talking about the
Bronte novel we had to read when I receive a text.
You
should take better care of your things.
The sender appears only by number, not
name, but I know who it is. Sure enough, one glance in Damon's direction
confirms my suspicion. He's not looking at me or
his phone, but lifts the corner of
his lips. It dawns on me that I might not have dropped my phone at all. He must
have taken it from my pocket.
And
you shouldn't steal other people's things, I
reply.
Hey,
you were eavesdropping, so don't go all saint on me. You were the first
offender.
I smile, overcome by a strange
giddiness. I can't believe he stole my phone, or that he got my number, or that
he's texting me right now. I'm grinning like an idiot. It's the first time a
guy has written to me and not asked for my notes or something similar. Given
our less than friendly interactions yesterday and this morning, this is a
surprise. Sometimes it takes a healthy fight and a familiar pain to gain a
friend.
"After the battle of stares yesterday follows the battle of messages?" Hazel murmurs,
smiling. "Bad boy is showing quite an interest in you."
"No,
he's not." Something light settles in my stomach.
"I heard that a junior tried very
hard yesterday to make him ask for her number and failed. He must be very
interested in yours if he got it on his own."
"This doesn't mean
anything." The lightness grows, the giddy feeling bubbling up inside
me.
"Maybe not." She leans in
conspiratorially. "Maybe it does."
When Ms. Evan announces she'll question us about Wuthering Heights, I have the
feeling Damon might take this opportunity to display the same unpleasantness as
yesterday.
Be
nice if Ms. Evans asks you something,
I type quickly. Please.
He doesn't type back, and as Ms. Evan begins
to ask questions, I brace myself. She deliberately avoids asking him anything
though. Then she asks Beckett what his opinion is about the motives behind
Heathcliff's behavior. He stares at her with a blank face, clueless.
It's Damon who answers.
"Heathcliff felt out of place. He didn't belong to their class, and
everyone else never let him forget it."
Ms. Evans' eyes widen, but all she
says is "Do you think that justifies him?"
"No. That's no justification for
being a dick to everyone," Damon says nonchalantly.
Ms. Evans flinches. "That language doesn't belong in the classroom, Damon." Her tone is firm. I'm proud of her. "I'll let you out
of the questioning round because you're new, and I gave this assignment a week ago."
Damon's lip twitches, and I can tell
he's about so say something obscene back.
I sit up straighter, staring at him intently. He catches my eye and winks at
me. I instantly flush, dropping my gaze to my hands.
"I had to read the book in my
junior year," Damon replies. Ms. Evans nods, and then continues
questioning Anna. I think about something the principal mentioned today...
Damon scored mostly A’s at his old school. My assessment
was spot on yesterday. Under the mask of carelessness hides a perfectionist. Someone who
is clearly smart. As Ms. Evans instructs us to look up a certain passage in the
book, I shift in my chair, holding my copy in my hands and pretending to flip
through its pages. In reality, I am sneaking glances at Damon. Who was he before
he came here and whom did he lose?
Thank
you for not being rude, I text him under the
desk. I receive an answer almost immediately.
Ouch.
That sound like something you'd tell a
dog. I'm not a poodle; don't try to train me.
I write back quickly. You're definitely
not a poodle. More like a pitbull. I hear
those are hard to train. Whatever they do, it's because they want to.
There is a pause in which I wait
breathlessly, and then my smartphone vibrates. They also tend to attack their owners.
My fingers almost snap as I hurry to reply. I don't believe that. They just have a bad reputation. Don't believe everything you hear.
It's all appearances.
Another short vibration. Ms. Evans
looks at me, so I just chance a quick glance at my phone. So what should I make of your Linkin Park t-shirt?
Frowning, I text back as best as I can
while pretending to pay attention to Ms. Evans. What's the harm in liking Kinky Fuck?
Damon's next message confuses me. Is that an invitation? I read what I
wrote before, and shame washes over me.
Abandoning all pretense of paying
attention to the teacher, I write It was autocorrect. I meant Linkin Park. OMG, I'm so sorry.
He
doesn't write anything back, and when I look at him, he appears on the verge of
bursting out laughing.
