A Blanket Unwoven
School
School starts today. Annabelle runs in my room, claps her hands, jumps up and down — anything to wake me up.
Last night I hadn't slept well. That guy is bothering me, and that feeling. Why does it feel like—
Like I know him?
Eventually Annabelle gives up.
My muscles lose their tension. Peace.
That's when my mother comes in. “Come on, Megan. You've already had ten extra minutes, any more and you'll be late.”
I don't move. So what if I'm late. It's only the first day. Then my mind wakes up properly.
School starts today.
**
“I'll pick you up at four,” my mom's saying.
“No,” I say quickly. “I mean, I can get myself home. I'll be fine.”
She doesn't want to, I can tell. But she doesn't stop me from getting out of the car. I say goodbye as I close the door. I can feel the wind of the car rushing away behind me and I walk towards the grim building.
School.
The very word strikes fear in the hearts of all kids and teens.
I march up to it. A few late students, like me, are running up the gray steps. I follow them into the school.
**
“Are you new?” the secretary asks.
“Yes,” I answer. “I'm Megan Harris.”
I look around the room. Including the desk in front of me, there are three. Another secretary rushes in. She makes a beeline for a desk, probably hers.
Her straight black hair falls out from behind her ears. I listen to the ruffle of papers. Finally a sound of triumph slithers through her obscure curtain and the woman leaves.
“Here's your schedule,” I hear.
Startled, I slightly jump. I take the piece of paper, I have got to stop daydreaming, I think.
“And a map of the school,” the woman continues. “Even though the school isn't that big, you never know.”
I take the map, thank her and leave. Checking my schedule, I see I start with English. My favorite.
According to my map it's not far. Just down the hallway.
**
I knock on the door and gulp. Being new and late is never a nice situation.
“Come in.” The teacher's voice is muffled.
I open the door and walk in, the name Mr. Nicholson is on the board. “I'm sorry I'm late. I overslept and I'm new.”
“Ah, yes,” the teacher says. “You're,” he checks a paper on his desk, “Megan Harris, right?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“Take a seat,” he says and writes something else on the board.
My eyes skim the class, they widen when I see a dark-haired guy. I blink and hurry to the before-last row where I spot the only seat available. I sit down, get my notebook and pen out and copy the lesson down.
I can't look at him; he's right behind me.
**
I boldly ask him after class. “Who are you?”
He doesn't answer. I know he can hear me. Even above the raucous noise of teens oozing out of classes and into others.
“Who are you?” he asks, throwing me off.
I consider for a moment. “Megan.”
“I'm—” he stops.
Why doesn't he want me to know his name?
“No one,” he mumbles, walking away from me.
As I put my hand on his shoulder, I feel dizzy. Why does that feel familiar?
I stumble a bit and he takes advantage. I catch myself on the wall behind me. Damn.
He's gone.
Last night I hadn't slept well. That guy is bothering me, and that feeling. Why does it feel like—
Like I know him?
Eventually Annabelle gives up.
My muscles lose their tension. Peace.
That's when my mother comes in. “Come on, Megan. You've already had ten extra minutes, any more and you'll be late.”
I don't move. So what if I'm late. It's only the first day. Then my mind wakes up properly.
School starts today.
**
“I'll pick you up at four,” my mom's saying.
“No,” I say quickly. “I mean, I can get myself home. I'll be fine.”
She doesn't want to, I can tell. But she doesn't stop me from getting out of the car. I say goodbye as I close the door. I can feel the wind of the car rushing away behind me and I walk towards the grim building.
School.
The very word strikes fear in the hearts of all kids and teens.
I march up to it. A few late students, like me, are running up the gray steps. I follow them into the school.
**
“Are you new?” the secretary asks.
“Yes,” I answer. “I'm Megan Harris.”
I look around the room. Including the desk in front of me, there are three. Another secretary rushes in. She makes a beeline for a desk, probably hers.
Her straight black hair falls out from behind her ears. I listen to the ruffle of papers. Finally a sound of triumph slithers through her obscure curtain and the woman leaves.
“Here's your schedule,” I hear.
Startled, I slightly jump. I take the piece of paper, I have got to stop daydreaming, I think.
“And a map of the school,” the woman continues. “Even though the school isn't that big, you never know.”
I take the map, thank her and leave. Checking my schedule, I see I start with English. My favorite.
According to my map it's not far. Just down the hallway.
**
I knock on the door and gulp. Being new and late is never a nice situation.
“Come in.” The teacher's voice is muffled.
I open the door and walk in, the name Mr. Nicholson is on the board. “I'm sorry I'm late. I overslept and I'm new.”
“Ah, yes,” the teacher says. “You're,” he checks a paper on his desk, “Megan Harris, right?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“Take a seat,” he says and writes something else on the board.
My eyes skim the class, they widen when I see a dark-haired guy. I blink and hurry to the before-last row where I spot the only seat available. I sit down, get my notebook and pen out and copy the lesson down.
I can't look at him; he's right behind me.
**
I boldly ask him after class. “Who are you?”
He doesn't answer. I know he can hear me. Even above the raucous noise of teens oozing out of classes and into others.
“Who are you?” he asks, throwing me off.
I consider for a moment. “Megan.”
“I'm—” he stops.
Why doesn't he want me to know his name?
“No one,” he mumbles, walking away from me.
As I put my hand on his shoulder, I feel dizzy. Why does that feel familiar?
I stumble a bit and he takes advantage. I catch myself on the wall behind me. Damn.
He's gone.