Nell

She notices things. More often than not, they don’t matter much, like when the cacophony of her classmates rises and falls in stages that she can track, or how there are times in the hallway when everyone steps nearly in sync.

But she doesn’t tell anyone that she sees more shoes and floor tiles than she does the faces of actual people. She has no one to tell.

She notices other things. Like how Mrs. Montaque and Mr. Numan are best friends, almost flirty, even though Mrs. Montaque is a Mrs. She also notices that Mr. Numan has a picture of him and some guy in his desk drawer, the one he only opens for important things. He doesn’t have any siblings, as the class knows, and he tends to get along better with the female teachers than the male ones.

But she doesn’t pay it any mind, really. Mrs. Montaque is lots of fun, and Mr. Numan is almost everyone’s favorite teacher. It’s not like it would matter.

She notices that when Jeremy turns his homework in, it’s in his girlfriend’s handwriting. She’s seen his handwriting, and it’s like angry scribbles, the ink screaming against the page illegibly. The homework is in loopy, delicate script, each sweeping curve and elegant line deliberate and beautiful.

But she doesn’t say anything. Mrs. Field wouldn’t do anything about it. She’s the pushover of the teachers, the one that won’t give out detentions because she feels that they don’t do anything.

She notices certain things that catch her attention. Like whenever she raises her hand, a teacher doesn’t often call on her. Most of the time their gaze will pass by her raised arm, ignorant of her very presence. Her classmates shoot each other those looks, the ones that speak of how pathetic she is without them having to say it out loud.

But she doesn’t bother to address it. It’s not like it can be helped.

No one notices the girl who notices everything.

No one notices Nell.