Status: completed ◕‿◕
Every Man I Fall For
Love and Hate
I think one of the strangest things about my place in this school, is the fact that I’m not hated. I mean, I’m not in the ‘popular’ group of kids, but I seem to receive an unexpected amount of admiration from people in my year, and younger. Harriet and Leila say this is because I’m, quote unquote, ‘smoking hot’, but I think it’s more likely to do with my family.
I have an older brother, called Adrian. He finished school last year and was one of those stereotypical overachievers that you have a love/hate relationship with in your mind. Good at sport, smart, attractive, funny, kind, theatrically gifted. The kind of kid you hate, complain about, but who you wish was your best friend. He was popular, by dictionary definition but also in the teen-movie sense of the word.
He’s also my best friend. We share everything with each other, spend time together. He used to invite me to all his parties, pull me aside to chat with me in the corridor, talk me up to girls in my year. He did everything he could to make me desirable, and it worked, to a degree. Unfortunately, I’m essentially his antithesis, which is probably why we get along so well. Where he’s loud, friendly, outspoken, I’m quiet, shy and awkward. My nature in itself entirely prevented me from ascending the hierarchical ladder of high school, but his approval earned me ‘cool points’ in the eyes of my peers, so I’ve always been the type to be accepted and admired from a distance. I suppose this is also a factor that stops people from trying to get to know me; this idea that I’m ‘too cool for school’, whilst simultaneously being a social outcast.
Sometimes I wonder if they even really realize that I’m a person at all. That I hope, and dream, and fail just as they do. That I have a heart, and lungs, and a mind, and I look for love in everything I can find.
*
Period One has started, but the teacher hasn’t arrived yet. I’m sitting quietly in my corner of the room, double checking the essay I am about to hand in for grammatical mistakes, whilst the rest of my class runs a mild riot around me, sitting on each other’s desks, chatting and laughing, chasing each other for gossip and stolen stationery items.
“Alright Year Eleven, settle down”
Everyone reluctantly makes their way back to their own seats as Mrs Parsons makes her way from the door to the front of the room, and sets up for our first English lesson of the Term. When she reaches my name in the roll call and I respond, several heads turn my way. Despite the fact that I’ve been in their classes for five years, people are still surprised by the depth and volume of my voice. I might not speak much, but when I do, it’s not with a whisper.
A name called a minute after mine is unfamiliar, and as soon as it is, people sit up straighter. A strong voice responds.
“Present!”
I turn and stare as the others do. What I find is quite striking.
Thomas Motley is simply beautiful. There could be no other words to describe him. He’s tall, maybe 6”2 or more, with vaguely Asian features that hint at a mixed heritage. He has a broadish Asian nose, littered with fat freckles that remind me of nuts across a sundae. Smooth, tan skin that seems to have been untouched by adolescence, and full lips over straight, white teeth that are currently stretched in to a wide, confident grin. Perhaps his most prominent feature, though, are his round, Caucasian eyes; almost unnaturally big but balanced on his face. They’re an incredible shade of bright moss green and are surrounded by the sort of thicket of long, thick eyelashes that most girls would kill for.
“Welcome to St Ignatius, Mr Motley! I’m sure you’ll find everyone perfectly friendly and willing to help in these first few days.”
“Thanks Mrs Parsons, I’m sure I will!” he replies, flashing his teeth at her in a dazzling smile that causes the girl next to me to take in a sharp breath.
“Now,” Mrs Parsons says, in a vain attempt to bring attention back to her, “I’ll call out your name, bring up your essay and put it here in front of me. No excuses, you’ve had all holidays to finish this!”
Ignoring the choruses of groans erupting around her, she continues to call names and mark the ones who haven’t brought the piece of work with them. As I make my way up to the front of the classroom to hand in my own essay, I can feel eyes on me. It’s not exactly unheard of for people to stare, but this is a new kind of feeling, a sort of boring that makes me shift uncomfortably as I place the stapled wad of papers down on Mrs Parsons’ desk. When I turn, I find Thomas Motley’s startling green eyes staring right at me with the most bizarre mixture of curiosity and excitement in his expression that I almost frown, before heading back to my desk. As I brush past him, his eyes following me uncomfortably, I hear Louise Pritchard lean forward and stage-whisper to him:
“That’s Oliver Hartcher. Gorgeous, I know, but don’t even bother. Too far gone.”
Too far gone.
I have an older brother, called Adrian. He finished school last year and was one of those stereotypical overachievers that you have a love/hate relationship with in your mind. Good at sport, smart, attractive, funny, kind, theatrically gifted. The kind of kid you hate, complain about, but who you wish was your best friend. He was popular, by dictionary definition but also in the teen-movie sense of the word.
He’s also my best friend. We share everything with each other, spend time together. He used to invite me to all his parties, pull me aside to chat with me in the corridor, talk me up to girls in my year. He did everything he could to make me desirable, and it worked, to a degree. Unfortunately, I’m essentially his antithesis, which is probably why we get along so well. Where he’s loud, friendly, outspoken, I’m quiet, shy and awkward. My nature in itself entirely prevented me from ascending the hierarchical ladder of high school, but his approval earned me ‘cool points’ in the eyes of my peers, so I’ve always been the type to be accepted and admired from a distance. I suppose this is also a factor that stops people from trying to get to know me; this idea that I’m ‘too cool for school’, whilst simultaneously being a social outcast.
Sometimes I wonder if they even really realize that I’m a person at all. That I hope, and dream, and fail just as they do. That I have a heart, and lungs, and a mind, and I look for love in everything I can find.
*
Period One has started, but the teacher hasn’t arrived yet. I’m sitting quietly in my corner of the room, double checking the essay I am about to hand in for grammatical mistakes, whilst the rest of my class runs a mild riot around me, sitting on each other’s desks, chatting and laughing, chasing each other for gossip and stolen stationery items.
“Alright Year Eleven, settle down”
Everyone reluctantly makes their way back to their own seats as Mrs Parsons makes her way from the door to the front of the room, and sets up for our first English lesson of the Term. When she reaches my name in the roll call and I respond, several heads turn my way. Despite the fact that I’ve been in their classes for five years, people are still surprised by the depth and volume of my voice. I might not speak much, but when I do, it’s not with a whisper.
A name called a minute after mine is unfamiliar, and as soon as it is, people sit up straighter. A strong voice responds.
“Present!”
I turn and stare as the others do. What I find is quite striking.
Thomas Motley is simply beautiful. There could be no other words to describe him. He’s tall, maybe 6”2 or more, with vaguely Asian features that hint at a mixed heritage. He has a broadish Asian nose, littered with fat freckles that remind me of nuts across a sundae. Smooth, tan skin that seems to have been untouched by adolescence, and full lips over straight, white teeth that are currently stretched in to a wide, confident grin. Perhaps his most prominent feature, though, are his round, Caucasian eyes; almost unnaturally big but balanced on his face. They’re an incredible shade of bright moss green and are surrounded by the sort of thicket of long, thick eyelashes that most girls would kill for.
“Welcome to St Ignatius, Mr Motley! I’m sure you’ll find everyone perfectly friendly and willing to help in these first few days.”
“Thanks Mrs Parsons, I’m sure I will!” he replies, flashing his teeth at her in a dazzling smile that causes the girl next to me to take in a sharp breath.
“Now,” Mrs Parsons says, in a vain attempt to bring attention back to her, “I’ll call out your name, bring up your essay and put it here in front of me. No excuses, you’ve had all holidays to finish this!”
Ignoring the choruses of groans erupting around her, she continues to call names and mark the ones who haven’t brought the piece of work with them. As I make my way up to the front of the classroom to hand in my own essay, I can feel eyes on me. It’s not exactly unheard of for people to stare, but this is a new kind of feeling, a sort of boring that makes me shift uncomfortably as I place the stapled wad of papers down on Mrs Parsons’ desk. When I turn, I find Thomas Motley’s startling green eyes staring right at me with the most bizarre mixture of curiosity and excitement in his expression that I almost frown, before heading back to my desk. As I brush past him, his eyes following me uncomfortably, I hear Louise Pritchard lean forward and stage-whisper to him:
“That’s Oliver Hartcher. Gorgeous, I know, but don’t even bother. Too far gone.”
Too far gone.