Phoebe

I didn't go to geometry class. I couldn't go to geometry class. I was angry and confused about what just happened and that's not a condition you need to be in when dealing with triangles that infuriate you anyway.

So I skipped.

I went to the library, solely for the purpose of finding a book to soothe me and take away my thoughts. But I couldn't really find what I was looking for. Romance or any sort of love story was overrated; war books would remind me of how much wars were stupid; biographies I always found a bit dull because they never really disclosed the true personality of the person. I decided then that I would just sit in the corner somewhere and stew, maybe draw little zigzags and circles on paper until all my fury dissipated or at least became bearable both to me as well as others.

I slipped past the shelf that hid the little cattycorner and stopped when I saw someone already there at one of the tables, sitting where he could look up and see me. It was the guy that I had found so mesmerizing my first day here. He was drawing (or writing) something, his hands flitting across the paper excitedly. He gave no notion of having heard me approach and so I sighed, pulled out a chair, and flung my bag onto the floor where it landed with a loud thud.

He didn't even look up.

I began shifting in my chair, trying to get comfortable against the inflexible wood at my back; it was no use. I unzipped my bag, towed out a sheet of paper and a pen, and began scribbling. As I did so, I studied the unnamable guy, trying to figure him out.

Why is he in the library during class? I wondered, never minding that I too was skipping.

His hands were nimble things, his fingers long. His hair was truly beautiful, a shade of auburn I would be proud to have. His lips were dark pink. I couldn't see his eyes; they were glued to the paper, never once looking up.

I sighed.

Why must good looks always be a reason people fall in love? Why can't it be personality or -- or charm? I contemplated, thinking of my own non-beauty.

Because the first thing you see is appearance. Because people would rather fall in love with a rose with thorns just for the loveliness of it and for the pure thought of having it instead of being with a more practical carnation or simple daisy.

I banged my fist against the table. Adding to my own bickering with Ivy, there was this, this inescapable knowing that I couldn't have what I wanted. That no matter what having brains and character might mean, there would always be people who wanted others purely for prettiness. It angered me that I knew nothing about this guy except he had a handsome face and I was all for him just because of it.

"Excuse me, but I think this is a library, and I believe some of us are trying to work," a voice cut through my thoughts, jarring me back to my surroundings. He had stopped moving his pencil and was looking straight at me. So his eyes are green not blue. Because his arm had moved, I saw that what he was working on was a sketch.

"Yes, well, I'm so sorry I interrupted your drawing," I said a bit bitterly, bypassing my usual preset mode to say nothing, anger no one.

"What's wrong with you? Coming in here sighing and everything?" He was sincere. I noticed his football jacket was hanging on the back of his chair and that he was wearing a blue shirt.

"Sorry. I'm a bit ticked right now." An understatement; that was more like me, not actually lying but withholding.

"And why is that?"

I caught myself before I said anything. I didn't want him to know; I didn't want anyone to know anything about me. Instead I decided to do what I do pretty well -- be cryptic and misleading.

"Have you ever had a horrible day, and thought nothing else could get worse, but then it does? And come to find out the day has only just begun?"

He smiled. "All the time," he said, tilting back his chair onto two legs.

I thought the conversation was over with and I moved to pick up my pen to continue drawing angry squiggles.

"But you didn't answer me. Well, not exactly. You more or less tried to blow me off by trying to relate to me so I'll go on a rant about how we have similar days, or you're summing up everything in a purely non-related or understated way to what you're feeling in an attempt to make me leave you alone. But I must admit I do not fall so easily to bypasses. So I'll ask again, what has made you have a horrible enough day to skip first block?"

"Why are you in here then? If you're so keen on finding out why I'm here, shouldn't I know the same about you?" I snapped.

It scared me that his words were so dead-on, so perceptive to what I was doing. I never had anyone to read me so well; Alfie didn't even know me all that well and he was my father. Because of that, I was probably a bit too harsh with my defense. I was about to say something else to deaden the severity of my statement, but he -- oh, what was his name?! – did something I didn't expect.

He laughed, the sound washing over my ears melodiously. "I'm here because I'm technically in art class. Our teacher lets us run about the school for inspiration and I happen to find the library a quiet enough place for my thoughts to roam free."

I processed this. He did not seem to be the type of person to have any sort of artistic qualities; he was a jock. Jocks were supposed to focus all attention to sports and, in the off-season or in random non-busy moments, on girls. But here this kid was drawing -- and in a library no less! I could not possibly lie to someone who surpassed my expectations.

"I'm mad because of my sister. She’s being a bit of a moron right now. We actually just had a fight in the hallway -- nothing physical though, just words. And I figure that -- being angry at the world like I am now -- mathematics will not help me any."

He leaned forward and his chair hit the floor. He grasped his hands together on top of the desk and stared straight into my eyes. "I'm sorry to ask . . . but what exactly were you two fighting about? You seem like the type of person who takes things as they are. So for you to be livid about something seems a bit far-fetched."

"It's – It's about Kevin Royce," I faltered. I didn't want to spill the whole story. It really wasn't any of my business anyway, but I had gone after Ivy to ask her side of the story. But then that had blown up in my face.

"Oh," he said very tersely, adverting his eyes and leaning back in the chair.

I raised an eyebrow. "What?"

He shook his head and wouldn't look at me. "Kevin has a lot of power around here because of who he and his family are. I'm shouldn't be involved in his, uh, business."

"And what business is that?" I questioned, trying to discover what had made this guy send up his protective wall.

"Well, Kevin is a bit of a player really. He has tons of girls flinging themselves at his head because he is of the Royce family and because he's such a success at football. I'm not stupid enough to oppose him. I'm not even going to talk to you any more because his name was brought up."

Fresh annoyance filled in my chest. "Why?"

His gaze returned finally. "Because somehow you'll drag me into the limelight. Somehow Kevin will become angry at me and that is something I don't need. Not over some spat between girls."

I glowered at him and the desired effect occurred -- he flinched, just like everybody else who had ever come under my glare. "What do you mean by a spat between girls?"

"Well, you're fighting over him, right?"

I laughed coldly. "I would not have him if he were the last man on earth. No, I don't need anybody, and I especially wouldn't want a sexist jerk like Kevin if I did."

"Then what --?"

"I suggest you keep up with what goes on in the hallways. Or perhaps you shouldn't, seeing as how that's what led me here."