What He Left Behind

I have mixed feelings as I arrive outside my homeroom class, not completely ready for my first day of senior year. My father said that a new school and a new town mean a new start. I guess I could do with one of those. The thing is, we’ve been in Sacramento for two weeks now, and so far, my mother and father have done absolutely nothing to make a new start. So far, everything is exactly the same as it was back in Atlanta.

The bell rings and all the students pile into the class, one after the other. I wait until everyone has gone in and sat down before I enter the room. Out of habit, I scan the room for a familiar face, which is pointless really because I know I won’t see one.

I’m younger than everyone else in my year. Technically I should only be a junior, but I’ve always excelled at school, hence why I skipped a year. It’s not like I’m a nerd that is constantly studying and walks around with her nose in a book. I’m just a quick learner and someone who’s naturally curious. I’m that annoying kid that aces a test without even trying.

There are two seats left in the classroom, both in the far corner. I sit in the one to the right, just as my homeroom teacher, who I’m told is called Mrs. McDonald, arrives.

“Good morning class, I hope that you’ve all had a good summer,” she says with a smile far too wide for a Monday morning. She reads out a bunch of information that I in particular should be paying attention to, but I’m preoccupied. Whilst nerves aren’t generally something which affects me, I still like to know what I’m dealing with. I glance around the other people in the class, trying to figure out who’s captain of the football team and who’s president of the chess club, who is the head cheerleader and who is the most popular guy in school.

Just as I am starting to figure out who is who, the door to the classroom is suddenly kicked open. It slams against the wall, the noise echoing around the room. Everyone, including the teacher, stops what they’re doing. The atmosphere instantly changes.

The quieter people in the class tense up a little bit. The jocks roll their eyes. The girls with perfect hair and a face full of makeup grin excitedly, trying to catch the latecomer’s eye. I thought I’d got the social hierarchy here figured out, but this completely throws a spanner in the works.

The boy is tall and slim with long dark unruly hair, chocolate brown eyes and a nose ring. He’s attractive; his facial features are strong and defined and his complexion is clear and even and the look in his eyes is a mesmerizing combination of menace and mischief. He is clad in black skinny jeans and a black sleeveless shirt, revealing a colourful sleeve of tattoos on either arm. Whilst I’m not usually one to judge by appearance, I can’t help but sense everything about this boy screams trouble.

“Mr. Hemmingway, nice of you to finally join us,” Mrs. McDonald remarks, “I hope you don’t make a habit of arriving late or you will land yourself in detention, much like you did last year.”

“We all know you only give me detentions so you can spend more time with me,” he smirks, “I hope you didn’t miss me too much over the summer.”

“Sit down Charlie,” Mrs. McDonald mutters, pointing to the seat next to me. Charlie saunters over and I tense up, out of instinct rather than fear.

“Are you new here?” he asks casually, the smell of his cologne, which isn’t quite strong enough to mask the faint traces of cigarette smoke, flooding my nose.

“Yeah.”

“Where are you from?”

“Georgia.”

“What’s your name sweetie?”

“Noelle.”

“Charlie,” he tells me, reaching out his hand. I extend my hand to shake his, but he takes me by surprise and raises my hand to his lips, gently kissing it. Raising an eyebrow, I pull my hand from his grasp. His arrogance is already frustrating me and it’s only been two minutes.

“Go easy on her Charlie, she’s a newbie,” a voice from behind advises. I turn around to see a boy with brown hair, slightly shorter than Charlie’s. He is wearing grey jeans and a black shirt and he has a lip piercing. To anyone else, he would probably look intimidating.

“I’m just being nice,” Charlie chuckles.

“Sure you are,” the boy says dubiously before turning his attention to me, “I apologise for my friend here. I’m Stanley.”

“Noelle,” I tell him and he nods before Mrs. McDonald silences the class again and hands out our timetables. I browse through my classes, which are exhausting just to look at, let alone take. Because of my ‘exceptional intelligence’, I’m encouraged to take academic classes rather than more creative classes. It doesn’t bother me overly, since I find academic classes easier anyway. The only exception to that is photography.

Photography has been a passion of mine since I was a kid. I used to take pictures of everything, everything worth remembering at least. My teachers back in Atlanta were always telling me that one day I’d make a great lawyer or doctor or high-earning businesswoman, but all I ever wanted to do was take photos.

I’m out of practice now though, and there aren’t many moments worth capturing in my life anyway. So maybe I will end up being a lawyer or a doctor or a high-earning businesswoman like everyone said I would. I guess I’m not one to plan ahead though; I’m too impulsive to take things more than a day at a time.

It is not long until the bell rings and everyone gets up to leave. Charlie and Stan are the first ones to leave the classroom, making a beeline for the door without anyone daring to get in their way. Scoffing, I gather my things and am about to leave, but then I get called back by Mrs. McDonald.
I take a seat at the teacher’s desk and a pretty brown haired girl sits next to me.

“Noelle this is Amber. Amber, Noelle is new to Sac High so I thought maybe you could show her around and make sure she knows how things work here,” Mrs. McDonald suggests.

“Sure,” Amber agrees, smiling warmly, “Where are you from?”

“Georgia. I lived in Marietta, just outside of Atlanta,” I inform her.

“I know you two have a lot of classes together,” Mrs. McDonald continues, “So if you need anything Noelle, just ask Amber; she’ll help you with whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“No problem.” Amber and I stand up and head out the door into the crowded corridor.

“I see you met Charlie and Stan,” she observes, a knowing look on her face.

“Charlie seems like a bit of a character,” I muse.

“You could say that,” she giggles, “They’re in a band. They get in trouble a lot. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of them. I speak to Stan now and then and he’s funny. He’s approachable and chatty, but Charlie’s a whole different story. He’s sort of infamous in this place, but without even trying. Stan’s the sort of person that will go looking for trouble. With Charlie, trouble just seems to follow him around. The girls are all over him. The guys all want to be him. No one wants to piss him off. He’s a tricky one to get your head around.”

“He’s kind of hot,” I admit, “I don’t think I’ll be all over him though. It seems like his ego’s big enough as it is.”

“Definitely. He’s not the kind of person you want to get involved with anyway.”

-

That evening, I come home to a quiet as-good-as-empty house. I kick off my shoes and drop my bag on the floor before going upstairs to my parents’ bedroom. The curtains are still pulled shut and the lights are turned off. My mother is buried under the blankets, her knees pulled up to her chest as though she is trying to make herself as small as is humanly possible. I sit down on the side of the bed and reach out to touch her hair, gently waking her. She stirs and groans inwardly before opening her eyes. I know my mother hates being woken up. A part of me feels sorry for her. I know far too well how hard it is to get out of bed in the morning. But I force myself to. Because what other option do I have?

“Hey momma,” I say, stroking her hair soothingly.

“How was your first day?” she asks in little more than a whisper.

“It was good,” I tell her, surprised she even remembered it was my first day at school. When you spend every day in bed sleeping like my mum does, the days must roll into one. She gets very confused and disorientated sometimes.

I feel like my mum could be really pretty if her life was different; she has high cheekbones and blonde hair and big blue eyes and a small nose and a petite figure. Maybe in an alternate universe she could have been a model. But the fact is, it’s not an alternate universe and my mother is not pretty. Her hair is tangled and unhealthy and her lips are chapped and her fingernails are chewed raw. Her face is sullen and there are dark circles under her eyes and her skin is not glowing and clear as it could be if she looked after herself properly.

It’s her eyes that get me though. They say eyes are the window to the soul, but when I look her in the eye, I see nothing. They are dark and empty, as though I’m staring into an endless void, which pretty much sums her up to be honest.

Dad says I have to be patient with her, but patient isn’t a word many people would use to describe me. I’m tetchy and even rash at times. He also says it’s not her fault and that I need to look after her, but it’s easy for him to say. He works long hours for a busy company in the centre of Sacramento, so he’s not the one that has to constantly look after her. I guess selfless isn’t a word you’d use to describe me either.

-

When morning comes, I shower and get ready before beginning the thirty minute walk to school. I meet Amber in the parking lot as we agreed the day before.

“Hiya, how are you?” she chirps, a cheerful smile on her face. We make our way through the parking lot as she quizzes me on what it’s like in Georgia. Amber is funny and soft-spoken and sweet, but not patronisingly sweet, and already I am starting to grow fond of her. I reckon she’s one of those people that you simply can’t dislike.

As we walk past the basketball courts to get to the West Building entrance, a group of people in the distance catch my eye. I pause, realising that among the group are Charlie and Stan.

“Is that Charlie’s band?” I query. Amber turns round, following my gaze until her eyes land on the group.

“Yeah,” she confirms, “That’s Mason with the blonde hair. He’s the guitarist. The guy with the longer hair, that’s Adam, the drummer. The guy next to him is Harvey, the bassist. The blonde girl is Tay. She and Charlie hang out a lot. Obviously you know Stanley; he plays guitar in the band aswell, and Charlie’s the singer.”

“I should have seen that coming,” I mutter, “Someone with an ego that big would obviously be the singer.”

-

I have English second lesson. I sit in the seat between Amber and a girl with long black hair who Amber tells me is called Cara. The class quickly fills up, but of course, the last person to enter is Charlie. I get the impression he doesn’t like turning up to class on time.

“You’re late Mr. Hemmingway,” the teacher states.

“So?” he growls, rolling his eyes.

“So, I’ll have to log that on the system.”

“Knock yourself out,” Charlie grins, walking towards where Cara is sitting. “Move,” he demands. Cara looks up nervously, gathering her things together. For a second I am taken aback by his sheer lack of manners, but then my frustration gets the better of me. Who the hell is he to talk to people like that?

“Charlie, what the fuck,” I utter, half-wondering if maybe it’s just some weird inside joke I’ve misunderstood. Surely no one can be that arrogant and self-righteous.

“I want to sit here,” he says casually, as though I’m the stupid one for not understanding that everyone bows down to King Charlie. Cara stands up, but I’m stubborn at the best of times. I don’t like to think I’m an unreasonable person but who is Charlie to call the shots like that?

“Cara sit down,” I instruct, before lightly pushing Charlie away, “Charlie, go and sit over there.”

“I just said I want to sit here,” he patronises, looking at me as though I’m thick.

“Yeah but there’s already someone sitting here so you’re gonna have to sit somewhere else, aren’t you?” I patronise back. I know the whole class is staring at me wide-eyed and in shock, but for some reason all I can see is Charlie and his chocolate brown eyes burning with rage as he stares down at me in disbelief.

“Thank you,” Cara whispers, offering me a nervous smile. Charlie turns away from Cara, but instead of going over to the empty seat, he stops behind me and leans down to my ear.

“You better watch yourself darlin’. You don’t think I’ll let you get away with that, do you?” he hisses with unmistakable venom in his voice. He smirks before going to sit in the seat I told him to and I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, not with fear of course; I seem to be immune from fear for the most part. Maybe it’s more to do with the adrenaline coursing through my veins, or maybe it’s Charlie’s piercing brown eyes that almost had me hypnotised, or maybe it’s just because it’s Charlie, and that’s what Charlie does to people.