He’s right. I might have casual sex, but I don’t take advantage of any girl. Ever. I’m not in it for the grandstanding or dick measuring. I don’t keep track of my “conquests,” and I definitely don’t talk about the girls I’ve hooked up with. I’ve always hated it when guys talk about their sex lives, especially when it’s derogatory or demeaning of the girl. I won’t even go there. As far as I’m concerned, that shit is private.
Monday, April 19th
Cat
“I guess I can finally scratch ‘being the new girl’ off my bucket list,” I mutter when my mom’s car comes to a stop in the morning drop-off line in front of my brand-new-for-me high school.
My mom smiles empathetically. “It’s going to be okay, Kitty.” I reach behind me to the backseat and retrieve my backpack that, as of now, holds only the bare-minimum essentials: a five-subject notebook and some pens and pencils. “Do you want me to pick you up, or are you going to be okay walking home this afternoon?”
“I’ll be fine walking, Mom. Don’t worry about me.” I stare out my window with some apprehension, my hand on the handle. I hesitate to actually open the door and step out onto the sidewalk to blend into the hundreds of high-schoolers making their way into the overwhelmingly large building with its brown brick façade.
This is going to be a change. My small North Carolina hometown had only two rival high schools with graduating classes of sixty-three and fifty-nine students, with just over two hundred students at each—not large by any means. From what I understand, my new high school has a student body of over a thousand and over three hundred kids in my junior class. But I consider this a good change, a chance to be a face in the crowd rather than the face in the crowd—the girl everyone knows, talks about, despises.
“Text me when you have your schedule,” my mom says just as I shove open the passenger door. “And let me know if you happen to have Mr. Lawrence. He was your dad’s and my physics teacher,” she adds with a girlish giggle.
I smile. My mom and dad are high school sweethearts who met at this very school some twenty years ago. They eventually eloped to North Carolina right after graduating from high school and beginning their educations at Duke. “I doubt it, but sure,” I tell her, then finally clamber out of the car, shut the door, and wave at her one last time.
She drives off, leaving me standing on the sidewalk, the shadow of the giant building just in front of me eclipsing the bright spring sunlight.
If the building seemed huge from the outside, it’s downright giant inside. There are four stories with wide, locker-lined hallways crammed with students eager to get to their classrooms. I spot freshmen—still with their childlike faces and voices that go from pitchy to deep in the middle of a sentence—all the way up to seniors, who honestly look like full-blown adults. It’s always fascinating to me what a difference four years make, especially in boys who turn into men between the ages of fourteen and eighteen.
I stand awkwardly for a moment as students push past me through the double front doors. I try to orient myself and find my way to the office.
A burly guy with the stature of a linebacker stops in front of me, his eyes skimming my entire body while he grins. “You look lost, gorgeous. Can I help you find something? The bathroom, maybe?”
Heat rises in my face. “Uh, where’s the office?” I cross my arm over my chest to grab the strap of my backpack and cover myself in the process. My body tenses with the unwanted attention from what is very obviously a football player and jock.
“Down the hall and just to the left before the stairs.” He smirks, pointing in that direction. “Want me to walk with you?” he adds with a low growl.
I swallow hard, shaking my head. “No, thanks. I’m good,” I tell him, the volume in my voice diminishing despite my best efforts. I hate the way I react in these situations now.
“I’ll see you around then, gorgeous.” He leaves me standing there while he walks down the hallway, then takes a right up a wide staircase.
Jesus, I hope I don’t have any classes with him—or any other football player, or baseball player, or whatever player, or preferably any guy at all. I’m perfectly aware that this last part is wishful, but one can dream.
I finally make my way to the office where I’m swiftly walked through the administrative onboarding process—including, to my utter dismay, having to take a picture for my plastic student ID badge. I’m supposed to wear it at all times while on campus. Then I’m given a map—who even knew I’d need a map to find my way around my new school?—and schedule.
I note with a grin that my first class is physics with Mr. Lawrence.
“Across the hall, up the stairs to the fourth floor, make a right, then a left down the second hallway, another right, and find room 407,” the office clerk tells me, unimpressed by my newbie status.
I nod and hitch my backpack over my shoulder, then walk out of the office. The hallway is mostly empty now; the bell rang—more like buzzed—a couple of minutes ago, making me late to my first class on my very first day. Great.
It takes me another I-don’t-even-know-how-many-minutes to trudge up the stairs and find my classroom. I’ve already forgotten the directions given to me by the disgruntled-looking office clerk and have to rely on the small black-and-white map in my hands.
I finally find room 407 and open the door slowly. I blush the second the door creaks and thirty-five heads, plus the teacher’s, turn in my direction. The air is muted as I make my way into the classroom and to the teacher’s desk.
Mr. Lawrence looks like he’s in his mid- to late-sixties. His gray, shoulder-length hair is wispy and his back is slightly hunched, though his face is friendly and he appears energetic. I guess you have to be energetic to be teaching high school in your sixties.
“Ahh, yes, welcome, Miss…”—he studies my note for a second, his reading glasses low on his nose as he glances over their rim—“Stevenson,” he finishes, and smiles at me. “Why don’t you take a seat next to Miss Walker?” He motions toward the only open seat in the room. “And please don’t hesitate to come and complain to me if Miss Walker is too chatty. She thinks I can’t hear well, but she underestimates my near-supersonic hearing, and I know full well that she enjoys a good chat, which is the reason she’s currently without a tablemate.” Mr. Lawrence laughs, and a good number of the students join in.
“I would never,” the girl Mr. Lawrence just talked about huffs, pressing her right palm to her chest as if offended, though her sly grin makes it clear that nothing Mr. Lawrence just said was a lie.
“Oh, you’re right. I’m talking about innocence personified.” Mr. Lawrence chuckles and nods for me to take a seat.
“That’s correct. Please don’t ever forget that Mr. Lawrence,” the girl says, batting her long, dark eyelashes. I already appreciate her for how she takes the attention off me.
“I would never, Miss Walker. Okay, where were we? Oh yes, how to calculate the rate of decay of our lovely isotope.” Mr. Lawrence chuckles and turns back to his smart board.