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Hope

AT BELLMARE HIGH SCHOOL, EVERYONE FITS IN, EXCEPT FOR ME.

Treading the crowded hallway, no one bothers to look at me, let alone talk to me, mainly because of two reasons. First, I’m the nerd with straight A’s in every subject. I always know the correct answer, and you know how people tend to stay away from those. They only talk to me when they're desperate and need my help to pass a test—those instances don’t happen often. Second, and I take the blame for this one—my nose is always buried in a novel. It’ll sound dramatic, but the world could be under attack, and my first instinct would be to find a safe corner to read peacefully. I only need books to survive.

As I walk toward my class I keep my head down. My eyes peruse the words of a fantasy-romance novel with great interest to know what happens next.

Reading is escapism for me. It flies me to places and lets me experience the lives of others like it's my own. It creates a bridge, connecting my world to theirs. The best part is no one can break it. Between the pages, I find more connection than I ever could in the real world, and with the characters I feel more at home. I’m never lonely with them.

With no siblings and friends, I’m always on my own, and the hobby has turned into an addiction. In every fleeting minute of the day, I try to skim the pages. I know I’d never be able to read every book in the world in this lifetime, but I want to read enough.

Sometimes, I wonder how people go on in life without reading the stories trapped in books. For as long as I can remember, books have been my only comfort. My tunnel to another universe where things are good, and people are nice, unlike my reality.

I’m in my senior year, and I’ve never had a friend.

Do fictional people count?

I step into the boisterous classroom, and take a seat at the back, because I’m shy and an introvert. Sitting at the front and feeling the attention of the whole class on my back gives me anxiety.

A minute later, Mr. Carlie, our Chemistry teacher, walks in. He’s in his mid-fifties with a bald head that shines– something that elicits jokes among students– but he’s always too nice to chide them. Out of all the teachers, he’s my favorite.

“Good morning. How is everyone?” After hearing a string of replies, he scribbles the topic on the whiteboard with a black marker.

I reluctantly set aside my novel, when through the window something catches my eye—or rather someone.

A tall, lean guy stands under the sycamore tree, with a phone pressed to his ear. The old branches create a magnificent bowerover the side of the parking lot. I watch a leaf break off, and slowly glide through the summer air of August as it falls, missing his head by a fraction. He walks around with his back toward me. I run my mind through the faces I know at school, but I can’t put one on his back—I mean his hidden face.

Who is it?

As if to answer my question, he turns around. Heath Travon. The infamous bad boy of the school who’s always getting into fights and skipping classes. Last year, he transferred here. At first, people gawked at him because he was the new student, and we don’t usually get them with how small our town is—I’ve been with the same classmates since kindergarten. Within the first week, he got into a fight with one of the players on the football team, Jason, who cornered him and said something that made Heath lunge at him. He landed punch after punch until he was a bloody mess, and the principal had to come and separate them.

The only punishment Heath got was a one-week suspension. Since then, he became big news—and bad news.

I’ve seen girls fawn over the ground he walks on, and guys hate him for stealing attention. However, he’s never once interacted with anyone. Enough time has passed, but his popularity is still the same—the frequency of fights too. Perhaps it’s because he’s mysterious, quiet, and angry. It all adds to this appeal.

Dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans, he looks deadly. Raising his hand, he runs his fingers through his dark strands. His mouth moves as he talks, but when his eyes lock on me he stops talking. Even from afar, I feel his piercing stare before it narrows into slits and burns me like a scorching flame of fire.

The embarrassment of getting caught makes me break eye contact, but I feel his stare pinned on me like a laser.

Oh God. I hope he doesn't recognize me.

Who am I kidding? He surely doesn’t. I’m invisible to people.

I let my hair shield the side of my face. The flaming sensation disappears, but not his stare. It’s very much still there, but I don’t dare to look back at him.

If it were any other girl in my position, she’d be thrilled about the bad boy of the school staring at them, but I’m not. I want to keep a low profile and pass the next few months, so I can get away from here.

I skim over my notes that I made last night of the topic that’s currently being taught. I didn’t have a new book to read, and it was too late to go to the library. I had to kill time somehow. Fortunately, the library opens early. I managed to grab a book on my way here.

The class ends with an announcement of a test, and everyone whines. Piling up the papers on top of my folder, I join the sea of people in the hallway.

While arranging the papers in my folder, I feel the strong vibration of my phone in my back pocket. I balance the pile in one hand and then reach for it. I see five messages from Mom. An immediate pang of worry hits me in the chest. She’s drunk again. I already know what her messages will say.

Regardless, I open the thread. Before I can read the messages, I collide with someone and stumble back at the impact. I anticipate meeting the floor, but an arm circles around my waist and saves me from my fall.

“I’m sorry—” my words die when I find Heath inches away from my face.

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