Page 2 of The Love of My Next Life
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are you excited for your first day?” Her voice is bright and hopeful. I glance at Daddy. His face reflects that hope. He waits for my response: jaw strained and smile tight.
I soften my facial expression. Turn my lips up at the corners once more. I force a lightness into my voice and lie.
“Yes.”
I don’t miss the quiet exhale of relief that slips from Daddy’s mouth, and the sound puts a more genuine smile on my face. I can do this. For him, I can do this.
“Yes,” I say again. “I’m very excited.”
I give Daddy a hug goodbye and assure him that he doesn’t have to walk me to the classroom. He still chooses to wait by the office door and watch as Principal Townes and I head down the hallway. I peek at him over my shoulder a couple times, and just before I follow Principal Townes around a corner, he sends me a small wave. I wave back, and then he’s gone.
“This is Mrs. Loftus’s classroom, Lennon,” Principal Townes says, stopping next to a wooden door covered in rainbow paper. The teacher’s name is taped in large paper letters down the side of the door. I can hear the loud thrum of voices coming from inside the room. A burst of laughter makes me jump slightly. “She’s expecting you. Would you like me to walk you in?”
I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
“Alright, Lennon. Have a wonderful day, and if you need anything at all, come to the office. Anything at all, okay?”
The concern in Principal Townes’s voice is genuine, and so is her kindness. I know it’s not pity, and that relaxes my shoulders a little more. I tell her thank you and mean it, then turn the door handle and step inside. The room goes silent when I enter, and my eyes flick briefly over the class before finding the teacher and focusing on her.
Mrs. Loftus is short and skinny, and her dark hair is pulled into a French braid. Hers isn’t messy like mine. There are no pieces falling around her face, and I bet it isn’t crooked and loose like mine, either. I want to reach up and tug on my hair, but I don’t.
“You must be Lennon,” she chirps, then she bounces over to me. I keep my eyes on her because I can feel the eyes of all the other kids on me, and I’m not ready to meet them. My skin is tight, and my throat itches. I nod in response, and she places her open palm on my shoulder.
“My name is Mrs. Loftus. I’ll be your teacher this year.” She moves her eyes from my face to the tables filled with kids. “Class, this is Lennon Washington. She and her father just moved here, and Lennon will be joining us for the rest of the year. Be kind and make her feel welcome.”
Mrs. Loftus’s hand squeezes my shoulder slightly, and then she gestures to an open seat at one of the tables in the middle of the classroom. I look toward the seat, but before I can take a step forward, my eyes trip over the boy sitting at the table behind mine, and I freeze. He’s staring—no, glaring—at me with the coldest blue eyes I’ve ever seen.
And I cannot move.
My entire body breaks out in chills, the kind I get when I’m going into a Halloween haunted house, or when I have to climb out of my bed in the middle of the night and make my way to the bathroom in pitch blackness. It’s creepy and unwelcome and something else I can’t understand. Something that twists up my belly and makes my heart beat louder and louder with each thump.
I stand there for seconds, locked in a staring match with this brown-haired boy, and I can hear muffled giggles coming from the other kids. My hands fist at my sides when I feel my cheeks heat, and then he smirks.
It’s a small twitch of his lips, but I know it’s a smirk. A smile at my embarrassment. Enjoyment at my discomfort. I grind my teeth together, narrow my eyes at him, and take a step forward. One, then another, then another, each one more confident, until I am standing directly in front of him, and his smirk has turned back into a scowl.
I give him one last glare before I turn around quickly and drop into my seat. Mrs. Loftus gives me a packet of materials, explains the directions, then leaves me on my own.
I take a deep breath and spread the packet out in front of me, then take a pencil out of my bag to write my name. I get to the first “n” when my chair is kicked, and my pencil lead snaps right after streaking a gray line up to the top of my paper. I pause and stare at yet another streak, then my chair is kicked once more, harder this time. I whip around and face the boy. He’s smirking again, and I glare.
“Stop it,” I demand. My voice is quiet when I want to yell. Calm when I want to shriek. I can feel my hands shaking. “Now.”
“Make me,Leonard,” he whispers back, and something about his voice makes the tips of my ears warm. His smirk grows into a full smile, and I can’t speak. I just stare. My eyes narrow and my nostrils flare and I’m so, somad, but I say nothing. He cocks his head to the side, turning his crooked smile even more crooked, and without breaking eye contact, he kicks my chair again.
I squeak and grip my hands onto the edge of his table. My knuckles are white, and my eyes burn. But I still say nothing. I don’t want to make a scene. I don’t want to disrupt the other students.
“Leave her alone, Macon,” a sharp, hushed voice cuts in from beside me. “Why are you always such a jerk?”
The boy’s eyes leave mine and my shoulders droop immediately, like his look was holding me there, frozen and rigid and burning alive. I look in the direction of the voice and find a girl with unruly, dark brown curls and a scowl directed right at the boy.
“Make me,Hairy Clairy,” he taunts, and the girl huffs and rolls her eyes.
“That doesn’t upset me, Macon,” she spits. “Quit bullying the new girl. Pay more attention to the teacher and maybe you won’t be sostupidand failagain.”
The girl’s voice and expression are both smug, and when I flick my eyes to the boy,Macon, his face is blank.
“Shut up, Claire.”
