Ghosted

A face you’ve never seen before.

She’s just a girl, nothing special about her. Brown hair falls halfway down her back, hanging loose. Her skin isn’t sun-kissed like the other girls here. There are only three of them in the entire twelfth grade—three out of a class of thirty. A mere tenth of the senior population is female.

Maybe that’s why you stare, why you can’t seem to tear your eyes away. Girls are like unicorns in this place, even the most common ones. They can’t all be royalty.

Or maybe there’s another reason.

Maybe it’s something else that sets her apart.

Your gaze, it’s not easy to ignore, although the girl tries. Her skin prickles as if you’re touching her. A shiver flows down her spine. She’s fidgeting, toying with a cheap black ink pen on top of a notebook that she hasn’t yet written in.

Nervous, she lets go of the pen and balls her hands into fists as she shoves them beneath the desk. Your gaze lifts, blue eyes meeting hers for a moment before she looks away, acting as if she’s paying close attention to the lesson, but nobody cares that much about the formation of the first cabinet.

The class drags on for forever and a day. The teacher starts asking questions, and nearly everyone raises their hands. She keeps hers hidden beneath the desk, while you continue to rock your chair without a care.

Despite not volunteering, the teacher calls on you. Over and over. Cunningham. You rattle off answers, rather bored with it all. The others stumble, but you don’t even have to pause. You know your stuff. It feels a bit like a circus act, like a lion jumping through hoops.

If they poke you too much, making you perform, might you start ripping heads off? Hmm…

When class is over, everyone packs up their things. You drop your chair down, making a loud screech, as you shove to your feet. You didn’t bring anything with you. No books. No paper. Not even a pencil. You stall between the desks, leaning closer to the new girl.

“I like your nail polish,” you say, your voice playful, as she picks up her yet untouched notebook.

She looks up, meeting your eyes. You’re amused, the first hint of anything beyond boredom. Her gaze shifts to her nails then, to the chipped blue glittery polish coating them.

You walk away.

“Be on time tomorrow, Cunningham,” the teacher calls out.

You don’t even look at him when you say, “No promises.”

The day drags on and on and on. You sleep through most of Literature and don’t do a single Math problem. Comparative Politics is repetitious as you again spew out answers to questions. The girl sits near you in every class, close enough that your attention drifts to her whenever there’s a lull. You watch her as she fidgets. You watch her as she struggles. You watch her fumble her way through wrong answers. Others watch, too, whispering to each other, like they’re trying to figure out how a commoner weaseled her way onto their court, but you watch her like she’s the least boring thing you’ve encountered.

When P.E. arrives at the end of the day, you’re more interested. It’s mindless, running lap after lap, and you’re fast—so fast it annoys the others. They don’t like you being better than them. On top of ruining their image, you’re putting a dent in their self-confidence.

When class is over, everyone heads to the locker rooms. You’re soaked with sweat but don’t bother to change, standing right outside when the girl exits, but she barely makes it a step before an administrator’s voice calls out. “Garfield.”

She stalls, turning to look at the man as he lurks in the hallway. “Sir?”

“I know you’re new to the school,” he says. “Have you had the opportunity to read the handbook?”

“Yes, sir,” she says.

“Then you know you’re in violation of school policy,” he says. “Nails are to be natural, which means no polish. Rectify that by tomorrow.”

He walks away.

She looks at her nails.

You laugh.

You, who have been in violation of that policy all day long without anybody saying a word about it.

There’s a small parking lot beside the school for the students who drive, but you head around to the front, to a circular driveway for pick-up. She goes that way, too, lingering in the back of the crowd, sitting down on the ground and leaning against the building, pulling out her notebook.

Opening it, she starts writing.

Black sedan after black sedan swings through, the crowd whittling down. After a half hour, only a handful of kids remain.

After forty-five minutes, it’s just you and her.

You’re pacing around, your gaze flickering to her. “Guess I’m not the only one stranded.”

“My dad works until four,” she says, pausing her writing to look up. “He should be here soon.”

“Yeah, well, my father’s an asshole,” you say. “He enjoys making me suffer.”