Hey readers! Welcome to chapter 2 of Only You! I am so grateful to have all 30-something of you looking at my story. Thanks for checking it out! Since I am the kind of person who thrives when given attention, please leave a review! Also: this story is co-written by my lovely and talented friend coldinmyprofessions1754. Anyway, ENJOY THE STORY!
CHAPTER 2
Alexander Hamilton
The next class on my list is biology taught by Mr. Clarkwood. The hallways are mostly uninteresting except for the occasional school club flyer. I stop to read them a few of them, noting the more interesting ones - an application for National Honor Society, a competitive cooking club advertisement, a colorful poster encouraging students to sign up for the school talent show. A group of students passes me in the hallway, laughing and talking loudly. They all wear the same black and white flannel with a symbol on the collar, and I briefly wonder if they're in a gang. It's probably just a trend.
I don't realize why I'm the only one walking into the biology classroom until the bell rings. John is seated in the back of the room behind a dark blue table. I take the empty seat next to him and shift my attention to the pacing teacher. He has only one patch of grey hair on his otherwise bald head, and his voice is so gravelly and thin I imagine he's at least lived through World War II. I can barely understand a word he's saying through his thick German accent, but he's trying his best to get the message across, waving his wrinkled hands and spitting small amounts of saliva out of his mouth.
John seems uncomfortable like he doesn't know what the fuck is going on but wishes to, so I write him a note with my mechanical pencil. The lead scrapes out a strong black line dotted with powder before it snaps off. I push my thumb against its eraser, check to see if the teacher is looking in my direction, and finish writing my message. I ask John which dormitory he has. He reads the note, scribbles a short reply, and folds it up again. I check my schedule to see my own and realize it matches what he's written. Great, I've already talked to one person at this school.
Before long, I notice that Eliza, too, is in this class. Even she slouches in her chair, blatantly disinterested with what the teacher is explaining. Her polka-dotted button-up shirt folds over on itself where her torso bends. Her black skirt fans across her thighs, spreading its fabric out to the edges of her chair. She sits with her pink lips slightly open and her chin propped up on her fist. Her hand distorts her cheek and pushes her eye almost closed, revealing blue eyeshadow coloring her eyelids. I can't bring myself to turn my gaze from her perky nose, wide cheekbones, and ice blue eyes.
The bell rings after only a few paragraphs of accented English barely anyone appears to understand. As I shuffle out of the classroom behind John, I hear snippets of Eliza's conversation with another girl.
"What a bullshit teacher. If he really knew what he was talking about he would actually make sure we could too." Eliza laughs, light and airy, and I can picture a dimple forming just below her cheek.
After leaving the classroom and entering another one with no familiar faces, I sit down in a seat at an empty table in the back of the classroom. A boy with a newsboy cap and a black and white flannel with a hood and drawstrings strides in confidently and sits down the chair next to me. Another boy follows him closely and wears the same black and white pattern with a grey beanie on his head. The final member of their group is a long-haired, red-lipped girl wearing a sweater that hangs off one shoulder and ripped black jeans underneath. Two of them are wearing the flannel as the students I passed in the hallway, and the girl seems to be part of the group without wearing it. I recognize the two boys from my French class - the smirking boy had his flannel tied around his waist and the other boy had it hung over the back of his chair.
"Is it okay that I'm sitting here?" I only ask because they seem like the kind of people to have a designated table in every classroom. The girl laughs, causing her long, wavy hair to bob up and down.
"Yes, of course. We don't have assigned seats. And besides, you were here first."
We listen to the lesson without talking, but I can tell that the kids at my table are not paying full attention. They keep glancing over at another table and nudging each other. I turn my gaze to follow theirs and see a tall, African American teenager wearing a ridiculously obnoxious magenta tracksuit. As soon as he notices our stares, he swivels his body around and pushes a hand through his afro, middle finger in the lead. The girl holds up both middle fingers, blunt and unafraid of the statistics teacher whose empty eyes have no target.
I glance at the watch on my wrist and determine that it's 12:30. The bell rings, right on time, and the students seem to be especially excited for lunch because they stream out of the classroom like minnows trying to escape your grasp in the water. I make my way to the cafeteria without rushing too much. As far as I know, there is no penalty for being late to lunch, and who do I have to sit with anyway? The one boy I talked to in French? The girl who laughed at my question and could possibly be part of a gang?
The noise in the cafeteria could rival a hurricane. There are perhaps one hundred different tables, circular, rectangular, or square, all lined up in rows throughout the room, Large windows covering one wall reveal a courtyard where some students, perched on benches, eat their food or look at their computers. I begin to walk towards the door until a hand apprehends me.
"Hey." I recognize the boy by his freckles and brown eyes.
"Oh, hi."
John releases my arm and folds his hands behind his back. "Do you want to sit at this table with us?" He gestures to a nearby rectangular table where the black and white flannel kids are sitting. He isn't wearing the flannel, but neither is the girl from statistics, so I don't doubt that they are his friends. Eliza is at the table too, though she leaves some space between her and the others. She is engaged in a conversation with the same girl she talked to at the end of biology. The girl wears a flannel, shorts, and a crop top and has the same eyes as Eliza. Damn, it would be really helpful if I knew their names.
Eliza lets her eyes stray from her friend to meet mine. The corners of her mouth tilt up into a smile that seems to be just for me. I nod at her with a half-smile, but she's already focused her attention on the other girl. As her eyes open wider and she throws her head back in a fit of laughter, I notice that Eliza Schuyler is more than pretty.
John Laurens
I am sandwiched between two students, both clad in the black and white flannel that seem to be regalia for the group huddled around the lunch table. Hercules has one toned arm around my shoulders and he's doubled over in laughter over some comment made by a boy I recognize from first period, the smug boy I believe, although his smirk has vanished by now. And Peggy sits on my other side. Her wild hair has been tamed enough to cooperate with being in a ponytail, out of her face for once, and she has laced colorful flowers carefully into the curls. Even though the table comfortably fits our whole group the chairs have been scattered haphazardly around the patterned plastic. A girl in an off-the-shoulder red sweater has turned hers backward and now sits with her arms folded atop the chair and her chin resting on her wrists.
Peggy and I have been friends since the beginning of last year. Good friends. I don't remember why, I was probably struggling with vague directions given by Madame Bernard, but she approached me. Being the lost and alone sophomores the two of us were we became fast friends. She takes my hand, probably because she notices the blank look that has overtaken my face, and gives it a squeeze.
"Jacky," Her voice practically drips concern but also holds a note of seriousness that makes me turn to look at her. I smile and it reaches my eyes. It's a genuine smile that customarily only Peggy can draw from me. I steal a glimpse of Alex's face, or rather, the side of his head. He's caught up in a conversation with the blue-eyed girl. I stand and clear my throat. Nine pairs of eyes follow me and conversation fades.
"I'm not sure how many of you know his name so I'll just…" my voice wavers and I look at Alex. His warm brown eyes are fixed on me, just like the entirety of the group but somehow his gaze grants me more pleasure than the rest.
"Alex moved here this summer. Make him feel at home," Heat rushes to my face and I fall back onto the molded plastic chair between Peggy and Hercules once more. All at once the silence collapses into a deafening clammer as each and every occupant of the table squabbles over who is most deserving of Alex's attention. He looks at me with an expression that begs for my help and I almost laugh at the pitiful sight. The one who seems to be winning the quarrel is the blue-eyed girl. I recognize her. Her features vaguely resemble Peggy's. Soft. Rounded. Beautiful. No wonder she's captured Alex's eye.
"Jack?" Peggy says my name again in that same tone that drips concern and seriousness. She wants my undivided attention. It's not the first time she's used this tone with me. I give it to her, prying my eyes away from Alex and the blue-eyed girl and the group pressing closer and closer to them. She opens her mouth to continue her declaration. Only a word in, she's brought to a stop by a boy clad in magenta. He's wearing a tracksuit of all things. A deep magenta tracksuit that at a second glance appears to be made entirely of velvet. His wild afro has been pulled back into an unruly ponytail, completing the hideous ensemble. He's wearing a stick-on name tag. One of the kind that reads 'Hello my name is' in a neat font at the top with a large blank space for writing. The name is scrawled in messy handwriting. It's almost imperceptible but it seems to read something like Tnonos. Or more likely Thomas.
He holds himself proudly, in a way that makes me think he considers the nine of us beyond his notice. Like we're fickle beings, no more important than ants under his sneakers. He saunters around our table and comes to stop before a flannel costumed girl with eyes that replicate the blue-eyed girl.
"Hello…" he pauses as though the girl's name is at the tip of his tongue but he can't quite remember. "Susan?" Infuriated, she gets to her feet. He's unrivaled in height, comparable to no one at the table except maybe Hercules. And although the girl is tall, he dwarfs her.
"Angelica," she overemphasizes each syllable, using a voice like one you'd use with a small child. Condescending and terse.
"Ah. Angelica. That would've been my second guess. But I don't know… you look like a Susan. You just have the sort of vibe to you." Angelica. I've heard Peggy mention that name. Angelica and Eliza. Her two sisters. I've heard enough about them to feel as if I've known them for years but never had the pleasure to come face to face with the girls. I briefly wonder if the blue-eyed girl is Eliza. I have reason to justify it. All three have the same soft features contrary to the girl in red who possesses high cheekbones and full lips painted flawlessly scarlet.
"Fuck off, Jefferson," she sounds dejected but I won't press, I doubt anyone will inquire about her all too sudden defeat. The boy shrugs and ambles leisurely away. Now, I turn back to Alex and call his name. He gives me his full attention easily. I stand sluggishly and he follows suit, probably eager to get away from the group still vying for his attention. I beckon with one hand, hoping he'll get the message and follow me away from the group, but I don't look back as I start off towards the bathrooms.
Colorful flyers advertise clubs and other various extracurricular activities, and of course, I'd seen them plastered everywhere, but there seemed to be an abundance in the cafeteria. One orange flyer catches my eye. It depicts a group of five frozen in mid dab and music notes scattered around their heads. The bolded text at the top reads; Back to School Dance! accompanied by a few more music notes. It's unbearably cheesy, but it gives me an idea. I swivel around and it turns out Alex did follow me because he stands there, inches away, looking at me expectantly.
"Dance on Friday," I begin. He nods as a smile plays across his face. "Are you going?"
He nods again. He has yet to speak. I should ask him. I wonder if he'd agree to be my date or even just go as friends. If he rejected me I could play it off as a joke couldn't I?
"I just asked Eliza to go with me a few minutes ago!" He pipes up like a joyful little kid. He's so fucking oblivious. He doesn't seem to realize my motives or the way my face falls. He doesn't get how his words make my heart sink but his smile is so irresistible it's hard not to feel happy for him.
