Soft
Whispers
Third period history class.
Three-quarters of the way through.
A lecture on the influence of slavery on economics and territory in southern states.
A mass of textual information on the overhead projector.
Scratching pens on notebook paper.
A few muffled coughs.
The dominant oration of the professor.
The buzzing of a wasp somewhere near the windows.
Connor can hear everything.
The slamming of a locker door two hallways down.
A phone conversation in the office of the Principle.
Even the steady heartbeats around him.
Even:
"You're Megan, right?"
A muted whisper.
From the football player in their sixth period English class.
Addressing:
"Yeah, Megan Morse." She whispers back.
He smiles at her.
A perfect white smile.
Shining in the luminous glowing of the history slides.
Oozing confidence.
She smiles back.
They formally shake hands.
He is suppose to be one of the best athletes in the school.
One of the best in the county, actually.
But that means as much to Connor as one of Wally's dirty socks.
It's not like he (or any human, for that matter) could really compete with him.
Not in strength.
Not in endurance.
Not in speed.
But looks…
Looks might be a different story.
Because the boy is handsome.
Almost illiterate.
But handsome.
Sporting blonde hair and green eyes.
The kind that girls would compare to a temperate forest.
Connor thought they looked more like the color of spinach.
A wholly undesirable vegetable that nobody ever really wants to eat.
"I hear you just moved here. Where're you from?"
"Oh," she shrugs her shoulders and gives him a lopsided grin, "Mars."
He laughs.
"That far, huh?"
"It wasn't easy getting here," she assures him.
"No kidding!"
The professor is moving forward with the lecture.
Explaining the Civil War.
Expounding on the loss of an entire culture.
Continuing into the Civil Rights Movement.
But neither of them seem to notice.
Neither does Connor.
He's seething in his chair.
"So I hear you just joined the Bumblebees. Congratulations," the athlete nods in admiration.
"Oh yeah, I love it already." Megan gushes.
"That's good to hear; I know some of them were really gunning for you in tryouts."
"Really? That's flattering."
"So will you be cheering at the game next Saturday?"
"Oh, I guess I will be. Are you playing?"
"Couldn't have the game without me!" He grins (only half joking). "I'll look forward to seeing you there."
Megan blushes for some reason.
"Have you met my teammates yet?"
Megan thinks for a second. "No, I haven't really gotten the chance to…"
There's the million-watt smile again. "You should come hang out with us sometime. Get to know the team. We're always down to hang with you cheerleaders, especially ones as cute as you."
He has the audacity to wink.
She seems to eat it up. "That'd be fun – I'd like that."
"Sweet!"
The professor glances their way and the athlete has the good grace to wince.
Then he lowers his voice and keeps talking.
"There's a party happening this Friday, you should come. I'll tell my man Marcus that you'll be there. It's his house. But don't worry, he won't mind if you crash it."
"A p-party?"
Connor starts thinking of a thousand and one reasons why she won't be able to go.
A mission.
A bomb threat.
The temporary insanity of a fellow teammate.
He knows that she has never been to a high school party before.
Maybe never even been to a human party before.
Granted, neither has he.
But he has access to something she doesn't.
The locker room.
A cornucopia brimming with social nuances and high school stereotypes.
He knows what human parties involve.
Teenage boys and their hormones.
Lowered inhibitions.
Connor doesn't have to think long to know he doesn't want his girlfriend anywhere near it.
The athlete is leaning closer now, scribbling down directions to his house.
Writing down his name and number in the margin.
Asking for hers.
"Oh, I don't really have a cell phone…" Megan blushes.
"Seriously?"
"Seriously. Mine…broke…and my parents won't buy me a new one …"
"Man, that sucks," the athlete shook his head in sympathy. "Maybe…maybe I could get your home number?"
But Connor is done listening.
Swiveling around, he's slamming a knuckled fist into the plastic surface of the desk.
Denting it.
Glaring.
The class has gone silent.
"Will you two stop talking?"
They stare at him in shock.
Megan is looking confused.
The jock is looking mad.
Connor has enough sense to grind out:
"….I'm just…trying to learn about history…"
There is an awkward moment where nobody says anything.
A pencil rolls off a desk.
The professor clears his throat.
"Umm, yes. That's a very good suggestion, Mr. Kent. Thank you for announcing it so…openly. You two," he's looking at Megan and the athlete, "if you continue talking I'll be forced to give you both detention and no, I have no sympathy for after-school extracurriculars, including football practice. And Mr. Kent?"
Connor looks up at him.
"Try a less…explosive way of getting your point across next time," he looks exasperated.
A few people chuckle.
"Ahem," the professor cleared his throat. "Onward."