one
The first time Alexander sees the girl, he doesn't know what to make of her.
She looks younger than him, but her dark eyes hold a wisdom that makes him think twice. She is only a few heads taller than the railing she is leaning against, her hands gripping the wrought iron tightly. Her dark brown hair— braided neatly and tucked under her beret— obscures most of her round face, but Alexander can still feel her eyes lingering on him.
She must be an Oriental, Alexander thinks to himself, before he can help it.
After a few fleeting moments, the girl seems to realise he's staring back at her. She looks away abruptly, turning to the girl on her left. The other girl is nothing short of stunning— her wavy blonde hair shines radiantly in the late morning light, her eyes the colour of fresh bluebells and her cheeks flushed a lovely pink.
Wow, Alexander thinks. But he hasn't any time to stop to talk to them, because his grandmother hollers at him to get on the train— the Orient Express— grumbling something about teenage boys and their minds under her breath.
He stares at the padded envelope lying on his bedside table. Someone had brought it from the postman in the morning, and even without breaking the wax seal and opening the letter, he already knows who sent it, by the familiar, unmistakable scrawl of letters on the front of the envelope.
Alexander Acardy
Weston Academy, England
He takes it into his hands, looking at the faded stamp she'd glued on the envelope. The unique handwriting, how she looped her capital D's such that they had a little triangle. He's so taken by examining the little details, he doesn't even hear the footsteps outside, the door opening, and when he does realise, it's already too late— the envelope is ripped out of his hands.
Alexander's head snaps up.
Henry Dorian has the letter— Hazel's letter in his hand. He turns it around and back several times, staring at it, as though trying to make sense of the envelope— but there's an exaggerated motion to his actions— a touch of what he calls 'humour'. After all, he's already seen countless letters like this sent to Alexander before— teased him about them, even.
"What's this?" he asks, clearly knowing what it is.
Alexander rolls his eyes. "Give it back, Henry."
Henry, of course, ignores him completely. "A letter," he muses, stating the obvious. "Oh, I wonder… could it possibly be from the girl you were writing to a week ago, a month ago… last year October?" He smirks at Alexander. "What, her again?"
Alexander can feel himself blushing, which isn't a good sign. "Hazel's just a friend!" Which was, technically true. As far as he can tell, Hazel has never expressed any genuine interest in being more than just a friend, and Alexander isn't sure how to feel about her too, anyway. George says he's always getting confused. About what and why, he doesn't clarify, leaving Alexander even more confused. "Give it back, please!"
"A love letter?" inquires Henry innocently. Alexander's cheeks burn at the accusation. He shakes his head vigorously. He makes a move to lunge, his arm outstretched and fingers splayed in an attempt to snatch the letter back. Henry dodges easily, keeping the envelope just out of reach of Alexander.
He smirks again. "Oooh, Alex's got a lady," he taunts. Some of the other boys in their dorm have seemingly heard the commotion and are now gathered around him, joining in by snickering and clapping Alexander on the back— hard.
Alexander feels like he's about to die.
The door swings open again, and George saunters in, his tie perfectly straight against his pressed uniform. He casts a bored glance at the boys, and says, very nonchalantly, "Leave him alone."
Surprisingly, they do, and they exit the room in a mini-explosion of whisper-shouts and loud snickering. George bends down to pick up the envelope dropped on the floor, and hands it back to Alexander. Alexander takes it wearily.
"Thanks," he says ruefully. But George doesn't smile back at him.
"Before you open it…" he pauses, as though he's trying to find the perfect words to say, which Alexander finds so unlike the usually cool and articulated George, who always seems to know what to say. "Do you really just think Hazel as a friend, and no more?"
For a moment, Alexander doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know if he should take it seriously or laugh outright. Even George doubted his word? Isn't it crystal clear that he and Hazel were nothing but really good friends who wrote letters to each other? Why is it so hard for everyone to accept that truth, even George? Especially George, who knows he thinks that Daisy is the prettiest girl he's ever seen? Especially George, who has met Hazel in real life and knows perfectly well the type of girl she is?
George, like how George always is, can probably see the utter disbelief and incredulity on his face, and can probably read his exact thoughts running through his head as well. He sighs. "Oh, Alex," he says. "Sometimes I really want to hug you, but most of the time? I just want to punch you in the face. I've seen…" He trails off abruptly and looks away from Alexander's confused gaze.
"You've seen what?" Alexander prods, but George shakes his head.
"Never mind, Alex. Why don't you open that letter? I want to know what Daisy and Hazel have been up to."
His pen hovers above the paper, wavering. He dares not press too long on the parchment like he always does when he doesn't know what to write next, lest the ink bleed into a big, dark blotch of ink, marring the perfect, spotless paper.
Dear Hazel, he has written. She and Daisy are currently in London, acting in the Rue Theatre— exciting for Daisy perhaps, but Hazel doesn't exactly strike Alexander as the type who would love acting. In fact, he presumes the shy, timid Hazel won't be a fan of acting— especially in front of so many pairs of eyes. He's excited to see her and Daisy act, though— it'd be equal parts entertaining and amusing.
With that encouraging thought, the clot in the ink disappears, and all the words flow out with the ink. His pen scratches and flies across the once-empty paper.
We'd love to see you and Daisy again, he writes.
We want to see Daisy acting the star. Say we can.
We miss you.
Beside him, George glances away from the prep he's been doing to read what Alexander has written. He's humming, but there's a small, subtle frown on his face, growing bigger and bigger as he reads further into the letter.
"What's wrong?" Alexander asks him.
"Sure that's what you're going to send to Hazel?"
It's Alexander's turn to frown. "…Yeah. Is there anything wrong anywhere?" He searches the letter for any possible mistakes he could have made— spelling errors, grammatical slips, his less-than-perfect handwriting…
"Oh, bother, Alex," sighs George. "Nothing's wrong. Send that if you like it. But I'm not so sure Hazel would think the same." He doesn't elaborate further.
Alexander shrugs, and seals the letter into the envelope.