Now I am still sandwiched in between the two boys. Heero returned with our lunch – mushroom pizza for me, steak sub for himself – and dropped to the ground on my other side. The four of us ate in silence, busily concentrating on our own food.
"Hey guys!"
In unison, we turned towards the source of the light, cheery voice. Quatre and Trowa were approaching across the lawn, each toting a salad. They settled in the open edge of the circle, laying the ground with their napkins and utensils, busily preparing to eat.
"What did you think of the English test?" Quatre asked around a mouthful of lettuce. I groaned in response and rolled my eyes; Duo stuck out his tongue, not a pretty sight considering it was covered in fried shrimp bits.
"It was fair," responded Heero curtly, looking up briefly at the group. Duo promptly lobbed a ball of grass at him, followed by a stick.
"Fair! Of course it's fair, because you're a genius!" I retorted. Heero turned a mildly bored yet reproachful look on me for my teasing. The effect was ruined though, by the bits of grass still clinging to his hair. In spite of myself I started giggling. Hilde followed suit, and the boys wore wide smiles. Heero grimaced at out levity and roughly shook his head, checking to be sure every blade had been removed.
Conversation sprung from there, transforming our silent lunch of a few minutes past into a merry bubble of chatter. I hung back a bit, watching them talk, throwing in the occasional quip and comment. Quatre had infused the group with vitality, conveying his convivial nature to everyone in the group. Naturally sociable, that peculiar talent for empathizing and bonding with people is innate to him. You're drawn to talk to him, compelled to like him.
I walked into my history class on the first day of freshman year and saw not one of my few friends. True, I had known that they would not be there – we had received our schedules in August – but it was still a shock to be plunged completely into oblivion in my first period of my first day of high school. Mentally, I knew no one had even noticed me enter the room; people were greeting friends and saving seats, safely wrapped in their own self-centered worlds. This rational understanding had no affect on my emotional response; I blushed and dropped my gaze to my shoes, shuffling past everyone towards the back of the room.
My empty backpack made a soft whispery crunch as it collapsed on the floor. A soft, slightly nauseous feeling was seeping through the bottom of my stomach. Sitting there, rigid and anxious, I resisted the intense urge to sink slowly into my seat, out of the group consciousness of the class. Every nerve alive and tingling, I was isolated, lonely, in a room full of people.
Imagine my shock to find a quiet blond boy seated next to me, looking over as if I was the most riveting and vital individual in his reality. A bright smile suffused his face when he realized I had noticed him. Without a trace of hesitation he extended his hand.
"My name's Quatre. Are you new to Whistler's?" he asked pleasantly. Still dazed by his eager gaze, I paused a moment before reaching to grasp his hand across the desk. His skin was warm and soft, so different from the tough and callused hands of my friends. Internally I blushed as his hand ran over the beginning of a callus on my palm.
"Yeah, we just moved here this summer. I'm Relena," I said, stuttering slightly in my nervousness. He was still smiling, still concentrating on me. The attention settled me, grounded me back in the classroom.
"Where did you move from?"
"Um, California."
"Those long jumps are really hard. I was in culture shock for weeks after my family moved," he said conversationally, leaning towards me.
"Where did you move from?" I asked. I relaxed, accepting the honesty and interest at face value.
"Saudi Arabia. My dad's company was based there for a long time. It was really hard to adjust to life here. Don't worry you'll relax into it soon enough," and he patted my arm reassuringly, smiling openly.
"Well, I don't really know many people. And none of the ones I know are girls," I murmured nervously.
"Friends will come easy to you. I can tell. You'll attract good people to you," he said confidently, smiling. I wanted to believe him; I did believe him, if only for a second. He radiated confidence and kindness. Around us the swirling conversations had died, indicating the return of our teacher. With a last warm smile Quatre swiveled to face front, leaning towards the teacher with the same quiet absorption and interest he had shown me. I turned also, straightening from my anonymous slouch, leaning over forward in the desk. I ran a finger over the names and swears that had been scored into the plastic top.
For an hour we sat, listening to our teacher – Mr. DiCensi – detail the course. Orange and blue handouts were stuffed into my notebook. He was young and inspired, a teacher with palpable passion for his subject and for his new students. Obviously he had not taught much before. My mind wandered after the first ten minutes; I took to analyzing my peers, looking for those "good people" Quatre had said I would attract. Most were nondescript. Girls with ponytails and dyed blond hair, snapping their gum with placidly bored expressions, sat among boys who were busily writing on the desks, unconsciously flexing the muscles they had built with such care. In the back, dark boys and girls hung together, pierced and made up in heavy eye makeup, their hair dyed in all shades of unnatural neon colors. Another two girls sat on the far side of Quatre, vibrant in their lounging sprawl over the desk, smiling slightly and toying with their pens.
My gaze found Quatre occasionally, watching his rapt attention in the teacher, even half an hour into the lecture. When he looked to me, his eyes catching mine with a fraternal smile, I smiled in return, a weak imitation of the glow he had given. Instinctively my confidence swells, my relief rising on the tide, spilling from my eyes. With grace and calm you turn back to the lecture, leaving me to internalize that peace.
The bell rang, and as one body the class surged from their seats, rushing and eddying around the narrow door. I lingered a moment beyond the churning exodus, gathering my bags. Quatre had paused by the door, speaking with the two vivacious girls I had noticed earlier. In unison the two turned and left together, throwing a final thoughtful glance at me.
Quatre wandered over in my direction, hands caught in his pockets. I hefted my bag and turned on my heel, facing him with a bright, if inquisitive smile.
"That was Hilde and Sally. Nice girls. What class do you have next?" he asked.
"Algebra, with Ms. Turner," I answered with a cursory glance at my schedule. I had already memorized it.
"Great. I think that's where I am too. We'll walk over together," he said cheerfully. He held the door open for me; still wearing that contented half smile. The hall was a milling, aimless swarm of students and teachers, attending to their own small affairs. Quatre showered hellos and smiles along the way, making a brief connection with each person he addressed. Lost in our conversation we walked to math, our steps in perfect harmony.
The bell rang as I was picking up the trash from my lunch. With a collective groan we rose and gathered our stuff, tossing each other bags and notebooks. Duo launched his bag at Heero, who deftly caught it, bestowing another glare on the grinning hooligan. Laughing we turned back towards the school, the second warning bell clanging angrily.
Heero and Duo peeled off to the left across the lawn; their math class was on the opposite side of the quad. Quatre and Hilde left us in the lobby, striding briskly towards the history building. Hilde's chatter echoed down the hall from beyond the closed blue doors. A few students were still scurrying through the lobby, hurrying to their next class before the final bell rang.
Trowa and I meandered through the lobby, turning left into the link. Light filled the hallway, let in through the glass windows and ceiling; there was a beautiful view of the lawn on the left, the vivid gardens on the right. We walked in silence, not wanting to break the peaceful luminescence of the glass corridor.
This hall is my favorite place in the school. It's calm and beautiful, presenting only the thinnest of barriers between the elements and me. No matter what weather, the link is beautiful and calm. I can't bear to speak here, to break the spell of light and glass.
Turning through the blue doors, into the gray and brown corridor left a purple and green glow before my eyes. Late freshmen were scurrying to class with harried faces, clutching at their books. Trowa and I pass the double doors at the end of the hallway; I wave to a few acquaintances as we pass our history class.
Still silent, we walk downstairs, passing the gyms, into the cavernous service entrance at the ground floor. We found it freshman year, cutting English class to have an extra hour of lunch. The service entrance itself is dirty concrete, filled with dust and moldering boxes. However, the door hidden behind a pile of desks leads into a spacious and clean room. Dusty, true, but it is dust that hasn't been disturbed in decades. Or at least, it hadn't been until we discovered it.
Trowa tossed me an orange, vaulting onto his favorite perch atop an old desk. We peeled our oranges silently, and I occasionally snuck a glance in his direction. The quiet was comfortable, natural.
In late August of that first year, both Heero and Duo abandoned me. The two had taken off for Birmingham for a week, dragged by unfeeling parents who did not understand the priceless nature of summer days. Quite alone, I spent nearly every day sitting forlornly on my front steps, drawing in the dust with a stick, watching the smaller neighborhood children play.
After three days of watching this behavior, my brother shoved me off the steps and forbade me to enter the house until I had done something. Implacable, arms folded across his chest, blond hair blowing slightly in the wind, my brother met my glare. The showdown lasted for ten minutes, before I finally turned on my heel and stalked away. Stalked away defiantly.
I walked down our street towards the beach, hopping the rusty little fence that separated the street from the sand. I quickly divested myself of shoes and socks, rolling up the cuffs of jeans till they were at my knees. Picking up my footwear, I walked down to the shoreline.
Nothing in the world feels better than bare feet on warm sand. The water was chilly, at least to my Californian senses. Duo constantly asserted that the bay was incredibly warm, akin to bathwater even. I asserted that he was raving mad. Despite the chill I waded in, and the rolled edges of jeans began to get wet. The water was clear here, and I saw, glimmering, just out of reach a large, perfect clamshell.
Until this point I had not realized how silly it was to carry my shoes and socks with me while wading. I shifted my shoes to one hand and reached under to grab the clamshell. I was quite pleased with myself and my strategy for staying dry and acquiring the shell. Then a crab ran over my foot.
I jumped and started, losing the shell and my balance. I threw my hand holding the shoes up in the air, hoping when I fell, that they would remain dry. Reeling desperately, I tilted backwards, certain I would come home wet and humiliated, all to my brother's amusement.
Instead of a splash, I fell over into a person, my upraised arm hitting them neatly on the forehead. Outrage and embarrassment fought within me. I turned smartly and settled for my most infuriated look. My unsolicited rescuer was a boy, whose face looked to be about my age, but whose height would have put him much older. Obviously a neighborhood kid, dressed in the unofficial uniform of ragged cut off jeans and grimy hand-me-down t-shirts. The clothes looked a little small on him, and he slumped to hide his height.
"Why were you creeping up behind me?" I asked, my voice squeaking with petulance. He did not reply, but locked eyes with me. Only one green orb was visible, the other hidden behind a hank of brown hair. Calm and collected, he was, but obviously not inclined to speak.
"You shouldn't do that. It's very unnerving," I snapped, a little put off by the silence. We lapsed into another pause.
"I mean, thank you for keeping me up, but it gave me an awful start," I said weakly, wilting beneath the affable quiet, "And, sorry for hitting you in the forehead. You have red mark there now, but it shouldn't bruise."
"No harm done," he replied quietly.
"I'm Relena Dorlain. I just moved in a couple weeks ago."
"Trowa Barton," he extended his hand, "I saw you with Heero and Duo."
"Do you live on the street?" I inquired, trying to suppress the urge to speak meekly.
"Kitty-corner to you."
"Oh…I thought that house was closed up," I replied, trying to summon a little strength into my voice. His conversation was not forced, but he spoke so softly it encouraged quiet.
"We travel in the summer."
"Oh."
And we fell silent from there. Slowly, I began to feel the water lapping around my knees, and the squishy wet sand between my toes, the slight breeze. I gave him a look, and we both turned towards the beach.
The sun was hot, and dried my legs quickly. Trowa was indisposed to talk, content to sit quietly beside me. He was staring straight ahead over the bay; I took the moment to study his profile, see the right eye that previously had been obscured. Becoming shy again I looked down, twisted my fingers through the sand, leaving faint curling lines.
Rougher, larger hands joined mine, twisting patterns around and through my own. We sat for hours together, creating and destroying our masterpieces. The sun set around us, as we played, comfortable in a silence broken only by the flow of water and soft hiss of shifting sand.
