AN: Thank you so much for staying with this story :) Another thank you to ASadAir for continuing to beta and motivate me to write!
Falling into this routine - sitting next to Books, as she's nicknamed him, three days a week, pretending she doesn't notice him - is easier for Blair than it should be. Each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday they sit in the fourth row, he passes his book to her, she passes it back silently, and they part ways.
Sort-of.
It turns out he's also in her Thursday ENGLISH 467 journalism class. She's simultaneously disappointed and comforted when she realizes it. Seeing him again on Thursdays sort of takes away the magic of film class, or it should. But at the same time, it makes her feel less alone in this school of strangers. She may not know his name or even why he lends her his book all the time, but she knows his face. Somehow, that's enough.
Besides, on Thursdays they don't sit together. That would just be weird.
He sits on the left side of the class and she takes the right - next to Nelly Yuki, her first official college friend. She instantly recognized Nelly as the insane note-taker from orientation but decides it could be useful being friends with a girl like that.
Plus, Nelly Yuki is here on scholarship too. So that's something. Unlike her silent dynamic with Books, she and Nelly actually talk. Hence how she gained the information on Nelly's student status - after class, the two of them have taken to studying together in the library. Even though their majors differ, they share a few of the same degree requirements.
As soon as Friday rolls around she's back to sitting beside Books for one and a half hours while she uses his book. She's contemplated writing a note to him there. But what would she say?
My name is Blair. What's yours?
No, too lame, she realizes.
Stop drumming your fingers on your book, it drives me insane.
She actually might write that right now as Books taps away incessantly at the hardback cover. As though reading her mind, he suddenly stops. She wonders if they've engaged in a new form of silent communication: telepathy.
Thinking hard, she wills him to listen: If you can hear me, tap your fingers three times.
Nothing.
She feels foolish.
Maybe this is what college is like , Blair muses as she tries and fails to focus on Professor Donovan's lecture.
Maybe it's all wordless colloquy and reluctant friendships. She'll never know his name and he'll never know hers. There's something poetic about that, she realizes.
Bored, she tries telepathy again as the lecture comes to a close a half hour later.
Look at me at the end of class, her mind says to him.
The professor wishes them a good weekend and she hands the book back, deciding not to avoid eye contact today. She wants to test her theory.
His hands close on the book and he looks up at her with a glint in his eyes. Her stomach gives a whirl, as though being churned, at the fact that he can read her mind indeed.
Despite the fact that it is a ridiculous and impossible notion, she floats off to her next class in a bubble victorious, fighting off the smile forming at the corner of her lips.
She's made a second friend without even having to say a word.
Huh, Dan thinks as he watches Headbands skip out of the class. That time, when he looked at her there were no memories jostled loose. Just the strange sensation of an instant connection. A friendship, maybe, he thinks.
That night in his dorm, alone again because his roommate is still MIA, he writes in the textbook before he can think better of it. He guesses which page will be next used in the lecture but he's pretty sure anywhere in Chapter Four is a safe bet.
I like your headbands.
Creepy, he cringes, reading his own words. Rapidly, he erases it, grateful he used pencil. Had he used ink, he would have had to start giving her the used textbook again which might seem a reproach.
He tries again.
Your headbands make you look like a princess.
He wonders if he should say queen instead but no, they make her look like a princess not a queen. There's something too delicate about her features to be queenly.
Really, he shouldn't say anything at all. The arrangement they have is working just fine. Three days a week they share a book and then they go their separate ways not to interact again until the next week.
He doesn't need to know her name, where she's from, or why she wears all those headbands.
The eraser hovers over the page but before he can decide whether or not to erase them, his phone starts ringing. He snaps the book shut, crossing the room to his phone to answer the call.
It's Vanessa and they carry on the longest conversation they've had since the break-up.
All thoughts of Headbands have long dissipated from Dan's mind by the time he hangs up and he forgets all about the words he scrawled on page eighty-four.
10th grade.
Albany, NY.
A note is flicked onto Blair's desk and she unfurls it with interest.
I don't know what to write. I've just always wanted to pass a note. It seems a very American thing to do.
Blair smiles down at the crumpled piece of paper in her hand before sending a grin toward Marcus beside her. As soon as the teacher looks away, she writes back:
Usually notes say things like:
Meet me at my locker after class
OMG did you hear what happened at the party Saturday?
Did you study?
Can I copy your test answers?
And so on… So I hope that helps your Americanization.
It takes her a full five minutes to find an opportunity to pass it back to him. She wishes she would have written in there how about the main art in note passing is the matter in which you do it.
Marcus begins writing back, not even bothering to wait until the teacher's attention is diverted again. It doesn't matter anyway, Mrs. Buckley adores Marcus.
Alright. I'll wait by your locker after class. Then, what?
PS I find it hard to believe you would ever copy off someone else's answers.
PPS What did happen at the party on Saturday?
Blair suppresses a laugh when she reads it.
I wouldn't cheat. Those were just examples. You don't really need to meet me at my locker after class.
PS I wasn't invited to the party on Saturday so I have no idea.
Marcus shakes his head as he reads it. After class, he follows her out and says, "I feel like I'm a proper citizen now."
"You really aren't yet," Blair tells him. "You tried to pay for your refill at the Oyster House last night. And you complained when your tea had ice in it. In fact, if I recall correctly, you called it an abomination."
"Of course I did," Marcus rallies. "Who puts ice in tea? Perhaps one or two cubes to cool it but a whole cup full? That was not tea. No."
His cheeks reddened with new fire, Blair laughs. "I still have so much to teach you."
"I guess so." He smiles, softening. "Do you want to teach me more about being American this weekend maybe? At the movies? I'm guessing that'll be a whole new experience."
Blair feels her cheek flush, stupidly. It's not like it's a date.
"A date." Marcus says suddenly and Blair wonders if he heard her thoughts.
"Oh." She says in surprise, then corrects herself. "Yes, I mean. Yes. I would like that very much."
"Brilliant." He beams. "We'll decide on the details via note-passing tomorrow in class. It seems the most practical way to discuss it."
"The most fun way, you mean?"
"Exactly." He grins at her. "Going to be late to my next class, see you in English tomorrow."
"See you." Blair watches him walk away in a fog of happiness.
Her first date. And it's with a cute British exchange student.
Take that Juliet.
"Alright everyone," Professor Donovan begins. "Let's open our books to page eighty-two. We're going to dive into Chapter Four of the text. I hope you all brought your books."
Blair senses Books stiffening beside her and she glances over to see him staring with interest at the book he passed her at the beginning of class. She checks to see if he handed her the right one and finds that yes, he did. Shrugging off his fixed gaze, she flips to page eighty-two and begins to take notes on the instruction.
When she gets to page eighty-four, her mind is flashing back to the tenth grade. She didn't even know note-passing was still a thing. She figured iPhones eliminated the need.
But yet, there it is. In scrawling, cramped handwriting. A note. To her.
Your headbands make you look like a princess.
She's about to prickle all over at the sarcasm until she makes out the faint traces of a different set of words just above it. Words that look like they said, I like your headbands.
She wonders why he erased it.
Feeling herself smile, she glances over at where he's staring at the page. He looks up in time to catch her smile and their eyes meet momentarily. Then, she diverts her attention back to the professor as she decides how to proceed.
Before class ends, she's written back in her neatest cursive handwriting the following:
You just lowered your book's resale condition from "Like New" to "Fair" or maybe even "Poor" if you keep up your habit of writing in it.
While I help to deteriorate its quality, I feel compelled to ask… Why two copies of the same book?
Blair hands it back over to Books and hurries out of class before he can read her notes and answer them in person. She doesn't want to tinge the magic of their silent friendship with actual conversation.
Blair feels a bit foolish on Tuesday as keeps staring at the clock, waiting for the hours to pass and tick into Wednesday. This sort of obsessive behavior is indicative of her level of loneliness.
She opens her email once she's back in her dorm, eager for a distraction from her waiting game. At the top of her inbox is a message from Harold, her donor dad, and she smiles as she reads his well wishes.
Replying to him, she wishes she had a photo to send him along with the descriptions of her lackluster Ivy League life. But the only photographic evidence she has that she indeed is at Yale is the snap she took of her dorm room on her first day. She decides that'll suffice and inserts it into the email.
Georgina walks into the dorm and says something about a friend coming to visit next week. Blair is only half listening because it's finally late enough that she can go to sleep. So when she wakes up, she'll only be three hours away from finding out if Books wrote back.
Dan had completely forgotten he even wrote in the textbook. He didn't have alcohol to blame on that rash decision. Just impulse. So when he watches her read the words he has half a mind to snatch back the book and claim it was already there when he got it.
Like she'd believe that.
But then, she smiled and all his tension evaporated. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught her writing back before class ended.
He opens the book to page eighty-four eagerly the first chance he gets. He doesn't even make it all the way to his dorm, instead he opens it right on the steps leading up to FREN 160.
Her reply pleases him, especially the way her handwriting spills out over the page in a vine-like pattern. Subconsciously, he always knew she'd be the sort of girl to write in cursive.
Dan spends a full forty-five minutes drafting replies during class. Ultimately, he decides on a shortened version of the actual story. She doesn't need to know about his complicated familial relationship with his stepmother.
Accidentally bought two - one online used and one in the bookstore new. Boring story. You can keep the formerly new one, now in Used - Fair condition.
PS What's your name?
Time seems to stand still until he sees her again on Friday. Luckily, this time she doesn't write back in the book. Instead she neatly tears a piece of paper out of her notebook and writes:
I think we should really stop defacing your textbook. I don't need to keep it: I've mostly been using it since it *was* in better condition than the only used one I could find online. Now to answer your question… Do you need to know my name? You haven't needed it so far. Besides you've probably already decided on what my name most likely is. Stick with that.
He shakes his head as he reads her words. Writing back:
I think your name is something regal like Elizabeth or Victoria. Or something literary like Anais.
At the last minute, he adds:
What do you think my name is then?
It's clear he's guessed wrong as he watches Blair read his reply.
No, all good guesses but wrong. I think your name is something preppy like Parker. Or something more straightforward like Dylan. Oh! Or a name that you've hated forever but pretend to embrace like Randolph.
A wash of goosebumps rise on Dan's skin as he reads over her guesses. She guessed his middle name, eerie. He can't decide whether or not to tell her that, so he sits on it for a while, tuning back into the lecture.
He leaves it long enough that she writes another note, eyes full of triumph as she passes it to him:
I guessed it, didn't I?
He writes back:
You sort-of did. I guess this is why we never talk. We don't need words.
Dan wishes he hadn't written that last part, it sounds like some romantic declaration. But these seats are too close for him to erase it without her knowing, she's certainly seen it already. So he leaves it be. She doesn't acknowledge the awkwardness, instead jumping to the point.
Explain. How did I "sort-of" guess it?
Letting out a breath, he finally tells her:
My middle name is Randolph. And I have always hated it, more than you could know. Now that you know at least one-third of my name, you owe me.
She writes back:
Cornelia.
Cornelia . The name bounces around his mind as he tries to decide if that's her first or middle name. He thinks it's the latter because it doesn't quite fit her the way he expected. It just sounds like one missing piece of the puzzle.
Scribbling at last, he passes it back:
Call it even then.
When class concludes, she hands the book back ignoring his offer from earlier. Then, he sees that on top of the book is the sheet of notebook paper with all their notes from today. At the bottom is a new one:
In case you need to leave me any more messages to read on Monday. Have a good weekend.
-B.
The initial is a surprise that gives him an irrational spark of hope.
For the rest of the day, he tries to guess what that B might stand for.
Beatrice, Bree, Briar, nothing he comes up with sounds quite right. So he starts trying out names paired with Cornelia, like trying to fit the puzzle pieces together.
It's not until ten at night that he realizes it's odd to even be so intensely deliberating it. She's certainly not losing sleep over the possibilities of his name. So it doesn't matter, it's irrelevant.
All he knows is this:
She's Headbands - the girl that sits next to him three days a week, wears a dizzying amount of hair accessories, and uses his book, and that's all he really needs to know.