The Six-Year Stare
ERIN
The electric fan above us rattled every time it turned left. I’d been counting the rattles for twenty minutes.
Last day of junior high. Everyone was signing each other’s uniforms and taking selfies by the window, and I was in my corner seat, bangs down, pretending to read notes I’d already memorized.
He’s leaving.
Everyone knew. PJ—Peter Jameson—was moving to a sports academy across the city for senior high, the kind that recruits boxers. Tall, always tan from running laps after class, with that one dimple on his right cheek that showed up whenever he laughed, which was all the time. Half of Section A had a crush on him. The other half pretended they didn’t.
I was in the second half. I’d been in the second half since fourth grade.
Something hit my desk. A black eraser skidded across my notebook and stopped right on top of my handwriting.
I didn’t look up. I counted to three first. Face blank. I was good at blank.
“Oops. My bad.”
He was standing beside my desk, grinning down at me like this was the funniest thing that had happened all day. He picked up the eraser, winked—actually winked—and walked back to his friends, who were already laughing.
I turned the page. My neck was burning, but my hand didn’t shake.
Attention-seeker, I told myself. He does this to everyone. Yesterday it was Bea’s pen. Last week it was Joanna’s ID lanyard. You’re not special. You’re just the next desk.
PJ
I’d wiped my palms on my slacks maybe ten times since lunch.
I’ve been punched in the face by guys twice my size. Sparring doesn’t scare me. The back of Erin’s head, three rows away? That scares me.
Six years. Six years of being an idiot near her. I’ve dropped things. I’ve sung badly on purpose. Yesterday I walked straight into the trash bin by the door, full body, just to see if she’d laugh. Everyone laughed. She turned a page.
She doesn’t hate me, I kept telling myself. She just doesn’t see me. Honestly, I didn’t know which was worse.
“Bro.” Migs elbowed me. “You throwing it or not?”
“Shut up.”
“It’s the last day, man.”
I knew it was the last day. That was the whole problem.
So I threw the eraser. Terrible plan. Worst plan. I walked over before I could change my mind, and when she finally looked up at me with those big, steady eyes, every line I’d practiced in the shower left my head.
So I did the only thing my face knows how to do when it panics. I smiled.
“Oops. My bad.”
Then I winked. Why did I wink. I grabbed the eraser, walked back to my chair like a normal person, sat down, and put my forehead on the desk.
“Smooth,” Migs said.
She didn’t even blink.
ERIN
When the last bell rang, I was the first one out. I hate the hallway crowd on normal days. On the last day, with everyone hugging and crying and promising to keep in touch, it was worse.
But somehow PJ beat me to the gate. He was under the mango tree with three girls from the Glee Club, all of them laughing, one of them writing something on a scrap of paper.
Of course. His number, probably. Or theirs.
I put my earphones in. No music—I never play music when I walk, I like hearing what’s around me—but earphones mean nobody talks to you. I walked right past them, eyes on the gate, steady steps.
If he thought one eraser and a wink were enough, he didn’t know me at all.
Which, to be fair, he didn’t.
PJ
“Please,” I said. “Just ask her. What books she likes. What track she’s taking in senior high. Anything.”
Chloe didn’t even try to hide her smile. She was already writing down everything she knew about Erin on the back of an old quiz: her favorite author, the iced coffee she always buys at the school canteen, the fact that she reads during recess instead of eating.
“The great Peter Jameson,” she said. “Begging for intel on the quiet girl.”
“Chloe. I’m serious.” My voice came out wrong, cracked like I was thirteen again. “This is my last chance.”
And then Erin walked past us.
Earphones in. Eyes forward. Two meters away, and she didn’t turn her head once.
I opened my mouth to call her name. Nothing came out.
Three people were talking to me, and I’d never felt more invisible in my life.
ERIN
The rain came out of nowhere, the kind of rain that doesn’t care it’s supposed to be summer.
Every tricycle that passed—those little motorbike taxis with sidecars—was already full. I stood in the waiting shed with my bag over my head, wet from the shoulders down, calculating how long the walk home would take.
Then someone stopped in front of me.
PJ. Soaked. His white polo stuck to him, hair dripping into his eyes, breathing like he’d run the whole way from the building. In his hand was a big black umbrella. Closed. Completely dry.
He pushed it at me. “Take it.”
“You’re—” Wet, I was going to say. You have an umbrella and you’re wet.
But he was already gone, running back into the rain with his hands over his head.
I looked down. There was a sticky note taped around the handle, wrapped in plastic so the rain couldn’t ruin it. His handwriting was terrible.
Don’t forget me when I’m gone, okay? —PJ
I read it three times.
Then I told myself the same thing I always did. He’s like this with everyone.
But I held that umbrella with both hands the whole way home.
PJ
The rain started while I was still under the mango tree, and I saw her in the shed with her bag over her head.
I ran back to my locker. The umbrella had been sitting there all week with the note already taped on, waiting for the right moment. The right moment never came, so the rain made one for me.
I didn’t open it on the way to her. I think if I’d stopped to open it, I would’ve lost my nerve.
She looked up at me, and I couldn’t say anything good. Just “Take it.” Six years, and I had two words.
Then I ran.
I told myself it was just rain on my face.
It wasn’t only the rain.
