High School Sweethearts

I watch the clock’s hands slowly spin, clicking my pen mindlessly as I wait for the bell to ring. My legs swing over the bar of my chair, and I clutch my bag, ready to throw it over my shoulder the moment class ends. I always make sure I sit either closest to the door or all the way in the back—anywhere I can make the quickest escape.

The bell finally rings, and I leap out of my seat, rushing out of the room and pushing past random students on my way to the front doors. An intrusive thought creeps into my mind—my boyfriend cheating on me with another girl—and I cringe at the mental image. Shaking my head aggressively helps me shove it away.

Back in reality, an eerie hush has fallen over the school, leaving only the echoes of slamming lockers in what feels like a prison. I glance around for any friends who might still be hanging around, but the halls are practically deserted. A few of them are loitering by the doors, but they don’t seem interested in talking.

I hate this school. It feels like a prison—mall-cop wannabes wandering the halls, acting like they own the place, and not a window in sight. It’s pathetic.

Most of the students have already left for the day, and the few who remain ignore me. I guess that’s the perk of being an outcast. Sure, I’ve got friends, but only a handful I’d call close. Mostly, I prefer acquaintances—people I hang out with at school and nowhere else. My real friends are just as weird as I am, and most of them are guys. I always blamed my dad for disappearing on me, like that gave me some excuse or explanation for why I’m drawn to them.

I tug my headphones from my pocket, switching on my battered red MP3 player. It barely holds ten albums, and I’m sick of half of them. I really need to find new music. I can’t stand another track of Eminem or the other garbage my mom loaded onto this thing for me.

I cross the parking lot toward the football field—the only thing this school seems to care about, judging by how often they brag about their winning team. Climbing onto the school’s iconic painted rock, I notice this year’s design: huge red letters reading “pc4pc,” a Myspace caption practically begging for comments. I smirk at their pathetic attempt at being interesting. Just three more years, and I’ll have a say in what gets slapped on this stupid rock.

What a ridiculous thing to care about, I think, shaking my head to clear away the mental image of me painting over it.

I reach into my messenger bag, pulling out my composition notebook and flipping to the last page I was working on. Then I dig around for the pen I just had in class, wasting more time than I’d like—and stabbing myself on some sharp object in the front pocket. Just my luck.

I’m currently immersed in a vampire love triangle I’ve been writing for a few weeks, pure escapism to disappear into, even for a few minutes. This story is my secret, a world untouched by anyone else. I have this thing I can do in my head, I can create anything from just a thought, its part of the reason I started writing fan fiction in middle school, I had better ideas than the movies I watched. The Legend of Zorro, for example; I rewrote it so his wife never left him, because they were so in love in the first film, it just didn’t make sense for her to leave. I also invented a sub-world in Pirates of the Caribbean where a female lead was in love with Jack Sparrow and happened to be Barbossa’s daughter. My notebooks however, are full of unfinished stories and half-formed ideas. But this is the first story I’ve made up entirely on my own—if you don’t count borrowing from Twilight.

Glancing down at my phone to make sure my mom didn’t message me, before shoving it in my pocket again. She warned me earlier that she’d be out with my grandma and would swing by when she could. My mother works nights and spends her days caring for my stepdad’s mom, who lives right next door. Some days, I get lucky and a friend drives me home. But today, I’m perfectly content relaxing outside in the nice weather.I glance down at my lap, trying to immerse myself in the story I’m writing, when a soft giggle behind me makes me freeze. Before I can react, my notebook is ripped from my hands. I let out a low growl, glaring up at the thief.

Carla.

“Xavier, please bite me!” she reads aloud, her voice dripping with mockery. Carla, my boyfriend’s sister and self-proclaimed chaos-maker, smirks smugly while holding my notebook just out of reach.“Carla!” Growling, I stand up to show her I wasn’t messing around. “Give it back!” I snap, reaching up in a failed attempt to grab it. She just laughs, waving it overhead like a prize she won.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Brendon strolling toward us with his usual “too cool to care” attitude, his gaze already drifting elsewhere—probably to someone else he finds more interesting than this little drama unfolding in front of him.

“Brendon!” I shout, waiting for some acknowledgment, but he doesn’t even glance my way.

My eyes follow his line of sight, irritation knotting with disappointment as he exchanges a smirk with Nicole, who leans a little too close to him.

“Sirina, stop it. You know I can’t let you suffer the way I have,” Carla continues. Dancing around in circles as she flips through the pages of my story, laughing.

My cheeks burn with embarrassment as I notice more people drifting toward us, their curious gazes zeroing in on our little scene. I don’t recognize most of them—they look older, probably Nicole’s friends. A girl with dramatic eyeliner and purple streaks in her hair leans in to whisper something to the guy next to her, her lips curving into a mocking smirk. He snickers, and I can feel the heat in my face grow. My stomach twists itself into knots, setting off a frantic fight-or-flight spiral in my head.

My hand tightens around the pen I’m holding. I lunge forward, gripping it so hard my knuckles ache, and stab it straight into Carla’s arm. I can practically see her smug expression morph into shock, her laughter cut off by the pen stuck out of her skin, the notebook falling from her grasp. The image burns vivid and hot, like a movie reel on repeat, impossible to switch off. I jerk my head, forcing the images to fade, and when my vision clears, Carla’s smug face is still right there, unscathed.

“Relax, Sirina,” Carla drawled, clearly amused. “I’m just giving you some free publicity.” Her friends laughed as I made another desperate grab for my notebook. My face burned, a mix of embarrassment and anger threatening to boil over. But before I could reach it, a hand shot out and snatched the notebook from Carla’s grip.

“Leave her alone,” a deep, calm voice said. It belonged to a boy I’d never seen before—a tall, older student with dark, curly hair that fell to his shoulders, framing green eyes that seemed to catch the sunlight. He gently smoothed the crumpled pages before closing the notebook and offering it back to me.

My breath hitched as I took it from him, our fingers brushing briefly. He held my gaze a second longer than I expected, and a warm, buzzing feeling rose in my chest. He was dressed entirely in black—T-shirt, cargo pants, trench coat, and combat boots.

I jolted when I felt my boyfriend’s hands slip around my waist, my body tensing at the contact. this is wrong, he shouldn’t be touching me. The older student glanced my way again before turning back to his friends. Slightly embarrassed, I turn to face my boyfriend, who had already pulled away from me, and I quickly peck him on the lips.

“Hey,” I whispered, our lips still close after the kiss.

“Hey,” he murmurs back.

Letting another wave of cringe wash over me, I can practically feel their stares and hear their quiet giggles. I try to brush it off—after all, it’s not like I’ll ever see these upperclassmen again. Who would want to hang out with a bunch of freshmen, anyway?

Brendan turns to his sister, freeing me from his hold. I quickly back away from him, I really gotta break up with him. “What did I tell you about bothering Sirina? Leave her alone!” He snaps before turning away to chat with other people.

Carla rolls her eyes and resumes talking with her friends. “I was only trying to get her story out into the world,” she says, her voice rough, as if she’s been smoking since birth. She’s clearly trying to look good in front of Brendan’s older friends.

Brendan and Carla are both my age—twins, I’m pretty sure—but I’ve never cared enough to confirm. Brendan calls himself goth, but it’s really just the typical emo style: band tees, skinny jeans, and that same haircut every other emo kid has. I, on the other hand, am more into the metalheads—guys with long, unruly hair who thrash around to all the old-school metal tracks.

Mustering my courage, I approach the three guys standing off to the side, all of them goofing off. They’re practicing their deathcore growls, then laughing at themselves when they finish. The shorter one grins the way I do, the kind of smile that takes over ones cheeks and half-hides yo eyes. Meanwhile, the tallest guy seems more reserved—he’s lanky, at least six feet tall, with hair that’s curly but thankfully not flat-ironed to death.

“Hey, I um, just wanted to say thanks,” I stutter, aware that my nose is probably turning red—my body’s obnoxious way of telling people something was wrong with me, but maybe they wouldn’t notice and maybe I wouldn’t be made fun of for it, silent laughing would be better than Rudolph jokes.

He looks down at me, and nerves begin pooling in my stomach. My first instinct is to leave—I’ve never fit in with the goth crowd before, so why would they accept me now? Yet something about him holds me rooted to the spot. My heart pounds, warning me to run, but the quiet confidence in his eyes pins me in place. I should flee before I embarrass myself. But even as the thought crosses my mind, I can’t tear myself away from the possibility—maybe, just maybe, he sees something in me worth noticing.

“No problem,” he replies, lips curving into a half-smile.“Ugh,” Carla huffs in the background, but I barely notice. My eyes dart between the three guys and the ground.“Hey, what’s your name?” I ask, forcing the words out before I can talk myself out of it.

Standing among these older guys sends my brain into panic mode. Unbidden images flicker through my mind—kissing, clawing, teasing, fucking—making my cheeks burn. Great, now I’m a perv. I start to turn on my heel, ready to leave with whatever pride I have left.

“Jordan,” he answers quickly. His two friends drift away, giving us a bit of space.“Sirina,” I manage, introducing myself. My cheeks grow warmer, and my palms begin to sweat, dampening the sleeves of my hoodie. I cringe at the sensation. Disgusting.

My stomach twists in knots. I never felt anything like this with Brendan. Glancing back at my so-called boyfriend, the butterflies disappear when I see he’s already drifting off toward his friends. Nicole and her best friend, Leandra, wander over to him. Nicole’s short and stocky compared to her tall, skinny friend, and she leans against Brendan’s side, laughing at something he says. It might have bothered me if I actually cared about him—but I don’t.

Jordan’s presence, on the other hand, makes me forget everything else. The embarrassment, the drama, even Brendan, who’s now thoroughly absorbed in conversation with Nicole. Good, I think. She can have him.

“Sirina,” Jordan says, testing my name on his lips. God, those lips. The thought sends a shiver down my back, leaving a warmth throughout my body. I can’t believe how strong this attraction is—especially for someone I just met. “Cute,” he mutters, giving me that half smirk that could make my knees buckle if I let it.

Then Jordan’s gaze trails to my waist, and he raises an eyebrow. “Why is your belt backwards?”I pause, not really sure how to answer. I don’t have a good reason other than I thought it looked cool.

I shrug. “So it’s harder to get my pants off,” I quip, surprising myself with the flirty comeback. My heart thumps in my chest as I brace for whatever he’ll say next.

Jordan laughs, the sound wrapping itself around me. “I could still get into your pants just as easily,” he murmurs, stepping closer. I’m shaking with nerves, but I can’t help flirting back.

“I’d like to see you try,” I say, stumbling backward. Jordan’s quick reflexes keep me from landing on my butt. “Sorry,” I mumble, cheeks burning. “I’m clumsy.”

He gives me a warm, friendly smile—an unexpected expression that makes my stomach flutter. I smile back, trying to hide the tangle of emotions churning inside me. Part of me wants him to yank my belt off, showing me just how dominate he can be, while another part is intimidated by the intensity in his eyes.

That spark of challenge gleams in his gaze. Without missing a beat, his fingers brush my waist as he undoes the belt. “Don’t threaten me with a good time,” he whispers in my ear. A surge of discomfort washes over me; he’s a lot more flirtatious than I’m used to, and I’m not so sure I can keep up.

He slips my white studded belt through the loops of my skinny jeans effortlessly, holding it up like a trophy as he flashes that same devastating grin. My face heats up, embarrassment mingling with a flicker of excitement, leaving me dizzy.

“Hey! Give it back!” I shout, watching him saunter off backwards with my belt draped over his shoulder. My emotions whirl in confusion—part frustration, part thrill. Who is he, and why help me at all if he’s just going to tease me? Maybe I should let him keep the belt.

Before I can make up my mind, a sharp voice rings out from the far side of the parking lot. “Jordan!”

We both turn to see a girl standing on the curb, arms crossed. She’s dressed like a typical mall goth: short red hair, skinny frame, heavy eyeliner—what my family calls “raccoon eyes.” I don’t recognize her, but the scowl on her face makes it clear she’s pissed. Whether it’s aimed at Jordan or at me doesn’t really matter.

Jordan rolls his eyes when he notices her. My heart flutters—he looks so perfect and feels so off-limits, yet I can’t stop myself from practically drooling over him.

“Who’s that?” I ask, glancing at the girl. I already know the answer, but part of me hopes I’m wrong.

“Jane,” he replies, voice edged with a low growl of annoyance. “My girlfriend.”

A barely concealed look of disgust crosses his face. He flinches when she calls his name again. Then his gaze returns to me, and his smile fades. A strange ache blooms in my chest—sadness? Jealousy? My thoughts race as I wrack my brain. trying to understand these emotions. No way I’m falling in love after just one interaction... right?

“Oh.” The word slips out of my mouth, leaving my throat dry and my chest tight. I swallow hard. “My belt?” I ask, quietly and hesitantly. A part of me hopes he won’t leave yet, that he’ll find some excuse to stick around just a little longer.

Jordan gives me a gentler smile this time. Breathe, Sirina. I remind myself. He’s just a guy—a really hot guy. Still, I can’t shake the fear that he’ll see me as some poser goth kid he can’t wait to ditch.

My heart pounds wildly when our fingers brush, sending a rush of heat to my cheeks.“Next time, I’m keeping it,” Jordan says, his tone light and teasing. Despite this being our first meeting, he’s surprisingly flirty with me.

“Thanks,” I manage, trying to sound casual. Jordan’s hand is unexpectedly soft—he’s not overly muscular, but the subtle definition in his arms suggests he works out.

“See you around, Sirina,” he adds, waving goodbye. The warm smile he wore a moment ago has vanished, replaced by something more subdued.

As he turns away, I realize I’ve been holding my breath. Part of me feels silly, but another part buzzes with excitement. I haven’t felt like this in a long time, and every bit of me wants to chase that feeling.

I sneak a glance back at him one last time, hoping he’ll look my way. He does. Our eyes meet, and a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips. There’s something captivating in that smile, an almost tangible charisma. A pang of jealousy twists in my gut when I notice Jane clinging to his hoodie, trying to pull him away. Jordan shrugs her off and keeps walking, eventually settling against a wall on the opposite side of the parking lot. Jane glares daggers at him, yelling words I can’t make out, but he pays her no mind.

Turning back to my so-called “friends,” I see Brendan deep in conversation with Nicole, leaning closer than I’d like. I know I should end things—walk away and free myself from this mess. But I don’t. I’m too scared of being alone, too anxious about how it might feel with no one there, too convinced that maybe this is all I deserve.

So I stay, rooted in place, pretending not to care.

I pull my flip phone from my pocket, hinges creaking as I open it. The screen’s dull glow makes it hard to read the messages in the sunlight, so I shield it with my sleeve. With a sigh, I realize the only messages waiting for me are from my mom. My thumb hovers over the button for a moment, dreading what I’ll find: another guilt-tripping reminder of my faults, a passive-aggressive request, or a critique of my latest behavior.

Still, I press forward and click through each text. The tiny font on the screen is difficult to make out, forcing me to squint. My stomach tightens with every message, a familiar surge of frustration and irritation bubbling inside me.

I’ll be there in 10 minutes.

Pulling into the parking lot.

I’m here, where are you?

Hello? Answer the phone.

I snap the phone shut, letting the silence settle for a moment before tucking it back into my pocket.

With a sigh, I pull my phone back out and text my mom, letting her know I’m by the bleachers, not the front doors. Within moments, her bright blue minivan rounds the corner and pulls up in front of me and my friends—classic embarrassing mom move. Waving goodbye, I head over to the van, taking one last glance at Jordan as he laughs with his own friends. His girlfriend is clinging to his arm again, and a pang of jealousy twists my stomach. I force myself to shake it off, slipping into my mom’s van and putting in one headphone as I buckle my seatbelt.

“How was school?” she asks, her tone already carrying that familiar edge that makes me tense up.

“Fine,” I say, my gaze drifting back toward the cluster of students by the pool doors, where Jordan and his friends are still lingering. He’s making jokes to his taller friend, laughing so effortlessly it almost makes me smile. I press my finger against the window, pointing in their direction. “See that guy?”

She follows my finger, narrowing her eyes. “Which one?”

“The one with the curly hair,” I clarify, though I’m not sure she’s even really looking. My eyes stay glued to him, admiring his ability to bring people together.

The silence from her speaks volumes: she’s irritated that I’m interested in another guy. What can I say? I’m filling the void my nonexistent dad left. “Maybe stop focusing on boys and focus a little harder on school,” she says, tearing out of the parking lot. Her words sharp enough to yank me out of my daydream.

“Oh my god, Mom, he’s got a girlfriend,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. How she missed the girl hanging on Jordan’s arm is beyond me.

She thinks every guy I date is a bad idea and that my only priority should be school—yet she still expects me to have friends and go out. I’m constantly grounded or having my things taken away, with my “friends” lumped into that category more often than not.

“You need to get your head out of your ass and focus on school,” she continues, my skin burning from the rage simmering inside.

Red marks form on my knees as I dig my nails deeper into my flesh. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, hoping the apology will be enough to end this conversation.

But the berating doesn’t stop. “How many classes are you failing already? I mean, come on, Sirina—you’re only a freshman, and you’re already failing every single class.”Ouch, don’t remind me.

It’s not my fault I don’t understand what’s going on in school. Nobody seems to want to help me, and nobody ever mentioned the after-school programs I could join. I feel so alone. No matter how many excuses my mom makes for herself, she’s been the catalyst for my failures.

I drop my gaze, my mind beginning to shut down as I pull at the fringe on my jeans, my body too rigid to move—leaving me with only my thoughts. A dull ache settles in my chest. It’s not like I want to fail. Homework feels impossible, and whenever I ask for help, I feel brushed off, like there isn’t enough time or patience for one more struggling student.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I repeat, knowing full well my words are falling on deaf ears. She has to realize by now I’m upset, but she doesn’t let up.

Instead, she goes on, each word cutting deeper, leaving me convinced there’s no point in talking to her. I stare out the window, longing for a better life, and tune her out with my music. I wish I could be back at that rock—were, for just a moment, I felt happy, even if he was taken.

But here I am, trapped in a car with the one person I can’t wait to escape. Her words echo in my mind, while the memory of Jordan’s brief touch fades from my mind, somehow it lingers on my fingertips, as though he’s already claimed a tiny, bright corner of my heart.