Chapter 1
The first day of senior year had the smell of new notebooks and floor wax. And also the anxiety of forty teenagers performing an improved version of themselves for an audience doing exactly the same thing.
A boy arrived in the first period with six more minutes to spare, which represented the absolute unhurriedness and lack of enthusiasm he had for school. He found a desk in the front row because front row desks were the only ones guaranteed to have four functioning legs , possibly schools favouring the front seaters? He didn't know , and he sat down.
He had dark hair with a doubt on its maintenance. He was sleepy eyed and was dressed in the simple tee and jeans combination , probably the first thing he thought after waking up. His general expression was that of a person who had read too much nineteenth century literature and internalized it. He had, in fact, read a great deal of nineteenth century literature.
He looked around the room.
The walls were the shade of beige that existed exclusively in institutions. Meaning to say that once you sit here , there is no valid exit. Just like hospitals and DMV waiting rooms. Some of his classmates had new haircuts. Several had new shoes. One girl had a notebook that said “main character” on it in block letters, which Oliver felt was quite a display of her unhealthy self esteem.
Why do schools think it's a good idea to make the classrooms look more like a psych ward each year, he thought to himself.
Then a fist connected with his back.
"OLIVER! MY MAN!"
A tall boy with ginger hair dropped into the seat directly behind him. This was Harrison , Oliver's friend since second grade. Eleven weird years of tolerance from Oliver's side.
Oliver offered him the smile of a man slowly waking up from sleep.
He turned back to the front just as the guidance counselor appeared in the doorway.
The man was smiling. Oliver had seen this smile before on the faces of people selling things, people running for office, and people introducing segments on morning television. He knew the smile was the human equivalent to the free trial subscription for a billion dollar music app. And he also knew that the counselor would turn back into the salty underpaid adult who is still deeply regretting his psychology degree , by the next Tuesday.
"Good morning, my dear students!" The counselor clapped his hands together. "I'm pretty sure you're all so excited for senior year! Enjoy it thoroughly , this is the last time you will live through school. It's time to build your legacy!"
He walked around the room with the confidence of a man expecting applause, and his gaze landed on Oliver, who was looking back at him with the expression of absolutely nothing underneath.
The counselor pointed at him.
"You there, dear gentleman! Are you going to enjoy senior year?"
Oliver opened his eyes properly like as if he heard an alarm ringtone he hates with every cell in his body. He identified the question being asked , and he answered.
"Yes," he said, in a tone of such careful politeness it could not technically be argued with. "I'm really looking forward to it. Especially since the teachers won't give multiple assignments and exams that cut into our social life."
The counselor received this as a tribute to the faculty's dedication.
"Such a sweet answer! I hope you have a great year. Well, students, I'll leave you now. Best of luck!"
He left. Oliver's eyelids were about to close again when
The classroom door opened.
Charlotte Reed walked in.
Her arrival rearranged the atmospheric conditions of the room without any apparent effort on her part. Her blonde hair moved with her like in a slow motion product advertisement. Her eyes carried a strange and heavy magnetism that made every guy in the room feel like she was reaching into their chests and gripping their hearts just by looking at them. She was scanning the classroom like Napoleon inspecting every woman in Paris before he stripped them of their civil rights. She was overdressed for a public high school at eight in the morning. But Oliver would be a liar if he claimed she didn't look completely breathtaking.
Twenty two male students arrived at the same conclusion simultaneously and in total silence after looking at her.
Oliver arrived at the same conclusion. She was objectively and unreasonably beautiful, as if Aphrodite herself had taken a human form. Though , he had not spoken more than ten words to her in all the years they had been in this school.
He then checked the seating chart.
It had placed her directly to his right.
Oliver’s stomach dropped. He checked it twice in the hope that he had misread it.
He had not misread it.
Charlotte located her desk and stopped beside him. She looked at him directly without any preliminary warmup or social softening.
"Hold this for me, please," she said.
A black leather shoulder bag went down from her hand into his arms before he had finished processing the sentence. Saint Laurent. He recognized the brand of the bag, worth roughly three months of Oliver's allowance. She handed it off as if he were a medieval peasant who had been stationed at the desk specifically to cater to her convenience.
She sat down and smoothed her skirt, and crossed her ankles without a worry in the world.
Oliver kept holding her bag as he waited for the natural next step, which was her taking it back.
Five seconds passed by.
He cleared his throat.
Charlotte noticed his lingering gaze and turned her head, her brow arching with subtle annoyance.
"What? I'm not holding that for the rest of class," she said simply. "The floor is also far too dirty. Keep it with you and return it to me at the end of class."
Oliver processed this.
"How is that my problem?" he asked.
Charlotte looked at him as she found the question itself exhausting.
"Now I understand why I've never heard even a rumor about any girl dating you." she said.
Oliver opened his mouth.
Before anything coherent could emerge from it, a shadow fell across Charlotte's desk.
A boy with a confident smile arrived with ease as if he was rehearsing his own pickup lines since sixth grade. This was Edward , or as everybody likes to call him , Eddy. He leaned against the adjacent desk to Charlotte, and said
"Oh, hey Charlotte. Wow, it's great seeing you here. You really look so pretty." A pause, as he was about to say he was proud of. "If I was lucky in love, you know, I would've taken you straight to the church and married you right after high school."
The front row fell silent.
Charlotte remained as unfazed as she had been. She did not recoil and nor did she tense. She simply continued existing at her desk with the same energy she had before Eddy arrived, as she reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear , taking her sweet time with herself.
Oliver observed all of this.
He looked at Eddy.
He looked at Charlotte.
I have a bad feeling about this, he thought. Eddy has about three seconds before he's labelled into the worst stereotype about himself.
