Follow Her

As the school bell rung out, Mrs. Jenkins first hour Advanced History class began. Similar to the other classes offered at the private high school for academically inclined students, the class was designed to cover a simple topic - in this case, American history.

The Monday morning was somber and gray. An overcast greedily hoarded all of the sunlight to itself without sparing so much as a single ray. But, yet it was loud. Like a parasite, the rain seemed to attack the school windows, shaking the glass panes as each drop ferociously slammed itself up against it, as if it was trying its best to draw attention to itself. While the weather seemingly tried to get the students' attention, they paid no mind. Instead, they paid heed to their teacher, calling names off of her clipboard at the front of the class. She aimed to cross out all the 20 sophomore's names on her list, and then she would be done. It was a simple task fit for a simple woman. Her eyes were glued to the tip of her pencil as it made a rigid line through each name she called and received an answer from. She then called another name and waited for a response.

“Misty Sumters.”

No response.

She waited for a moment, her class so silent it seemed everyone was holding their breath. She tapped her pencil on the clipboard with a tense sign and called the name again.

No one moved a muscle.

The rain, hearing the girl's name called, let out a bitter cry and began to throw itself against the windows even harder. After watching Mrs. Jenkins sigh and circle the girl’s name in disappointment before moving on, it retreated in utter disappointment. It had wanted to be heard. For once it had something to say. And as always, it was ignored.

Sitting in the back of the classroom, a girl stared out of the window, watching the rain retreat. Watching it, she felt a tug at her heart. She felt as if the air left her lungs the same way the rain withdrew from the windows. Her mind spinning, she looked over at the empty seat beside her and frowned. What was so important to Misty that she was absent? And why, as Misty’s best friend, was she not informed of it?

Looking down at the notebook on her desk, a faint smile crawled across her lips as her gaze met the bottom corner, rereading the words that were surrounded by designs. ‘Property of Misty and Jessica’ it read. It was the notebook they shared, always alternating turns on who took notes one day so the other could simply sit and listen. Jessica gave it a last once-over before opening it to begin taking notes. So clean you could see you’re own reflection on it, Mrs. Jenkins's whiteboard was quickly being filled with the teacher's elegant penmanship. Jessica remembered how jealous Misty always seemed over Mrs. Jenkin's handwriting. The teacher’s almost perfect handwriting was such a minor detail in her life, but such a huge annoyance to Misty for some reason. Jessica would roll her eyes with an amused smile whenever Misty complained about it after class. In a way, she realized it was Misty's pet-peeve. Remembering how when Mrs. Jenkins would put the chalk to the board Misty would glance over at Jessica and give her the look, the girl felt her smile widen. Looking over at the desk beside her, it took her a moment to recall that Misty wasn’t there - and by the time she had remembered, she was already staring at the empty desk beside her. Her face heating up, Jessica turned away from Misty’s desk, wondering if she had already lost her best friend.

It would be a very, very long time before that feeling would go away.

~

After first hour, a boy wandered through the halls, his eyes diligently searching for a certain girl. She would have her nose so far into a book she wouldn’t even notice his presence at first, a pencil tucked behind her ear, and would be absentmindedly walking through the halls oblivious to the world around her. At least, that's what he had come to expect.

She had been on his mind all weekend, so much so that she had been his first thought when he’d woken up this morning. He had come close to kissing her last Friday, everything had been going perfect until it wasn't anymore. He and Misty had sat on a park bench talking for at least half an hour before there was a lull in the conversation and he began to lean in. When she moved in response, he shut his eyes and tried to calm his racing heart. It had been the perfect move at the perfect time, and he had even felt butterflies stir in his stomach. But after moments of just the air on his patient lips, he had opened his eyes to see her gone, walking down the path leading to her bike.

He had barely made it home and slammed his bedroom door before the first tear fell. Ever since that moment he had felt devastated, humiliated, and most concerning to him - scared. Scared that he had made a move too soon. Scared that she might not give him a second chance. He felt so stupid.

Jesus, he'd been repeating to himself in his head all weekend. I am such an idiot.

He finally realized what his problem was when he woken up Saturday morning, gasping for air as the realization hit. He was in love with her. With Misty. And he felt that he had ruined possibly the only opportunity to win her heart. The weekend away from her seemed to only make his heart grow fonder.

He called her countless times that weekend, leaving voicemail after voicemail apologizing and asking for her simply to pick up the phone and call him back.

He had received no calls back.

He left dozens of texts, asking if not for her heart, then for her forgiveness.

He had seen the read receipts, evidence that she had indeed seen his texts, and yet he did not receive a single reply.

She had cast him aside, now treating him like a criminal for what he’d done. But somehow, this didn’t make him angry at her. It made him furious at himself, that he had rushed in too quickly and made such a big mistake.

He had hoped to see her in the hallway after first period and walk her to her next class like normal. He hoped that she would hear him out as he apologized, see how sorry he was, how head-over-heels for her he was, and forgive him. And if not, if she wouldn’t hear him out? He would talk to her, explain everything, and hope that she opened her ears and heart to him. He hoped things could go back to the normal that they had established, and that they would be able to move on from the little hiccup in the road that he had created.

But it was obvious at this point that that would not be the case.

She simply wasn’t there.

He stood on his toes, his eyes darting frantically up and down the hallway once more before he gave up. Feeling the weight of his actions begin to come crashing down on him, he fell onto his heels, his shoulders falling, and he began his trek to his next hour class - a deep, throbbing pain beginning in his chest that made it hard to breathe.

He had messed up, and she had cast him aside for his actions, never to be forgiven. She was done with him.

He felt a wave of grief wash over him, and to his absolute horror, tears began to well in his eyes. Blinking rapidly to try to avoid the tears from spilling down his face, he desperately tried to cover them up before he became humiliated. Boys weren’t supposed to cry. He had been taught that fact from a very young age. Boys were supposed to be manly, and a man didn’t cry.

The thing was, he didn’t feel very manly right about then.

With his head hanging low, he let the crowd pull him away. He was surrounded by people who didn’t know what had happened between him and Misty, and who didn’t care that she was gone.

She was already fading away.