CHAPTER 4: MEET CUTE

There was nothing special about room 3c–except that ‘He’ always locked the door behind him, even during lunch. I only noticed because I always passed by at exactly 12:04. Today, the door was open. He seemed to be in some kind of trance as he made his way past me into the busy hall way, clutching something under his jacket and checking over his shoulders, curiosity won over common sense and now here I was–in the woods–watching my crush of over a year dig a shallow hole in the frozen earth.

HOSEA

The gymnasium looms ahead as I make my way over with Derrick who is still chattering loudly beside me, unaware of the internal turmoil I’m facing. This isn’t new to me though, he always is. As I stand in front of the building the energy feels… different and I can guess why. The arrival of Mr. Sinclair has stirred up the stagnant air of Briarcliff, a ripple of something akin to excitement disturbing the usual calm. Even I, generally preferring the quiet solace of the library, feel a prickle of curiosity.

Whispers follow me like persistent shadows as I make my way through a throng of students.

“Did you see his eyes?” someone murmurs, a hint of awe in their voice.

“They say he’s French, oui oui,” another idiot speculates, his voice loud enough to wake the dead and with an equally irritating laugh. Even Derrick, ever the barometer of school gossip has simply declared, “He’s got that look you know?” I understood. There is an undeniable presence just the mention of his name carries and I can’t help but wonder what he had to do to earn a reputation that preceded him.

The gymnasium is a hive of anticipation, the usual roughhousing, increased by tenfold. The rest upperclassmen posture, pretending indifference while subtly adjusting their ties. The air seems charged, waiting for something to happen. It’s all starting to become too much. Tapping Derrick, I give a subtle apology and excuse myself outside to get some air. I had been stuck with Derrick all day since Xaden cancelled last minute claiming to be ill and I had just about had enough. The cool air on my skin is a welcome reprieve. It feels like I can finally be alone with myself and my thoughts–albeit the latter being depressing, I welcome it. I look around for something to settle down on as my legs begin to throb and just as I’m about to sit on a weathered bench, a shrill scream pierces through the air scattering my composure. The scream seemed to climb the scale of terror with chilling speed, a sound that physically stops breath, silencing the collective murmur in an instant and before I’m aware of what I’m doing, my legs are pumping in the direction of the scream. I can’t have someone die. Not again.

As I take the third corner I’ve seen so far, my heart is pummeling against my ribs, I finally see the source of the commotion. The sight that greets me is stark and disturbing. A younger boy, I can tell by his uniform pattern, his face contorted in a mask of unimaginable fear, lay on the floor, his body wracking from the tremors. It all feels so wrong. He looks too delicate for whatever made him like this. His eyes are wide and unfocused as he claws at his throat, his mouth open in a silent scream.

After a couple of minutes, I finally regain myself and that’s when it finally occurs to me. I wasn’t the first to reach him. A figure is knelt beside him, a picture of perfection. A pristine water pearl if you would. It’s all it takes for me to know that this is the, Mr. Sinclair. His movements are swift and sure; his expression is a study in focused concern. He radiates an unexpected authority, a steady presence in the face of escalating chaos.

He speaks in this soft manner. His voice is low, soothing. His words, a gentle counterpart to the boy’s silent agony.

“It’s alright. I’m here,” he murmurs, his tone both reassuring and firm. He gently guides the boys trembling hands away from his throat, his touch awfully tender.

“Breathe with me. Slowly. That’s it.”

I kneel beside them, a silent witness to this unfolding crisis. A wave of helplessness washes over me, the desperate desire to comfort rising by the minute but like always, I am useless. I always am when it matters the most. I watch as Mr. Sinclair’s calm demeanor seeps into the boy almost like magic cancelling out his frantic energy, a slow tide turning against the storm of his panic. Gradually, the violent tremors start to subside, the boy’s gasps evening out but the terror remained in his eyes, a deep seated fear and for the life of me I can’t figure out what he could be so afraid of. Then comes the stammering.

“They…they…they were…were…were…I…” He repeats these words over and over until he passes out.

Mr. Sinclair’s brows crease and his gaze intensifies even as he heaves the boy into his arms in one smooth motion. While his face isn’t exactly readable, I wonder what’s going through his mind.

“Infirmary…” He has the most beautiful pair of eyes I have ever seen. I almost don’t hear him speak the second time until someone nudges on my arm.

“What?”

“The infirmary, where is it?”

If it was possible, I’d have split into tiny bits and pieces right there and then. He had been speaking and I had been staring like a fool.

“I’ll show you, I doubt you’ve had the time for a tour yet.”

“Then by all means. Walk.”

All traces of the warmth he’d shown the boy earlier are long gone now. I give him a pointed look and turn on my heels, walking briskly in the direction of the infirmary. I can feel his eyes digging into my back but I don’t turn once until we reach the infirmary. As he hands the boy over to the nurse, I turn to leave seeing as I don’t have much use here anyway. A hand slips out and taps me on the shoulder. It’s the boy.

“Pl…please st…sta…stay.”

And that’s how I find myself standing in the chilly hallway across from a man who looks like he could snap my neck with one hand if he tried. He makes a movement to scratch the back of his head and I outwardly flinch. His only response is the narrowing of his eyes in my direction.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

This bag of meat has the audacity to grunt in response. He might be a beast for all I know. I scoff and start playing with my toes for entertainment and soon the nurse appears to put me out of my misery.

“Where’d you find this one?” she says with a chuckle in her tone.

“What?” I say before I can stop myself.

“He’s going on and on about dying. Lad says someone will kill him.”

A chill travels down the base of my spine at the mention of death. Since none of us make a move to say anything, she sees it as an opportunity to continue.

“Well this isn’t new since his file says ‘might have mental episodes’.”

The sigh I release is one of relief. No one is dying. There’s no murderer out there waiting to get me. I glance towards Mr. Sinclair and notice his hair is now disheveled due to the amount of times he has run his hand through the strands.

“First days am I right.” That, at least, earns me a chuckle, and with that my mind settles.