Good Boys Don't Look

I knew something was wrong the second I walked in.

Ms Harland never smiled unless someone brought her a Starbucks or she was about to ruin someone’s week. Today she was grinning like she’d swallowed a secret.

“Take your seats, folks,” she said. “We’re pairing off for the group project.”

There it was.

I slid into my usual desk near the middle... just enough to not be noticed, not enough to be called on.

She clicked on the overhead projector, and the list lit up the whiteboard.

Names. Pairs. No arguing.

I scanned for mine.

There it was.

Caleb Thatcher & Eli McDowell.

My stomach dropped like the floor had shifted under me.

I didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just leaned back in my chair and pretended it didn’t mean anything.

Eli walked in a second later, carrying that same spiral notebook and a cheap Bic pen. He glanced at the board, saw our names, and nothing.

No reaction.

He just walked past me and dropped into the seat to my right without a word.

I kept my eyes forward.

Ms Harland started her usual monologue about “exploring emotional landscapes in Southern Gothic literature”, but all I could hear was the tap... tap... tap of Eli’s pen against the desk.

Not looking at him felt harder than breathing.

He smelt like clean soap and a little sweat. Not cologne. Not like he was trying.

Just... him.

I didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But every nerve in my shoulder was burning like he was too close.

“You read As I Lay Dying yet?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

His voice was level, low, like we were talking in a church pew instead of a classroom. Like the words didn’t mean anything.

“Half of it”, I muttered.

That was a lie.

I’d read the whole damn thing in two nights. Couldn't stop.

He tapped his pen once against the desk. “What’d you think?”

“I think Faulkner needed a therapist.”

That got a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile, exactly. Just enough to say he heard me.

We were supposed to fill out some sheet together... character arcs, themes, or whatever else Ms Harland thought counted as comprehension. I let Eli write. His handwriting was tight and neat, every line slanted forward like it couldn’t wait to be done.

“You think Darl’s crazy?” he asked.

“He talks like someone who thinks too much and can’t say it right.”

“So… yes.”

I shrugged. “He’s not the only one who doesn’t belong.”

Eli stopped writing for half a second.

Just a breath.

Then his pen moved again. “You mean Jewel?”

“I mean all of ‘em.”

He nodded like he agreed but didn’t want to say so out loud.

We went quiet.

The rest of the room buzzed... papers rustling, chairs scraping, someone two rows over whispering about a party this weekend. But our little two-foot radius felt locked off. Like we were underwater again, like the quarry was following us here.

Eli didn’t look at me once while we talked.

I didn’t look at him either.

But somehow, it still felt like we saw too much.

Eli kept writing.

I should’ve looked at the paper too. Should’ve focused on the next question about themes or metaphors or something that didn’t matter.

Instead, I looked at his hand.

His fingers were long, knuckles a little bony, veins faint under pale skin. He pressed down too hard when he wrote... his pen left grooves in the page. His nails were short and clean.

I looked away.

Then back.

His jaw tensed slightly when he thought. That same tick he had back when we were kids, chewing at the inside of his cheek like the words were trying to fight their way out.

His lashes were dark. Eyes sharp. Focused.

I didn’t know what I was looking for.

I just knew I shouldn’t be.

One more glance.

Just one.

And that’s when he caught me.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

Just paused mid-word.

His pen hovered above the paper.

Then, slowly, he turned his head... just enough to see me from the corner of his eye.

It wasn’t a question.

Wasn’t a challenge.

Just... there.

Like: I see you. I always did.

I looked away fast.

Too fast.

Stared hard at the corner of my desk like it had answers written in the wood grain.

The air felt thicker.

He didn’t look at me again.

But he didn’t have to.

The damage was already done.

The room hadn’t changed.

Same cracked whiteboard. Same dusty plastic blinds half-drawn against the sun. Same posters about irony and metaphor peeling at the corners.

But something felt off.

I could feel it before I saw it.

A tingle at the back of my neck. The kind of quiet that means someone’s watching you... not curious, but looking.

I shifted in my seat.

Slow.

Tried to make it subtle.

And there it was.

Tyler Crane. Second row, third seat from the window. Quarterback. Jacket tied around his waist like he thought it made him look casual.

He wasn’t doing the assignment. He wasn’t pretending to.

He was looking straight at me.

Eyes narrowed. Head tilted slightly. Like he couldn’t decide what he was seeing, but he didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

I didn’t look away first.

I wanted to.

But I didn’t.

He smirked.

Not a smile.

Not friendly.

Just that curl at the edge of his mouth that said, I saw you.

Then he turned back to his partner, laughed at something, and said a little too loudly, “Some people get real into Faulkner.”

A few kids chuckled.

It wasn’t aimed at anyone in particular.

Didn’t have to be.

The fire was lit.

And in Pinegate, rumour spreads faster than brushfire.

I kept my eyes on the worksheet after that.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t move more than I had to.

Eli finished the rest of the questions without asking for my input. Just scribbled down what he thought and pushed the paper halfway toward me when he was done, like I was supposed to sign my name to it and pretend we were a team.

But I didn’t read it.

Couldn’t.

All I could think about was the smirk on Tyler Crane’s face.

The way his voice had stretched around that one sentence like taffy. Some people get really into Faulkner.

I’d heard it before.

Not that line. But the tone.

The joke that wasn’t a joke. The laugh that carried too far. The way a room could tilt against you without anyone saying your name.

Freshman year, there was a kid named Paul who wore skinny jeans and knew all the words to every Tori Amos song. He got cornered behind the gym one afternoon. Just a bruise on the jaw and a cracked phone screen. Nothing major, they said. Nothing to make a fuss about.

He transferred by the end of the week.

People said he “moved upstate”.

But I knew better.

I remembered.

I always remembered.

Because Pinegate Hollow doesn’t have room for soft things.

Especially not boys who look too long.

Especially not at other boys.

And especially not when they get seen.