I instantly become aware of my legs and their inability to stand.
My mouth forgets how to speak.
My arms forget how to reach out to introduce the person they’re attached to.
My heart forgets to wait and get to know a girl before it starts to claw its way out of my chest to get to her.
Rachel.
Rachel.
Rachel, Rachel, Rachel.
She’s like poetry.
Like prose and love letters and lyrics, cascading down the
center
of
a
page.
Rachel, Rachel, Rachel.
I say her name over and over in my head, because I’m positive it’s the name of the next girl I’ll fall in love with.
I’m suddenly standing. Walking toward her. I might be smiling, pretending I’m not affected by those green eyes that I hope will one day be smiling just for me. Or that red-as-my-heart hair that doesn’t look like it’s been tampered with since God created it specifically with her in mind.
I’m talking to her.
I tell her my name is Miles.
I tell her she can follow me and I’ll show her the way to Mr. Clayton’s class.
I’m staring at her because she hasn’t spoken yet, but her nod is the nicest thing a girl has ever said to me.
I ask her where she’s from, and she tells me Arizona. “Phoenix,” she specifies.
I don’t ask her what brought her to California, but I do tell her my father does business in Phoenix a lot because he owns a few buildings there.
She smiles.
I tell her I’ve never been there but I’d like to go one day.
She smiles again.
I think she says it’s a nice town, but it’s hard to understand her words when all I hear in my head is her name.
Rachel.
I’m gonna fall in love with you, Rachel.
Her smile makes me want to keep talking, so I ask her another question as we pass Mr. Clayton’s room.
We keep walking.
She keeps talking, because I keep asking her questions.
She nods some.
She answers some.
She sings some.
Or it sounds that way.
We get to the end of the hallway, right when she says something about how she hopes she likes this school because she wasn’t ready to move away from Phoenix.
She doesn’t look happy about the move.
She doesn’t know how happy I am about the move.
“Where’s Mr. Clayton’s classroom?” she asks.
I stare at the mouth that just delivered that question. Her lips aren’t symmetrical. Her top lip is slightly thinner than her bottom lip, but you can’t tell until she talks. When words come out of her mouth, it makes me wonder why words are so much better coming from her mouth than any other mouth.
And her eyes. There’s no way her eyes aren’t seeing a prettier, more peaceful world than all the other eyes.
I stare at her for a few more seconds; then I point behind me and tell her we passed Mr. Clayton’s classroom.
Her cheeks grow a shade pinker, like my confession affected her in the same way she’s affecting me.
I smile again.
I nod my head toward Mr. Clayton’s class.
We walk in that direction.
Rachel.
You’re gonna fall in love with me, Rachel.
I open the door for her and let Mr. Clayton know that Rachel is new here. I also want to add, for the sake of all the other guys in the classroom, that Rachel is not theirs.
She’s mine.
But I don’t say anything.
I don’t have to, because the only one who needs to be aware that I want Rachel is Rachel.
She looks at me and smiles again, taking the only empty seat, all the way across the room.
Her eyes tell me she already knows she’s mine.
It’s just a matter of time.
I want to text Ian and tell her she isn’t hot. I want to tell him she’s volcanic, but he would laugh at that.
Instead, I discreetly take a picture of her from where I’m seated.
I send the picture in a message to Ian that says, “She’s gonna have all my babies.”
Mr. Clayton begins class.
Miles Archer becomes obsessed.
???
I met Rachel on Monday.
It’s Friday.
I’ve said nothing to her since the day we met. I don’t know why. We have three classes together. Every time I see her, she smiles at me like she wants me to talk to her. Every time I work up the courage, I talk myself down.
I used to be confident.
Then Rachel happened.
I gave myself until today. If I didn’t work up the courage by today, I’d be giving up my only shot with her. Girls like Rachel aren’t available for long.
If she’s even available.
I don’t know her story or if she’s wrapped up in a guy back in Phoenix, but there’s only one way to find out.
I’m standing next to her locker, waiting for her. She exits the classroom and smiles at me. I say “Hi” when she walks up to her locker. I notice that same subtle change in her skin color. I like that.
I ask how her first week was. She tells me it was fine. I ask her if she’s made any friends, and she shrugs as she says, “A few.”
I smell her, subtly.
She notices anyway.
I tell her she smells good.
She says, “Thank you.”
I push through the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. I push past the sheen of moisture developing on my palms. I drown out her name, which I keep wanting to repeat out loud, over and over. I push it all down and hold her stare while I ask her if she’d like to do something later.
I keep it all pushed away and make room for her response, because it’s the only thing I want.
I want that nod, actually. The one that doesn’t require words? Just a smile?
I don’t get her nod.
She has plans tonight.
It all comes back tenfold, spilling over like a flood and I’m the dam. The pounding, the sweaty palms, her name, a newfound insecurity I never knew existed, burying itself in my chest. All of it takes over and feels like it’s building a wall around her.
“I’m not busy tomorrow, though,” she says, obliterating the wall with her words.
I make room for those words. Lots of room. I let them invade me. I soak those words up like a sponge. I pluck them out of the air and swallow them.
“Tomorrow works for me,” I say. I pull my phone out of my pocket, not even bothering to hide my smile. “What’s your number? I’ll call you.”
She tells me her number.
She’s excited.
She’s excited.
I save her contact in my phone, knowing it’ll be there for a long, long time.
And I’m gonna use it.
A lot.
chapter three
TATE
Normally, if I were to wake up, open my eyes, and see an angry man staring me down from a bedroom doorway, I might scream. I might throw things. I might run to the bathroom and lock myself inside.
I don’t do any of these things, though.
I stare back, because I’m confused about how this is the same guy who was passed out drunk in the hallway. How is this the same guy who cried himself to sleep last night?
This guy is intimidating. This guy is angry. This guy is watching me like I should be giving him an apology or explaining myself.
It is the same guy, though, because he’s wearing the same pair of jeans and the same black T-shirt he fell asleep in last night. The only difference in his appearance between last night and this morning is that he’s now able to stand up without assistance.