Where We Left Off (Phoenix Falls Series Book 1)
Where We Left Off: Chapter 6

We were never pre-assigned seats for Biology so it’s one of the only classes wherein I get to sit next to my best friend Kit. Her name is actually Kitty but she insists on the shortened version because it sounds more curt. Take-no-shit Kit. Very appropriate.

She’s sweeping her long black hair into a ponytail whilst Mr Miller draws a DNA ladder on the whiteboard when she gives me a nudge with her elbow.

I look over at her and her fierce cat eyes are locked onto mine like a target. How is she not the most popular girl in school? She’s definitely the hottest. For some reason people always avoid the nerds.

She hisses over to me, “Did you submit your poster to the Homecoming committee?” just as her overly-stretched hair bobble snaps and flies across the room, Pablo Picasso at the whiteboard evidently none the wiser.

I nod at her. Kit is on every committee available. It’s her attempt at forced social interaction, which she says is for the maintenance of her natural animal requirements, otherwise she would undoubtedly avoid our classmates like the plague.

“You better have,” she continues, pinning her hair back with a red clippy-grip instead. “No way am I letting Madden’s get picked.”

I write “I don’t think mine is very good” on a scrap piece of paper and push it over to her.

She pushes it back to me and whispers, “This note is better than Madden’s poster.”

I don’t know who Madden is but I laugh and get back to copying Mr Miller’s diagram into my Bio book. I glance over at Kit and she’s drawing a severed penis with a sad face on her hand.

Once Biology class ends and we try to get out of the room we have to shove our way through the bulging swarm because there’s a blockage in the upper corridors. Everyone is pressed up against the window panes, trying to get a glimpse at the outside sports courts.

“That sophomore team is annoyingly good,” Kit remarks as I put my biology book into my locker. “It’s going to be so gross when some of them go pro, and whenever we see them on TV we’ll remember what assholes they were in high school.”

We push past the wall of bodies and make our way downstairs.

“Wanna objectify them a bit?” she asks, craning her neck over the students by the windows as we walk down the corridor.

“We’ll only encourage them,” I say.

In reality, the reason why I don’t want to look is because I have purposefully been avoiding Tate Coleson all week and I know that he will be out there scoring hoop after hoop with the other sophomores. I watched him like a sleuth all of last week and in a stomach-sinking twist it turns out that he does sit outside alone every single night.

There’s something that none of the girls at the windows know.

Kit slips into a small gap and peeps out at the court. She sighs dramatically. “I hate this. Why couldn’t I be more gay? This feels so anti-feminist.”

We have one more minute until the next bell for class so I wait with her as she watches the court melancholically. I stand with my back to the window, my heart thumping hard as I think about what I’m going to do when I see Tate outside again tonight. I’m so nervous that my hands are sweating. I rub them down the front of my skirt and I shakily re-tie my ponytail.

“Oh my God, incoming,” Kit hisses, and she shoves herself against me as the crowd moves away from the doors to make room for the players heading inside to the water fountain. I keep my eyes on my shoes but I can hear the bass tones of their voices as the joke around and get their drinks.

“Cocky pricks,” she whispers. Then she adds, “Whose penis do you think is the tiniest?”

The bell will ring any second now so I push myself off the wall and turn to walk to class. I feel Kit behind me but I can sense her potent glower on the boys up ahead.

“The blond one,” I whisper to her, and she nods earnestly in agreement.

As we approach them I feel a wild animalistic pull and I can’t seem to stop myself from shooting a glance towards the big sweaty bodies lounging around the fountain. The boy with spiky black hair is drinking directly from the spout, his eyes on us as he lets the water gush between his lips, over-spilling only slightly. I look away, mortified but also mesmerised, and my eyes naturally find the most beautiful thing in the area. Tate’s smooth tan skin is glistening with sweat and rain, and his hands are fisted low in the pockets of his basketball shorts. His eyes are scorching, like liquid fire, as they pierce into mine. They burn a message deep in my brain that says I know what you know about me.

I send back I know that you do. And I’ll see you tonight Tate.

*

Now that the moment is here I am a lot less confident in my plan. I know that I shouldn’t be going out there – we haven’t exchanged one word to each other in our entire lives – but he seems so depressed and alone. If I was in his… giant shoes, I would want someone to look out for me.

I go to my window and look down at Tate’s porch. His head is ducked just outside of the porch roof, allowing the rain to run down the tousles of his hair, and his hands are gripping his head, pressing firmly against his ears.

Enough.

I run quietly downstairs, not wanting to disturb my mom from her work in her office, and I quietly unbolt the door. Once I’m outside I look up at Tate’s porch, and to my surprise he is now on his feet. It’s as if he knew that I was about to come out here. It’s as if he was awaiting me.

I’m instantly fifty times more nervous than I was a minute ago, so I watch my feet as I step in puddle after puddle instead of looking up at his face. It takes all of ten seconds to get across the street and then I’m standing right in front of him.

I risk a glance at his face and he’s frowning down at me, large tan hands clenched at his sides.

“You shouldn’t be over here,” he says in a commanding tone. He almost sounds like he’s disappointed in me. I’m actually a little confused as to why I’m over here myself, so I shuffle on my feet for a moment, my wellies squelching.

I glance at the door behind him because I can hear sounds coming from inside, his mom and her boyfriend both home from work for the day.

“I… I brought you something,” I croak out. I’m embarrassed and breathless because I have never spoken to this boy in my life, and now I am deciding to technically give him a present. I hold my hand out and cringe for being such a weirdo.

His brow creases even further. “What’s this?” he asks. He’s looking at me like I’m insane, which is probably accurate.

My stomach has folded into itself so many times that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat again.

“I know – sorry – this is so weird, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just – well – because you live across from me… and sometimes I see you out here… and I thought that this might help – it’s stupid, sorry, I’ll just-”

I begin to retract my arm but he swipes his hand out and holds my wrist to stop me. I’m so surprised that I gasp, and then drop the object in my hand. He darts his other hand out and catches it before it hits the ground.

Basketball players.

“It’s a CD player,” he says, no longer frowning as his eyes search mine. Tate Coleson is one of those rare people who have incredibly beautiful eyelashes, and his irises sparkle like sugar crystals. When I look into them I feel like I’m falling inside of a kaleidoscope.

“Yes,” I admit.

“Retro,” he replies, smiling.

Smiling.

I shake my head. “It’s… archaic. Very primitive. I’m sorry. I just thought…” I trail off.

I don’t have any new gadgets even though I’m at the top of my Computer Tech class. I know the other kids have smaller, sleeker, non-battery-powered devices, but I don’t mind. It makes me feel like I’m from a different generation, and in turn it makes the rebuffal of people my own age hurt a little less.

Then I realise. “Obviously you don’t want to listen to music anyway – otherwise you would be using your phone. Sorry – again.” I reach up to take back the player but he shoots his hand up and holds it over his head with his stupid basketball player arms.

“My mom gives me technology curfews, and I’m not allowed to go out on weeknights,” he says. “I’m supposed to be studying and I don’t like doing it when her boyfriend comes over is all.”

He brings down the device and holds it between us. He swallows hard.

“So… you’re letting me use this tonight?” he asks. We look into each other’s eyes again and I think about how his warm fingers are still firmly wrapped around my wrist.

I nod. “You can use it tomorrow night too if you’d like. And the next night. And the night after that.”

Shut up, shut up, shut up.

He ducks his head, shaking it slightly, and when he straightens his posture I can see that his eyes are glittering in the glow of the golden porch sconce.

“Thank you,” he says. His voice is deep and thick. I think that it’s the nicest voice that I have ever heard.

I look up at him with a small smile. “You’re welcome. I guess.” I laugh nervously, which makes him laugh too.

“Can I look inside?” he asks.

He’s talking about the player, but it feels as though he’s about to look inside my brain.

I nod again.

He pops open the top and he cocks his head to look at the inscription on the disc. It’s my Breaking Benjamin Phobia album. The writing is miniscule and it doesn’t even have the album title on it – the sticker mainly occupies a smouldering brown and black Celtic knot, flecked in a way that makes it look like an iris, and the band name and record label border the circle in silver print so tiny that I’m not sure if you can even read it in this light. He squints at it for a long time to try and decipher the text, but after a while his lips twitch with a small smile and then he spins the CD with his middle finger playfully.

There’s a gentle flutter in my tummy when he does that.

“You’re a little emo,” he says with a laugh, but he says it in an endearing way.

I feel my cheeks heat but I don’t feel as embarrassed anymore so I’m smiling now too.

“I’ll give it back to you tomorrow morning before school,” he says.

Instantly, my stomach drops like a tonne of bricks.

He must notice because then he bends his knees a little so that we’re at more of a similar height and he locks my gaze in with his.

“And then tomorrow evening you can come back over here again,” he adds. Then he pauses, eyes wide like he just said something incriminating. “I mean, you can bring it back over here again.” He gives me a nervous smile, eyebrows raised as he awaits my answer.

I can feel my heart in my stomach. It’s thumping like I’m going to be sick and pee my pants at the same time, but kind of in a good way.

I scrunch up my nose, blush, and smile simultaneously, and his eyes are glowing when I meet them with mine.

“Okay… yes, sure, okay. See you tomorrow,” I say, and a warm feeling spreads through my chest.

Dimples appear in his cheeks. “See you tomorrow, River.”

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