“He?”
“Yeah, Mr. Brenson,” Beatrice said. “What’s wrong with Mr. Brenson?”
“Nothing’s wrong with Mr. Brenson,” Clara replied pulling out of the Wal-Mart parking lot. “You just don’t hear of many men teaching elementary school.”
“Why is that?” Beatrice asked.
“You got me,” Clara said. “Maybe it has to do with men not wanting to be surrounded by a bunch of brats all day.” Clara smiled as she kept her eyes on the road.
“Ha ha,” Beatrice replied. “High schoolers are way brattier than elementary kids.”
“You’re probably right about that,” Clara said. “All that teenage angst.” She paused before continuing. “You know that no one understands us.”
“Naturally,” Beatrice replied. “You’re sooooo misunderstood. If people would only get a clue.” She twirled her hair and smacked her gum.
“Spit that gum out before we go in,” Clara ordered as they pulled into the Chesterfield Elementary School parking lot. She looked over at Beatrice and watched her blow another large bubble. She was tempted to pop it but feared Beatrice’s reaction. Her sister was a spitfire, just like their mother, and Clara was certain Beatrice would find no amusement in having tiny sticky pieces of gum surrounding her lips.
On their way into the auditorium, Clara noticed him. The senior who talked to her on the first day of school. It wasn’t a lengthy conversation. Actually it wasn’t a conversation at all. He greeted her and she stuttered something in reply. She thought she said “hello” back, but who knows. She felt embarrassed and unsure about why he took the time to say anything at all. He came into health class, an elective they shared, and walked by her desk. Students were already seated and surrounding her, but he only said hello to her. And then he added her name. “Hello, Clara,” and she thought she would melt into the floor. The memory caused a physical response.
“Gross, Clara!” Beatrice said, yanking her hand out of her sister’s. “Your hand is sweating!”
“Say it a little louder,” Clara hissed. She felt instantly irritated, her nerve endings crackling as she watched the boy turn in their direction. He must have heard Beatrice say her name. He waved and started walking towards them.
Oh God, Clara thought panicking. She looked down at her clothes making a quick assessment. Nothing pretty or flattering, but nothing out of order.
“Hi, Clara,” the boy said.
“Uh, hello,” she managed, looking at the floor and then the top of her sister’s head.
“I’m Evan,” he said. “I’m in your health class.”
“I know,” she replied. She blushed fiercely, glancing at him for only a moment.
He was so cute. Tall and lean. His clothes fit him perfectly, she observed. They were stylish, unlike her own. Slim jeans and skater shoes. He wore a fitted button down shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was a dirty blond, wavy and unkempt. Not hanging in his eyes, though. Not long and obnoxious like some of the other boys’ haircuts. She noticed his cat green eyes, like peridots, and the soft sprinkling of light freckles over the bridge of his nose. Oh yes. He was cute. And she wondered if he knew it.
“I didn’t know you knew who I was,” Evan said. His voice was deep and soothing. Clara wanted to sink down into it like a warm bath then wondered if he could hear her thoughts.
“Everyone does,” she replied.
“I didn’t know that.”
He didn’t sound like he was lying, so she decided to believe him. But how on earth could he not know that everyone knew who he was? He wasn’t a jock; he didn’t move in that crowd. He also didn’t move in the popular crowd of nonathletic students, but everyone still knew him. And they liked him. She watched as they flocked to him at lunch, in between class periods, at assemblies. Everyone: popular kids and nerds. Even nobodies. He was the cool, smart, tech guy with actual social skills. It made him monstrously attractive, and even Clara, being the antisocial student she was, couldn’t help but be drawn to him as well. She looked his way on occasion last year, but he never seemed to notice. But then why would he? She wasn’t outgoing and bubbly and on the hunt. She was reserved, preferring to hang back in the shadows and dream.
“So did your parents drag you here, too?” he asked.
“Um, yeah,” Clara said. She gave a quick glance at Beatrice whose nod was imperceptible.
“I’m Beatrice Greenwich, by the way,” she said extending her hand to Evan. “The polite thing to do would have been to ask.”
Evan laughed as he took her small warm hand in his.
“Beatrice!” Clara exclaimed mortified.
“No, she’s right,” Evan said. “And I’m sorry, Beatrice. Can we start over?” he asked as he squeezed her hand gently.
“I suppose,” she replied, trying for indifference.
“Alright then,” Evan said, releasing her hand and walking a few feet away from the sisters. He turned on his heel and started towards them again, stopping within inches of Beatrice. “And who might you be?” he asked extending his hand.
“I might be Bea, but you can call me Beatrice because you haven’t earned the right yet to call me Bea,” Beatrice said. She gave Evan’s hand two hard shakes and then released it.
“I completely understand,” Evan replied. “Beatrice it is.”
“Oh my God, I’m sorry,” Clara said. She shot Beatrice an exasperated look tinged with anger. Beatrice shrugged and flipped her hair over her shoulder.
“For what?” Evan said still smiling.
“My sister’s rudeness,” Clara said. “God, she’s so rude.”
“Am not, Clara,” Beatrice huffed. “Being matter-of-fact is not the same thing as being rude.”
“It’s a fine line,” Clara said through gritted teeth.
“How old are you?” Evan asked. He directed the question to Beatrice.
“I’m ten. How old are you?”