Falling From Grace (7 page)

But then again, this was Graham Hasselbeck.
 
It didn’t matter if he forgot your name; it was enough that he had at least acknowledged that you even existed.
 
And he had always seemed to look beyond the fact that I lacked any outer beauty, still finding me wanting in some way, even if only in friendship.
 
To them, that was him being charitable; an admirable trait in any guy, much less the most popular guy in school.
 
And still I wondered…would he still be in my life had I chosen to keep my feelings to myself?
 

No.
 
Erica had been quite clear on that.
 
He would have done it sooner or later.
 
I just gave him the opening he needed.

The bell rang
—
the tone shrill and piercing
—
wrenching me from my thoughts.
 
Had the hour gone by already?
 
The clock perched on the wall certainly seemed to think so.
 
I heard Madame Hidani call for our papers to be brought forward to her desk…all two pages.
 
All around me groans and complaints were being uttered
—
apparently I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t done the class assignment.

I looked down at my blank sheet of paper, having written just my name and title.
 
Only…it was filled with writing
—
my writing.
 
When did I write this?
 
I skimmed it over quickly and recognized bits about working at the library, saving money for school… How?

Seeking some kind of obvious answer, I looked at the seat in front of me, knowing that it would be empty.
 
I turned to the seat next to me.
 
It, too, was empty.

Perplexed, I began gathering up my things.
 
With shaky hands I grabbed my paper and handed it to Madame Hidani who smiled at me upon seeing my lazy scrawl.
 
“
Fantastique!” she cheered in her lilting French.
 
“You’re only the second person to turn this assignment in, Mademoiselle Shelley.”

“Who else turned in the assignment?” I asked, hoping that the curious tone in my voice masked my nervousness.
 
I didn’t believe for a second that I wrote what she was holding in her hand, but there wasn’t a single other person in the room who had put any effort into the assignment, from my understanding, so…

“Oh, the new student, Monsieur Bellegarde also turned his paper in.
 
Five pages, if you can believe it!” she crowed.
 
She held it up so I could see.
 
The neat and elegant handwriting was beautiful, and completely unlike anything I had ever seen with its loops and curls that looked more like something that came out of an eighteenth century history book.
 
He had written five pages of that?
 
As if she read my mind, she nodded.
 
“He spent some time in France while abroad
—
his mother is a native of France
—
and so this was child’s play for him.
 
I think I’ll have to come up with much more difficult classroom assignments if I’m going to keep him interested, eh?”
 
She seemed giddy at the prospect.
 
I cringed.

Excusing myself, I lugged my book bag over my shoulder and headed off to Mrs. Hoppbaker’s class, saying a quick “
Adieu
” to Madame Hidani while pondering what exactly had transpired while I was lost in my thoughts.
 
I knew that I didn’t write that paper.
 
At least…I think I didn’t.
 
It
was
my handwriting; I couldn’t doubt that.
 
The Ls were tilted to the right, and the Xs were crooked, just like they always were.
 
I remembered seeing that.
 
But why didn’t I remember writing those Ls and Xs?

***

Mrs. Hoppbaker’s class was half full by the time I got there.
 
Of course, it being an elective math class, it was filled with those who should be more comfortable with someone like me, but my friendship with Graham had alienated that crowd just as surely as it had alienated the popular kids
—
I was no man’s land when it came to friendship.
 

Sighing, I took yet another backroom seat and started copying the year’s syllabus down on a sheet of paper pulled from my binder.
 
I took no notice of the absence of a very large presence until the bell rang.

“Good morning, class.
 
My name is Mrs. Hoppbaker, and I am so skinny, you could blindfold me with dental floss,” said a very familiar voice from a very unfamiliar body.

“Mrs. Hoppbaker?” a boy I remembered as Ian asked incredulously, his mouth hanging open with the same shock that the rest of the class was buzzing with.

The thin woman with the beautiful chestnut hair and glowing skin the color of a summer peach smiled at him.
 
“Yes sir, Mr. Thompson.
 
It’s me, Mrs. Hoppbaker.
 
Over one-hundred pounds lighter, healthier, and just as funny as ever if I do say so myself
,
although modesty isn’t one of my virtues, so I hope none of you were expecting that.”

My jaw was touching my desk.
 
I could feel it.
 
She was beautiful!
 
Not that she hadn’t been so before she lost the weight, but the amount of confidence she exuded, coupled with the loss of a whole person in body fat looked incredible on her!

She spent the first fifteen minutes of class time answering questions about her weight loss, which came thanks to the gastric bypass surgery she had done the day school was let out three months ago.
 
How in the world does someone lose over a hundred pounds in three months someone asked.
 
Exercise, eating right, and lots and lots of extracurricular activities came her reply
—
I didn’t want to guess as to what those activities could mean.
 

It was no secret that Mrs. Hoppbaker and Mr. Hoppbaker were in love.
 
They were the only people to ever have been kicked out of the Indian Mound Mall movie theater for making out.
 
Of course, Mrs. Hoppbaker and Mr. Hoppbaker had both weighed the equivalent of six people at the time, and a great to-do was made of it, but in the end they both said that they should have kept it a little more PG and a lot less NC-17.

I was so amazed at the transformation in her that I failed to notice that while everyone else’s eyes were on her, one pair was on me.
 
It wasn’t until I heard my pencil drop onto the floor and bent down too retrieve it that I turned to see them:
 
A pair of gray eyes, focused so intently on my every move, I almost stopped breathing.

“I might sound like a broken record here, but so we meet again,” a soft, soothing voice spoke.

My attempt to sit up was so abrupt, my head connected with the corner of my desk with painful accuracy.
 
The sound seemed to reverberate around the now silent classroom.
 
When did the questions for Mrs. Hoppbaker stop?
 
Why did they have to stop now
—
right when I happen make a fool of myself all over again?
 
“Idiot,” I mumbled to myself as I grabbed my head with my left hand.

The giggling and laughter that erupted surrounded me, and the suffocating feeling of embarrassment began to overwhelm.
 
A warm hand reached over to cover my free one just then and time seemed to stop.
 
Everything was blurred by a misty haze while electricity seemed to shoot between the microscopic space between our hands—a human Jacob’s ladder
—
the current bouncing between the two of us as I slowly raised myself upright.
  
My breathing eased, my head stopped hurting, and my left hand dropped down.
 
I looked into those gray eyes again, not exactly sure what I’d see, but positive that whatever it was it would never leave my mind for as long as I lived.

“Not gray…silver…” I whispered, burning the mysterious shade to memory before he could blink
—
before I could blink.

The sound of the bell woke me from my dreamy fog.
 
Class was over; how did that happen?
 
How did I manage to daydream through two classes in a row?
 
Everyone was standing up, grabbing their books and heading off to their third periods.
 
I looked over to my right at the empty desk.
 
Had I imagined it all?
 
Had I been daydreaming and everything that I thought had taken place…hadn’t?
 
I looked towards the front of the classroom at Mrs. Hoppbaker.
 
Nope.
 
She was still thinner and beautiful.

I stood up and dreamily headed out the door to my next class.
 
What was my next class?
 
I had been so preoccupied by the sight of Mr. Branke’s name on my schedule that I had completely skipped over it.
 
I scrambled into my book bag for the small sheet of paper and scanned the class list.
 
There was a big, blank spot where the period before lunch was supposed to be.
 
A free period!
 
There was a God!

I headed towards the school library on anxious feet.
 
It was my sanctuary.
 
It was where I knew that I wouldn’t run into Graham or Erica, and I was sure that I wouldn’t run into the new boy either.
 
I walked through the double doors of the school library and took a deep breath
—
the smell of books was always comforting.
 
I had made a vow with myself at the beginning of summer that should I ever become filthy, stinking rich, I’d buy myself a million books, if only to smell them.
 
Much like people loved the smell of new cars, I was enthralled by the smell of the written word.

I found a table near the restroom and plunked myself down onto a chair, tossing my book bag onto the ground.
 
I took out the pencil that I had used in French class and stared at the tip.
 
It was still sharp
—
barely used.
 
Did I have an unknown pen that I’d absentmindedly used instead?
 
I rummaged through my bag, turning out its contents in vain.
 
A dollar and some odd change, a paper clip, three rubber bands for my hair, an old gum wrapper, my MP3 player and my binder full of paper were all that were there.
 
I didn’t even have a single book.

Perplexed, I placed everything except the trash back in my bag, and continued to stare at my nearly unused pencil.
 
I knew I had written my name and date, title and period on my French paper.
 
I knew that I had gotten through at least three points of the syllabus for Calculus.

The syllabus
—
it was still in my folder!
 
I quickly took it out again and opened it up.
 
There, staring up at me on the first page was the exact same syllabus, written in my hand; thirteen points of classroom discussions, testing, and assignments, described in detail; I could only remember writing the first three.

There was something fishy going on and I didn’t know what to make of it.
 
Perhaps it was everything I had gone through these past few weeks.
 
Maybe all of this stress…maybe it was making me zone out and I was simply writing out of reflex.
 
Some people are capable of driving home long distances without realizing it after great stresses in their lives.
 
Why not writing?
 
It seemed rational enough
—
if I said it enough times, maybe I’d start to believe it.
 
And why not?
 
The entire school already thinks I’m pretty damn gullible now, so I should be able to convince myself of just about anything.

Like how the gray-eyed god had been in two of my classes and he had deliberately sat down next to me in both of them…and had spoken to me…twice.
 
And he touched my hand; I didn’t imagine that.
 
Oh no.
 
He really had touched my hand; his hand was warm, soft…not like the calloused hands of my dad, or even Graham.
 
With that brief contact, he had somehow compressed the scattered ashes in my chest back into a solid mass, the force of it causing it to ignite.
 
And it burned, still.
 
With his pewter eyes and his warm hand, he had rendered me speechless, clumsy, breathless…and whole.

And I still didn’t know his name!

What was it that Madame Hidani had said his last name was?
 
Bellegarde?
 
He was half French?
 
What else did I remember about him?
 
What color was his hair?
 
I remembered fluttering, like a bird’s wing
—
it was black.
 
His hair was definitely black.
 
That meant that those slate eyes were rimmed with black lashes.
 
What about his face
—
what did it look like?
 
Chiseled?
 
Slightly.
 
There was softness in his face…his smile.
 
The smile that had made me forget how to breathe, or blink, it was so beautiful.