Black-Shirt-Boy

“Tess. Threeoclockthreeoclockthreeoclock.” My failed whisper carried to a couple of

guys working near the window who looked around, confused.

Irritated, I hissed, “Mind your business!” and turned back to Tess, who was searching in

the direction of three o’clock.

“Black shirt?”

“Black shirt,” I confirmed.

She was staring really obviously, so I bowed my head and tried to keep working on the

endless Shakespeare packet Mr. Wilson had handed out. I didn’t usually like the type of boys

that skipped class and aimlessly walked around school slipping into other classes, but this boy

was fine.

Briefly describe the plot of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Briefly describe the plot of A

Midsummer Night’s Dream. Briefly des-

“Meh,” Tess shrugged, indifferent.

I located Black-Shirt-Boy to reconsider my interest. He was tall. He had deep-set brown

eyes that had a half-lidded, uncaring look. Freckles were sprinkled over his nose and cheeks, and

I wondered if he had counted them. If I had freckles I’d count them. His hair was boring and

brown, so I moved on to his outfit. His black shirt was partially tucked into jeans held up by a

striped belt with a small, shiny chain attached to one side. His Nikes scattered with yellow

lightning bolts tapped the floor impatiently as he tried to find his friends. He put my baggy

sweatshirt and sweatpants to shame. I then realized that I had been staring at him for a solid

minute, and my mouth was slightly agape. He must have sensed eyes on him too, because he

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turned his head in my direction. I panicked, dropping my pencil and snapping my head in the

opposite direction. My face was red hot.

Tess giggled and said, “Real smooth, Emma.”

I slowly bent down to retrieve my pencil, hoping my face would have returned to its

original color by the time I’d straightened up. Instead, I felt Tess’ foot slam into mine.

I pulled myself back up, pencil in hand, and said, “What is wrong with you?”

She said in a low tone, “Don’t look, okay? Do. Not. Look. He’s coming this way.”

I looked.

He was walking towards some of his friends, and took the path near the Promethean

board to reach them. His walk reminded me of a giraffe’s, his long legs reaching and bending in

slow motion.

“Jeezus Tess, he’s just going over to his friends.”

She shrugged. “Shame.”

He casually glanced over in my direction as he drew level with our desks. My sweatshirt

suddenly felt too warm, my ponytail too tight. Maybe he was looking at Tess. That would be

horrible. I wanted to scream, ​she doesn’t even care! I do! Look at me!

Tess had had two boyfriends since the start of the school year four months ago. It wasn’t

that more guys liked her, but if one did she’d make it go somewhere if she wanted it to. If one

liked me, I’d shrink from their advances, darting into bathrooms and down hallways when I saw

them coming. No matter who it was. I couldn’t help it.

“Wassup?” Black-Shirt-Boy’s voice was smooth and confident. I picked up the packet,

holding it off the desk in front of me. I tried to form an expression of deep thought as if I was

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debating a question. Using this pretext I peeked to the left of my papers, and watched him dap up

his friends. A wide grin cracked across his face as he play-punched one of them in the shoulder. I

rolled my eyes. ​So stereotypical.​

Tess wasn’t fooled by my furrowed brow and raised papers. “Why don’t you talk to

him?”

I laughed. “Tess, I thought you knew me.”

Tess frowned, and said pointedly, “Yeah, well, I know you. I know you never take any

risks and you’re scared of everything. I know you do this,” she nodded in the direction of

Black-Shirt-Boy, referring to my stalking, “all the time. Just make a move already.”

“Whatever,” I mumbled. Tess had never talked to me that way before. It felt like she’d

slapped me.

Searching for something else, anything else to focus on, my eyes found her packet. ​Crap​.

She was so far ahead of me. I tried to concentrate. Mr. Wilson wanted to know the impact of the

setting in Othello. ​What a stupid question​. I wrote down some nonsense, thinking about what

Tess had said. It was true, I guess. But I don’t know if I’m scared of everything. Last year I went

scuba diving. ​So there​.

I pulled the sleeves of my grey sweatshirt over my hands, rested my elbows on the desk,

and rested my face on my hidden palms. ​What if I did make a move?​ I couldn’t imagine making

myself so vulnerable, putting myself at a stranger’s mercy like that. My pitiful confidence would

not suffice for such a feat. As if challenging my thoughts, I felt Black-Shirt-Boy’s eyes on me

again. When I glanced his way to determine if I was delusional, it was his turn to hurriedly look

away.

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 Suddenly Mr. Wilson’s voice rose above the chatter of the room. “Young man, are you a

member of this class?” As oblivious as he is, he had finally noticed the intruder in his sixth

period.

Black-Shirt-Boy looked around, realized that the teacher was addressing him, and

snatched a random book off his friend’s desk. “Sorry sir,” he said calmly, unperturbed. “I just

came to get my book. Sammy accidentally took it at lunch.”

Mr. Wilson’s pinched face registered no comprehension of the lie. “Alright. Next time

get your book after class.” He returned to his grading.

Black-Shirt-Boy turned to say goodbye to his friends, discreetly returning the book to

Sammy.

I stared ahead, waiting for him to enter my peripheral vision as he crossed the room in

front of the desks.

Nothing.

Confused, I glanced back to my left, where he had been standing moments before.

My heart dropped into my stomach.

He was making his way towards me. His dark eyes raised from the floor, and locked with

mine. ​What. The. Hell.

He stopped about a foot from my desk, close enough that I could actually count his

freckles if I wanted to. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, fists clenching and unclenching.

He addressed me: “Do you… do you know what time it is?” He stumbled over the words

as his eyes traveled over my face.

My brain was goo. It had melted, I couldn’t think anymore.

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 “Um,” I said.

Tess came to my rescue. Glancing at her wrist, she said, “1:06.” I looked over at her. ​I’m

so blessed to have a friend with a watch.​ She was wearing a broad smile, and had the appearance

of watching a long-awaited movie scene.

He muttered, "Thanks." He hesitated, and it almost seemed as though he was considering

saying something else for a moment. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He looked

down at the lightning bolts on his shoes and loped away.

What just happened?

My brain reconstructed, solid once again. It kicked into high gear: ​Why didn’t he check

the large, clearly visible clock on the wall? Why didn’t he look at his phone? Why had he looked

at me so many times?​ No matter how hard I tried to convince myself otherwise, there was only

one conclusion I could come to. A sort of numb sensation crept into my body, similar to what I

had felt right before I jumped, wetsuit-and-oxygen-tank-clad, into freezing ocean last December.

Tess still had that big, stupid smile on her face. “Girl, go get him already.”

What’s the worst that could happen? He’s just a boy.

Acting before I could stop myself, I grabbed my phone for his number, and ran to catch

up with him.