Emily had never been a good conversationalist. Neither had Will. Together they were a pair of awkward mutes struggling to talk in a class that required them to be silent. Even so, they’d always found a way to communicate and so as Emily reached for her set squares, she noticed the note waiting for her.
Her face cracked into a smile. She glanced at Will in the seat beside her. He was staring at the board at the front of the classroom. Unfolding the lined notepaper – their singular form of communication for the past four years – Emily read the note, chewing on the insides of her cheeks.
Do you get this??
She looked down at her work and then across to where Will had subtly turned his exercise book to reveal his answers. She checked them against her own. They were all correct, or at least, by her calculations. It didn’t surprise her. Will Bennet was as adept at Maths as he was in a boxing ring.
She quickly wrote a reply, her hair falling into her face. She tucked it behind her ears, flustered by the constant presence of it. Since she started primary school, she’d worn her hair up in a ponytail. That Tuesday, she’d worn it down. After all, Susannah had plaited it the night before so it would be wavy today. She hadn’t recognised herself in the mirror that morning with her hair cascading like waves over the chest of her white blouse. As she brushed it away from the note on the desk, she remembered why she’d worn it in a ponytail in the first place. It didn’t matter; she liked her reflection too much to go back to that confining hairstyle. Just for one day, she wanted to feel pretty.
They’re correct as far as I’m concerned. It’s number eleven I’m stuck on. What did you get?
This was the extent of their conversations throughout the years. They rarely ever strayed from the topics of maths and school, except for the occasional chat about their favourite books. Nineteen-Eighty-Four by George Orwell was hers. His, she knew, was Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams. She’d read it on his recommendation and he’d read Orwell’s dystopic novel because of her. She had lent him the book all those months ago; her one precious, battered copy. The memory of that evening was branded in her mind. Unforgettable.
He’d arrived in her empty dorm fresh from a shower after his training. She could still conjure the smell of his shampoo. The intoxicating scent of his skin. He’d been so close she could almost recall the exact shape of his lips.
Forehead damp, Emily pushed the note back to him. Keeping her eyes down on her exercise book, stumped by the question, she listened as Will scratched a reply. The note slipped into her view. Quickening pulse pounding in her ears, she opened the new note.
-9. Your hair looks pretty today. . .every day. Always.
She had to catch her breath. She blinked several times as she reread the note, again and again, making sure she wasn’t dreaming. This was real. Those words, that compliment, etched onto the lined paper with his biro pen. Throat tight, she dared a glance in his direction. He was already smiling back at her, shoulders curled and cinnamon eyes fixated upon her, holding her there. Her heart almost stopped. Shock. Fear. Overwhelming joy. He switched his attention back to his work, and the warmth that always consumed her whenever his gaze was upon her, faded and she was cold again. Carefully, she slid the note off the desk and up the sleeve of her cardigan. She would cherish it, knowing that it may well be the only compliment she would ever receive from Will Bennet. She wasn’t a fool. She knew nothing more would happen. But she would always have this note.
Your hair looks pretty today…
Everyday…
Always…
Throughout the rest of the lesson, neither of them spoke or exchanged notes. When the bell rang, Emily was filled with sorrow at the prospect of saying goodbye to him. He shot her a sad smile as he left the room. She trailed after him, lost in a sea of yearning.
Hillside Academy: September (Volume 1) Copyright © 2023 Jodie May Mullen