The person behind me steps a bit closer, my cue to keep moving. The sound of her greeting keeps playing in my head.

Once the line at the back of the class moves up again, I finally see Argus Miller’s profile. He waits for his turn to sign, a lollipop in his mouth that he grinds between his teeth. It doesn’t look like he knows or cares who Gina is, so I guess it was pure coincidence that they AWOLed at the same time.

He’s got a different attitude today. Not that I know him well enough to say for certain. His shoulders are straighter, back too, and the tip of his nose is pulled a little higher. A mischievous quirk in his brow hints at the kind of mood he’s in. For a boy with average features, he sure knows how to carry himself like a Don Juan.

But only when people aren’t watching.

“You don’t need to give me your slips, Argus. Grab a seat.” Our homeroom teacher says.

Whatever unusual confidence had snuck away from the mask of pleasantries he usually wears, it was back in its place now. He turns away, so all I can see is the back of his head, and extends his hand with the Manila packet at his fingertips. In his other hand are three excuse notes that he eagerly holds out for our homeroom teacher. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was waiting for a free ice-cream cone.

“Are you sure?” Argus says with a hint of impatience. “Don’t you need the slips for the attendance records?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Alright, cool. Sure.”

Judging on his dull expression alone, their small exchange of words does not leave him content or mildly satisfied. When he moves away from the line, his slips are bunched up in one hand.

Argus mules over his lollipop. He eyes the rows that are way too crowded for a wheelchair, and then wheels himself further away, his expression bored and oddly disappointed.

Squeak.

He stops. Our lines of vision happen to cross and both his boredom and his disappointment morph into an unrecognizable third ground. Not scared, not relaxed either. It’s a weird look no stranger has ever directed towards me before, and I’ve received a lot of weird looks.

Because I don’t want to make a habit out of creeping on people, and I’ve been staring without pause since I first spotted Argus and Gina, I slowly fix my focus to the front of the line and ignore the out of place, shit-eating grin he gives me.

Mind your own, Mari.

But after signing my name and turning to face the rows of nearly empty desks beside me, a cough rings out among the students. The sound is so blatantly ingenuine, I am deeply ashamed at myself for even bothering to look up. I’m even more ashamed when I discover the noise’s originator.

Argus sends me a small wave and gestures to the seat behind him, located closer to the back of the class and the teacher's desk. Instantaneously, my knees lock. A massive internal message written in Spanish, followed by the Windows XP error sound, pops up in my head: No puedes procesar una sencilla y trivial interacción social.

You cannot process a simple, commonplace social interaction.

Only when bits of my elementary school memories come flying back at me, and I’m forced to recollect the brief moments I hung out with glue-eating kids during recess, do my legs work again.

Is this guy fo'real?

I make a statement out of passing him completely, coming to a halt in front of Gina’s exit-side desk.

Ginerva Oleander’s eyes bug out, but at least she has the etiquette to disguise her reaction right after, although she didn’t have to bother on my watch.

“Hi again.” Her voice is discomfitingly soft, bred from habitual kindness, and maybe a little awkward. I’ve always had a low, gruff way of speaking, so hearing her address me in comparison is new and unusual.

“Hi,” I say, then remain silent.

From the outer corner of my eye, my focus is pulled again to Argus Miller’s movements. Specifically, I’m drawn to the sound of his wheelchair growing closer. The line of desks I share with Gina is too close to the next one, and yet, this doesn’t, at all, deter him.

Creaaak.

Both Gina and I lift our gazes from our desks.

What in the name of the Common Leopard?

Miller pushes every single one of the desks blocking his way to the side, purposefully making a small show of himself. Each shove produces a grating creak that grows louder as he approaches. The sound gets so bad that Gina, who had been watching inactively until Argus' wheelchair bumped into a desk, jumped from her seat near the door and practically flew to aid him.

“Thanks, but I could use the exercise,” Argus says and politely waves her help away. Gina has the backbone of a jellyfish, returning to her seat slowly, the tips of her ears red.

“Hey, Mariposa,” he says, after pulling a chair away from the desk next to mine and situating himself where it would have been.

I don’t say anything, mainly due to the uneasiness caused by his greeting and a little bit due to my distrust. I look at Gina, surprising us both, and Argus takes our silence as an invitation. He extends his hand at the brown-haired girl next to me.

“Argus Miller. You’re Gina. We have Astronomy together, right?”

She takes it and smiles. I’m sure she’s happy at least someone recognizes her. “Yes, we do. Nice to meet you.”

“So.” He sounds pleasant. I can’t tell if it’s fake. “You two are friends?”

Gina looks at me, and I look at her, but I’m still not talking by the time Argus has put his hand down. “Aw, C'mon, Mariposa. I know we got off to a rough start, and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have run over your backpack.”

My naked eyebrows lower. Is he serious?

“You ran over her backpack?” Gina asks carefully, then she gets quiet when she sees my emotionless expression. 

Argus nods enthusiastically.

“Where is your bag, by the way?” He searches the ground around me, and after observing him for a while, I speak. 

“Trash.”

“Trash...did I ruin it that bad?”

My eyes flicker away. Gina’s ears are red again, but I don’t think it’s out of embarrassment this time.

“Yes.”

I lie.

“Oh.” My answer catches him off guard, the first real reaction he's given me. “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.” I don’t know why I say it, but I do, and once the words have left my mouth, I’m dead sure they're accurate. His eyes glint, like those of an innocent toddler, but I’ve long since caught on to the fact that his mouth is a better indicator of his intentions, and right now, he’s suppressing a genuine, gremlin smile.

I change the subject. “But whatever, man. When are we having a club meeting?”

He snaps his fingers, probably excited that I’ve relinquished more than three syllables. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk about. We need each other’s contact information, but first -” He directs his next words to Gina, who, because none of this conversation really concerns her, is in the middle of turning away. “Gina. You wanna join the CCC?”

She stops abruptly and turns her head our way. “Huh? What, what’s the CCC?”

“Craig’s Creativity Corner. We’re an unofficial club that’s dedicated to all things creative. So far, we have five people. You could make it six.”

Her shoulders lift and fall down. “I don’t know. I still have to pay dues to Hope’s Heart and I’m not even sure I’ll be attending that club...or any other club.”

“We have no dues. You could consider joining us instead. Mariposa was super eager to write her name down.” He puts a hand on my desk.

I glare.

“I’ll think about it,” Gina whispers. She’s about to turn away again when I remember our little deal.

“I need to talk to you later,” I say.

She nods and gives a small smile. Her head returns to fixating on the clock at the back of the class, in the direction that our desks face.

Argus is watching innocently when I regard him again. “What?” I ask.

“Nothing. Contact info?” He shakes an iPhone in the air.

“I don’t give random people my number.”

“But I’m not a random person. I’m a member of the same club.”

“And so are your bodyguards, Tigo and Ortega. I’m not giving you my damn number so you can pass it on.”

He winces when I say their names. “Sorry about that. Tigo and I are close friends, yeah. Ortega and I met last year. I know they can be rough, but to be fair, I was scared you were after me, and they were too. You’re not exactly known as a pacifistic person.”

“If I wanted revenge, I would have gotten it the moment you ran over my bag.” It’s a sheer deadpan of a response. My scowl flourishes the longer he persists.

All of a sudden, he’s no longer suppressing his grin. “You’d hurt a guy in a wheelchair?”

“I'd hurt an asshole in a wheelchair if I have to.” I don’t get it. Why is he smiling? “But I’m not trying to get myself into trouble.”

“Mariposa. Most people would say that’s what a horrible human being does.”

“It’s Mari.” I correct him. "And who gives a shit."

He bites his lip, a bad attempt at subduing his stupid, annoying joy. “Fucking hell, why is it so easy for you? Do you know how hard it is to even slip the homeroom teacher three completely fake excuse notes?”

They materialize on my desk before I’ve had time to process what he means.

They, the excuses, are all written in Ortega’s handwriting. I can tell because he’s drawn an eye at the bottom of each one. The contents of the note are generic enough to be suspicious. Along the lines of; Argus had a stomachache on this day. A headache on the next day. And back pain on the final day.

I’m still looking at the letters when he leans in. “None of it is true. I was just flirting with the cute physical therapist assistant in the nurse's office. And failing.”

“You were trying to get into trouble?” I ask with no enthusiasm, sliding his excuse notes back to him.

“A lot harder than you think.”

“Not that hard.” I counter.

“It is for me, Mariposa.”

“Mari.”

He nods and gives in. “Mari. Can I please have your number and your e-mail? I promise that Tigo and Ortega will need to kill me before they get to your information.”

The bell rings early this time. It’s the last day of homeroom, and none of us will be here again for who knows how long.

Gina grabs her backpack in a rush, and without thinking about it, I get up from my chair. To Argus, I ask, “When’s the next meeting?”

“Today, after school. Same room.” Louder, he says, “Gina! You’re invited, too.”

“I’ll give my information when I get there,” I reply.

“Sounds good to me. Bye, Butterfly.”

My nose wrinkles in disdain. “Fuck off.”

A grin is his reply, and it stays with me, joining Gina's soft greeting in a spirited dance, running circles within my mind.