Classes pass by with a slow but steady ease. It’s the first day of the new school year, after all, and more often than not the 40-minute periods are spent by the teachers desperately trying to cover every single word on the syllabus. It makes the first day easy, but tedious. There’s a part of me that doesn’t understand why the teachers take on this method for the first day of classes instead of letting us cover it on our own time; the majority of them read directly from the packet, adding just a few small details here and there, pausing for questions and answering them, even when they’re ridiculous.

“Will the tests be open-book?” a boy in my government class asks, and I have to fight the urge to groan and roll my eyes. It hasn’t even been five minutes since our teacher had read over the answer to that exact question, written clearly in our packet in double-spaced 12-point Times New Roman and bolded for emphasis.

I begin sketching flowers in the margins of the syllabus as the teacher repeats herself, and I figure that this is the answer to my own question—that if they did leave us to our own devices, trusting us to read the syllabus on our own, it would, in all likelihood, only be about one-percent of the school population that actually did so, including myself.

And so, for the fourth year in a row, the first day of classes becomes a day for doodling.

By the time we’ve made it to lunch, I have four thick stapled packets for four equally difficult courses (calculus, government, chemistry, and Spanish), filled with penciled-in flowers and birds and other miscellaneous subjects in the margins. This year I’m lucky because my classes after lunch are like the days after Wednesday, a gentle and steady decline until the end is reached: drawing, photography, and English.

I buy my lunch and take it outside, sitting on a bench beneath a red maple tree; its leaves haven’t yet started changing color for autumn, but when they do, it’s a truly beautiful sight and the very reason why this tree is my favorite.

I’m halfway through my fried ravioli when Marcus joins me with a huff, dropping himself onto the bench beside me. I raise an eyebrow at him, biting into another piece of ravioli, wondering what has him so disgruntled already.

“How come calc is the only class we have together this year?” he asks, kicking his backpack under the bench and peeling back the layer of aluminum foil wrapped around the cheeseburger he bought for lunch.

“Because you took French and physics instead of Spanish and chem?” I offer, dipping my next piece of ravioli in marinara. “Or because I’m taking AP composition and you aren’t?”

“And because I have zero artistic talent,” Marcus says after taking a bite of his lunch. “Yeah, I know. It just… sucks.” He lifts up the top bun of his burger, grimacing at the sight of pickles. “Want ‘em?” he asks, holding out the bottom half of his burger. I pinch them between my thumb and forefinger, saving them from the Pollok-style mess of condiments and dropping them into my mouth. “I don’t have anyone good in my other classes,” he laments, slapping the top bun back down. “And we don’t even get to sit together in calc!”

“Because we’re alphabetical,” I say.. “It’s not like it was done on purpose.”

He leans forward, elbows propped on his knees. He holds his burger in both hands, still half-wrapped in its foil to prevent a mess. “True, she doesn’t know us yet.”

I laugh. “We don’t talk in class anyway.”

“Yeah, because you’re a good kid,” Marcus agrees with a nod.

“And you aren’t?” I ask, eyebrow raised. I take the last piece of ravioli and pop it into my mouth.

He shrugs. “I’m okay,” he says, taking a bite of his burger. I elbow him playfully and he grins at me.

We sit quietly for a moment, the air filled with yelling and laughter from the other students milling about or eating outside, a few running past every now and then, as though they’ve already forgotten to do something, even on the first day of school. I open my bottle of soda, a quiet hiss of carbonation when I twist the cap, and sip at it slowly, glancing around the courtyard, the sight pleasantly familiar.

Marcus finishes his burger and balls up the foil wrapper, taking my trash from me as well. When he comes back to the bench, I hand him the cold bottle of water I bought him from the vending machine before coming outside. He mutters his thanks, taking a drink before sighing again.

“This is the first time since freshman year we haven’t been next to each other alphabetically,” he says; apparently, he can’t quite let the topic go yet.

I frown a little, trying to think—and he’s right, of course. Baker, Cecilia and Durant, Marcus. In the small honors-level classes of roughly twenty kids, we were very often the first two in the alphabet. Of course, that wasn’t to say that there weren’t any students that ever fell between us alphabetically; it just seemed that the teachers who relied on that method for seating just happened to teach classes where we ended up right next to each other.

“It was bound to happen,” I say, capping my soda. “We’ve been lucky, so far.” I smile.

But Marcus is still frowning as he leans back, sitting low on the bench in a way that doesn’t look very comfortable. “I don’t like him.”

“Who?”

“The new kid.”

I blink. “Who?” I repeat.

“Ethan Cabrerra.”

I roll my eyes at him. “You just don’t like him because he sits between us,” I tell him. I lean against the back of the bench as well, though still sitting more upright than Marcus—the only time when I’m taller than him.

Marcus hums thoughtfully, but shakes his head. “Nah,” he says, bouncing his knee, “he bothers me.”

“What about him bothers you?” I scoff. “That’s the only class you’ve got with him.”

The bouncing of his knee stops. “And how do you know?” Marcus asks, turning to look up at me; again, it doesn’t look comfortable, the way he cranes his neck awkwardly.

“Because he’s in all of mine, so far,” I say with a shrug.

I hadn’t thought much of it before, but he is, in fact, in all of my classes. Ethan Cabrerra—his family moved here, just in time for his senior year. I can’t imagine it. One year at a new school, and then off to college? What was the point? I supposed that his family had some reason for the move, but I still felt bad for him. I tried to picture starting this last year of high school in a place where I didn’t know anybody—in a place where there was no Marcus by my side.

For a moment, I wonder if I should talk to him—to Ethan. He’s in the seat next to mine in three out of the four classes we share. But the moment I consider saying something, I feel my chest tighten. What would I say? I’m not like Marcus. When someone speaks to me, if I’m not prepared, my voice squeaks—and that’s if any sound comes out at all. Sometimes, if nerves seize me too quickly and freeze my vocal chords as a result, I’ll move my lips but only air will come out, a soft exhale instead of a word. The worst is when it’s somewhere between the two, a breath for the first half of my response, followed by a sound like the crackling of an old radio, failing to come through clearly.

No… maybe I wouldn’t say anything to him.

Marcus pouts in his typical fashion. “All the more reason not to like him. He’s gonna steal you away from me.”

“That would never happen,” I tell him.

“He still bothers me,” Marcus insists, folding his arms over his chest. “There’s just something about him that bothers me.”

I shake my head. “Well, if you’ve got any of your afternoon classes with him, maybe you can figure out what it is that bothers you so much.”

“Don’t put that curse on me,” he says, brow furrowed, craning his neck to awkwardly look up at me again. “I thought you loved me more than that.”

“Is that what you thought? How awkward,” I tease.

He bumps his shoulder into mine this time, though it might be more accurate to say he shifts his weight so he falls into me. I chuckle, squished between him and the arm of the bench, the painted metal digging uncomfortably into my ribs.

“Ow, Marcus!” I half-whine, half-laugh, trying to shove him off of me. It’s just then that I’m saved by the warning bell, letting students know it’s the end of lunch and time to head to their next class. Luckily, Marcus moves off of me, standing and picking up his bag. I sling my own backpack over my shoulder, and the both of us are still chuckling as we head back inside.

We part ways—but not before Marcus tells me, “If he’s in any of my other classes, I’m completely blaming you.” I laugh and walk toward my own class, waving goodbye over my shoulder.

My drawing class is small, and my photography class is even smaller. I only recognize three of the other drawing students as being seniors like me; the rest are sophomores and juniors. In photography, on the other hand, we’re all seniors; however, it’s only a class of twelve of us.

These two classes, thankfully, vary from the traditional first day. After going over the expectations and some of the projects and topics we’ll cover, we are assigned seats and bins where we’ll keep our supplies, then we’re shown where the large sketch boards are stored, so when we arrive we can set them up on the art horses. In photography, we’re given a quick tour of the darkroom (converted a couple years ago from an old classroom, but it’s still impressive to think that our school was willing to do it at all) and the film developing room (which I suspect might have once been a janitor’s closet, but it has a sink so now we use it, apparently). The teacher tells us to pair up, and that those pairs will be who we share chemicals with and alternate darkroom time with.

The other students move toward their friends in the class, working out who will partner with who. I don’t move.

In the end, a boy named Adam is the odd one out and, as a result, stuck with me as his partner. I don’t know Adam much; I think this is the fifth or sixth class I’ve shared with him since starting high school, and two of those courses were health and phys ed. I think he was in my English class in freshman year.

…Maybe.

He’s an athlete, I think. Or, at least, he’s athletic. Not that there’s anything wrong with it; he’s just a part of a different high school crowd. He’s not exactly one of the kids who would hang out with Marcus and me if given the choice. I don’t look at him much when we’re declared partners.

English is my final class of the day, and when I see Ethan in my class again, I’m not sure if I’m surprised or not. Our teacher, Mrs. Whitby, is a small, kind, frail-looking old lady, and the same teacher of the AP literature course. She knows a majority of us from last year, so she’s quick to smile and peer over her glasses at us, telling us to go ahead and pick our own seats.

I take the second row from the front, closest to the door, furthest from the windows: a safe pick. I’m close enough to the front to show that I want to pay attention, without being immediately in the teacher’s line of sight to be called on to answer. I choose the door side so I can leave quickly at the end of the day, and I’m free from the potential distractions outside, especially when the weather is nice.

One of the girls from my drawing class sits next to me, offering me a friendly smile that I’m truthfully taken aback by, before she turns to her left to say something to her friend on that side. Ethan slides into the seat in front of me, setting his backpack on the floor beside him.

And then, it’s the familiar routine. Mrs. Whitby goes through the syllabus, page by page, word by word, covering the grading and the standards and the books we’ll be reading.

And on the side of the paper, I draw the red maple tree where Marcus and I eat lunch.

The bell rings and I gather my things, though it isn’t with the same hurried excitement I usually would on a Wednesday; there’s no reason to rush, not when I won’t be meeting Marcus at my locker and walking home with him.

“Hey.” I look up at the word, realizing that Ethan has turned to me in his chair, looking a little uncertain. “Cecilia, right?”

“Cici,” I say, my voice quiet but the syllables still manage to come out properly. It’s a small victory.

“Cici,” he repeats. He offers a bit of an awkward smile. “You’re, uh… you’re in a lot of my classes.” I nod. “I don’t know anyone here,” he said, grimacing. “I was… could I have your phone number? Not for—I don’t mean—” he stammers a little awkwardly, then huffs out a sigh, running a hand through his dark hair in a way that reminds me of Marcus. “If I miss class?” he offers as an explanation. “Or… anything like that. God, I sound so weird.”

I laugh, then slap a hand over my mouth, eyes wide. He raises an eyebrow at me. “Sorry,” I murmur, lowering my hand, averting my gaze as I do. “I just… I’m not used to someone being as awkward as… well, me.” I glance back up at him, the worry already setting in that I’ve somehow managed to offend this newcomer who is trying to be kind to me.

He smiles at that, though, a little crooked. “Well, I’d really appreciate making friends with a fellow awkward classmate,” he says. “Being new really sucks.”

I nod, humming in agreement, though I don’t know from experience. He reaches into his bag, pulling out his phone. He unlocks it and after a moment of swiping and tapping the screen, he offers it to me. “Uh, your… number?” he asks again. “Only if you’re okay with it, I mean.”

I nod again, taking the phone from him and tapping my name and number into the contact info. I hand it back.

“Thanks,” he says, looking relieved. “I mean, I don’t plan on being sick first thing in the year, but…”

“Famous last words,” I respond, and he nods with that crooked smile again.

“Yeah,” he says. “Seriously, though, thanks… Cici.” He says my name like he still isn’t certain of it. “You’re a lifesaver.” I offer him a small smile in return. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then!” he says, and gives a short wave before leaving the classroom.

I realize after he’s gone that I didn’t ask for his number. I’m not sure if I was supposed to. I figure I’ll find out when and if he ever needs to text.