How To Love A Dead Boy

Chapter 10 | Emma

EMMA

 I plop myself down into the plastic chair three minutes after the bell for first class has rung with an exhausted sigh. My calves ache from running through the streets to school, after dad insisted on dropping me off four blocks away because he was running late to work.

 Surprisingly, as I set my English folder and novel out on the desk before me, I find a ray of early morning sunshine streaming through the blinds of the classroom windows and splashing onto the wooden desk.The sight reminds me of a conversation I had with Ryden last night after we had 'introduced' ourselves. While talking about where he had lived, he suddenly mentioned to me how much he wished England could be a bit sunnier. When I'd asked him why, I had watched in his reflection as looked down at his hands and smiled to himself.

 When he replied, he told me that the rain had no rewarding qualities about it, while sunshine always seemed to make everything better. I'd argued the point, telling him that the rain brought life. He'd laughed, persisting by reminding me, that without the sun there was no rain. 

 Before school, I had told Ryden not to worry about following me around during the day, but rather spend his time doing something he would enjoy. He had looked at me and given a small smile, telling me that he liked the idea of still being able to go to school, and in response, I had agreed to meet up with at lunchtime; but I had also warned him that I wouldn't respond to him in the classroom due to a need to pay attention.

 It's odd, isn't it, that he has the ability to do whatever he likes and go wherever he may desire, but he chooses to stay with you, it's not very often that I come across a person who can stand me 24/7, I chuckle under my breath. 

 My inner monologue is interrupted though when, next to me, an even later, Melanie sits herself down, dropping her books loudly onto our shared desk. She runs her fingers through her short auburn hair and over the noise of our settling classmates, I hear her panting slightly, as if she, too, had ran to class. When she doesn't acknowledge me after a few seconds, I clear my throat. 

 "Slept in?" I ask her and her brow creases. She shrugs the question off and sets out her stationary before her. 

 "You don't know if you slept in or not?" I ask her, cracking a small smile in hope for a response.

 When she stays hard faced and focused on her pens and colourful highlighters, I feel my smile disappear and I turn from her slightly, looking to the front of the classroom where our English teacher begins the class. It's abnormal for Melanie to be so quiet, usually I can't shut her up...

 Throughout the rest of the class, I continue to attempt to make conversation with Melanie, but with no luck. She either gives me one word replies, turns to someone else around us or ignores me altogether. By about midway through the lesson, I give up on her and turn to my work, trying not to get too offended by it. 

 But even though I try to convince myself to stop worrying about why she isn't talking to me, I find myself scribbling in the corner of my page, with enough pressure and force from the red pen to break the thin sheet of paper. 

 When the bell for recess sounds, Melanie is packed up and out the classroom door before I even have the chance to bookmark and close my novel. I watch, with my mouth slightly ajar as she leaves the room hastily. Slowly, I begin to pack up my own things, still wondering what I've done to upset her. 

 Walking into the locker bay, I see her through the crowd standing at her locker. I quickly make my way through the hustle of students and to my locker beside hers. Before I open my locker, I lean against it and turn to her. She glances at before looking back into her locker, frowning again.