Bright Eyes

4. Start Again

It didn't take much to convince the teacher in charge. All Damien needed to do was to present a drenched five-six, green-eyed, blond boy to him, state his cause—with Sander agreeing and supplementing the events of the incident—and negotiate with the teacher. All Sander needed to do next was to fill out a couple forms, one for transferring to another dorm room, the other for an incident report. Then things were settled.

"I told you, they would've let you anyway," said Damien, walking alongside Sander.

"But it would be the right thing to do to file a transfer," said Sander, his clothing and dark blond hair still wet, dragging his luggage behind him. "I don't want to get into any trouble." He paused, then asked, "Are you sure you're all right with me staying in your dorm room? Mister Brunner said I can just switch rooms with another sixth former—"

"And risk getting beaten up and pushed around," interrupted Damien, "by being in their territory?"

"But you paid them," said Sander.

"Yeah, but I don't think they would keep their end of the deal," said Damien. "Buff fools like them."

Sander opened his mouth to reason, but a thought came to mind, and he simply said, "You've got a point."

They halted in their steps, and stood before a door.

Damien shrugged and chuckled. "Besides," he said, turning the doorknob, "I don't have a roommate." The door swung open. "It's going to get lonely," he said, stepping into the room. Sander followed, pulling his luggage in. Damien closed the door behind them.

Everything seemed fine—until they noticed a boy lying on one of the beds, nonchalant, busy typing away on his mobile phone. And, at the back of the room, a tall boy was looking out the window till the door creaked open, his attention now drawn to the two other boys standing a few paces from the door.

"So," said Sander, pointing a finger from one boy to the other, "you were saying?"

Damien seemed unperturbed by the intrusion. "He's one of my friends," he explained, gesturing towards the boy on the bed, "and"—he paused, thought for a second—"that's another dude."

The boy on the bed noticed their arrival, a smile forming on his lips. Then he sat up, and made his way over to them.

"Whassup, bruh?" said the boy, giving Damien a fist bump.

Sander looked up at the boy, who stood about four inches taller than him. He recognized him—dark hair, tan skin, charismatic smile. The way he carried himself was a dead giveaway. He was one of the jocks, a fourth former, a boy notorious—even as a third former—for his many fleeting romances.

"Saw what you did back there," said the jock. "But I didn't get to see the whole thing. Coach called me up in the middle of it, said we needed to talk. I had to bounce before you and those dudes came to a negotiation."

Whilst he spoke, Sander noticed the other boy make his way over to them from the window, and he realized that prior to this he had never seen him before—didn't recognize this boy who stood about six feet tall, his tousled brown hair, his blue eyes. A new kid, Sander thought to himself.

The new kid then stood beside the jock, and his eyes couldn't seem to help but glance at all three of them, from Damien to Sander to the boy at his immediate right.