Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

27 | Passing Limits

LUNES
8:37 AM

Dahlia Gray

An unknown number flashes across my screen, after my not-so-subtle attempt to watch bootlegged movies on my phone before classes.

Not to self: plug in the headphones before you click on the movie.

There's a couple of minutes left before the bell signals and everyone is dismissed to their classrooms. While the vast majority of the student body roams the hallways, chatting up with their friends and exercising their human rights as high school students bound to an obligatory school system—I happen to be one of the few that decided to go to class early.

Well, not early per se, but early enough to pick a seat of my choosing.

I pick up the phone. "Hello?"

"Hey." Presley greets on the other end, and I let out a sigh of relief. I thought I was getting a call from one of the advisors at SAINT. "Just wanted to call you so you could add my contact into your phone. Y'know, for future references."

"Uh-huh," I hmm, not quite convinced by his motive. "You could've texted."

"What fun would that be? For all I know, you could've blocked me on the first text before I got the chance to explain myself." He replies easily, making a couple valid points. I usually don't answer random numbers, unless they associate with SAINT or my doctors.

"True." I nod, adjusting myself on the seat. "Anyways. It's eight in the morning, why are you up so early?" I ask, struggling to remember if he's a high school student or a college student. He looks like he could be in either.

"I have an eight am class at my university," he said in an obvious tone. "Which reminds me: college is a scam and you should never attend."

I laugh, which caught some attention from the few classmates I have in the room. I think even Mr Calloway looked up from his desk to check on me. I blush under the scrutiny.

Presley doesn't return the enthusiasm and in the next words he spoke, they sound gravely serious. "I'm not joking."

I stiffen my next laugh just as the bell rings and signals for the students to head to their classes. I hear Presley on the other line, "it's been a while since I heard that bell."

I shake my head, watching as students compile into the classroom like a bunch of sardines in a pack. Mr Calloway begins to wipe the board clean—getting ready for the class—and I hear the projector generate the fan noise whenever he starts it up.

"Okay, I think it's time we end this call. I have to go to class. Unlike you, I don't have the luxury to go to class and still use my phone."

"Ah, high school," Presley sighs lovely. "The good ol' days. Where they care more about your phone in classes and dress code than they do about the academic curriculum. Good luck, bye!"

And he ends the call.

I sigh and drop my phone on my desk. The chair beside me squeaks as the legs drag against the floor, and I found Harlow being the culprit behind the action.

My smile brightens, and I offer a little wave. "Hey."

"Hey," he returns, taking a seat beside me. A faint smell of nicotine lingers off his body—not enough to force me into a coughing fit, but enough for me to draw back. "Who were you talking to?"

It was innocent, the question, and there was no other intent behind his words. I scoot to the edge of my seat, "it was Presley. I gave him my number the other day and he just called to check in."