Into the Velvet

Three Days After

His phone just wouldn't stop ringing.

Whoever was on the other end of the line wanted to get a hold of him very badly. Their persistence was admirable. I took myself out of the book that I'd been pretending to read, and glared a hole through Mr. Cain's front pocket.

Artificially manufacturing reading time for a group of attention-deficit teens was already a proven challenge — even without the racket. My classmates became distracted. I spotted others looking around and staring, shifting in their seats, losing their trains of thought. The concentration breaking from their faces.

Mr. Cain seemed embarrassed by his own unprofessionalism. So he should've been. He cleared his throat and rose to stand. "Excuse me. Give me two minutes."

My pathetic excuses fell through. Interesting. His phone hadn't been dead or broken this whole time. He merely had no interest in texting me back.

I was doing an awful lot of waiting these days. Waiting for messages that wouldn't come. Waiting for an unending class to finish up, for Henry to look at me, to want me enough to make good with his promise. Impatience was now my second heartbeat, thrumming at every pulse point. I felt it twisting my spine and raising my hackles, morphing me into a misshapen counterfeit of myself.

I turned to my left and found floating dust motes. No eye roll or scoff from Amos. Beside me was an empty seat.

Amos hadn't come to school. It should've been a cause of concern. But I wasn't myself anymore. I was too gone to grasp that Amos hadn't reached out to me, that our rule had been broken, and that I hadn't noticed.

I watched Mr. Cain's retreating figure with laser-pointed focus. He closed the door behind him, turning his back away from prying eyes. Phone against his ear. Hiding his irritated frown. Poised and ready for an argument.

Two whole minutes passed.

There was an unsettled pause. Then chatter and speculation broke out like hives. Cloë turned to Joey with bewildered eyes. "What the hell?" she mouthed.

A recognisable itch flared up like wildfire — one that couldn't be scratched. It was maddening, uncontrollable. I clenched my fists until my knuckles turned bone white.

Who was Henry speaking to? What was he saying? What call could've been important enough to take in the middle of a lesson? Why had the rift between us widened so, after everything had gone perfectly – after he'd made my wildest dreams materialise into a living and breathing and embodied reality, after he'd kissed me and longed for me and where was he going now? Why was he walking down the hallway? What was he doing? What was he doing? What was he—?

Footsteps followed towards the door, and a new teacher made himself known. "Okay, is this AP Literature?" he asked. Students murmured and nodded. "I'm taking over for now. Mr. Cain has had to leave for personal reasons. Just keep working through your passages until the bell."

Waiting for Henry suddenly felt fruitless. It felt like he was getting away with something. What had I been waiting for? Permission to demand answers from him?

To hell with that. I would have to catch him now. Quickly.

I made up a sorry excuse to leave class —  something to do with stomach cramps or needing the bathroom. I couldn't remember. To my advantage, authority figures were generally appeased by my favourable and unthreatening manner. This time was no different. He smiled and set me loose.

I felt the pounding of my feet against the carpeted floors as I made my way from corridor to corridor. Hoping to catch the elegant lines of Henry's back, the curly impression of his head.