Eliana stops and scans the room like she really wants a desk up front, but the only empty seat is next to me, in the back. She shrinks into herself a little more—I’m not sure how that’s possible—and makes her way toward camp Dmitri.
She’s about five three, has a nose that turns up at the end, hazel eyes, and straight and shiny brown hair that hangs down over half her face. She’s wearing all dark clothes and this pair of Chucks that look like they’re being held together by sheer force of will. For some reason, when she takes her seat, I notice that she smells good. Like, really good. I can’t tell if it’s perfume or shampoo or just her, but it’s distracting the hell out of me.
“So how many of you watched North by Northwest?” Mr. Tannis asks.
I raise my hand, trying to keep my gaze on the new girl. I think I’ve seen her around but can’t be sure. She didn’t go to my middle school or elementary school, and with more than four hundred kids in my grade alone, it’s hard to know everyone. Her eyes are forward, but I can tell she knows I’m staring at her and she doesn’t like it. I figure I should break the ice.
“Hi,” I whisper.
She doesn’t even flinch. She’s still looking at Mr. Tannis. “Who wants to share,” he’s saying, “some impressions of the movie?” Margaret’s hand shoots up. She’s in the front row and her hand is always the first one up. In every single class. “Margaret?” Mr. Tannis asks, a note of exasperation or resignation or some other-ation in his voice.
Margaret starts a soliloquy about the crop duster scene—um, yeah, pretty obvious, Margaret—but I’m not really listening. I kind of feel like the new girl has thrown down a gauntlet, daring me to break through her tough exterior. Challenge accepted.
“Hi,” I whisper again. “I’m Dmitri.”
She side-eyes me, and I’m pretty sure I see a tiny smirk before her eyes dart back to the front of the class.
“I’m the drummer for Unexpected Turbulence.”
She places her index finger against her lips.
“What’s your na—”
“Shhh!” Her smackdown is loud enough that Margaret stops talking and everyone else cranes their necks to look in our direction.
“Everything okay back there?” Mr. Tannis asks.
Neither one of us say anything, but we both nod.
Margaret doesn’t miss a beat, launching once again into her description of the plane chasing Cary Grant through the cornfield. It’s like a play-by-play of the action in the movie, but misses what I think must be the larger point about how Hitchcock used the absence of dialogue, sound editing, and unusual camera angles to build tension.
Eliana—I think that’s what Mr. Tannis called her—tucks her hair behind her ear, and for some reason my heart beats a little faster. “Have you seen the movie?” I whisper.
I detect the slightest nod.
Honestly, I don’t know why I’m so transfixed by this girl. Maybe it is just the challenge of trying to get her to pay attention to me, maybe it’s a bit of ego from playing in a band, or maybe it’s Yia Yia’s voice in my head, talking about girlfriends and love.
My phone vibrates, jolting me back to the moment. I sneak a peek—something totally forbidden during class, but something every kid with a phone (so every kid) does. It’s from Chad.
CHAD: Rehearsal today after school.
Another Chadism—everything’s a demand, nothing’s a question. Whatever.
ME: K. See you then.
Eliana’s shoulders have relaxed a little now that my attention is off her, and I decide it’s best to leave her alone.
For now.
Eliana
Mr. Tannis (how I am not going to constantly refer to him as “Mr. Tennis,” I do not know) looks like the cover of one of my dad’s seventies videotapes. I don’t think I’ll ever find a moustache an acceptable form of facial hair. Really, I find most forms of facial hair off-putting: Goatees are clearly cover-ups for problem chin areas, sideburns are never symmetrical and are, therefore, meant to distract from some other sinister personality flaw, and topping it off are moustaches, which repulse me to my core. Why would anyone want to grow several layers of hair above their lip? How can that feel good? Do they really think it looks attractive? It’s like standard poodles, which I find terribly disturbing. As my mom says, “There’s nothing standard about them.”
How am I supposed to learn anything in a class run by a man with a moustache?
And, frankly, how is anyone supposed to teach me anything about films when my dad has been schooling me on them since before I could talk? I want to say something about North by Northwest being too obvious a choice of Hitchcock films. Why not go with something more obscure, like Marnie? Who wouldn’t want to talk about a movie where a woman can’t handle seeing the colors red and white together? That’s a brilliantly random plot point there. I consider raising my hand to bring this up, but Mr. Tennis Moustache is already engaged in a conversation-for-one with a girl in the front row. Plus, this guy sitting next to me is trying to talk to me.
I caught a glimpse of him before I sat down: dark hair, dark eyes, straight teeth. I am fascinated by braces-straightened teeth. My parents gave me the choice in middle school: braces or Disney World. I was somewhat of a late bloomer when it came to caring about my appearance, so of course I chose Disney World. I do not regret the decision, but it does mean that my teeth aren’t Hollywood-worthy. They’re not horrible or snaggly or even that noticeable unless I smile. Even then, there’s nothing wrong with them. They’re just not perfect. Forgive me, world, for not being perfect.
I look ahead, trying to listen to the moustachioed man, but I can feel the eyes of this guy next to me searing into my skull. What does he want? Does he need a pencil? A cough drop? The Heimlich?
My bangs are not sufficiently covering my view of Staring Boy, as much as I try. He keeps whispering something to me, but I can’t hear him over the music from the girl’s poorly hidden earbuds on my other side. Is he really trying to get my name? Why would he want that? He’s far too cute to want it for any good reason.
I can’t take it anymore, so I full-on librarian “Shhh” him. I know it’s a cliché to say that librarians shush people, but it’s one I quite like. I dream of the day I’m in a powerful enough position in life to officially tell people to be quiet.
He continues talking, undeterred by my shushery. Maybe he hasn’t heard of the patented librarian shush. Maybe he doesn’t speak English. Does one need to speak English to understand a shhh?
By the grace of modern technology, the guy’s cell phone buzzes and he loses interest in whatever it was he was interested in. Was he interested in me? Nah. I probably have a giant booger hanging from my nose, and he was trying to give me a boog report. I casually nudge my nose with my knuckle, but it feels clean.
Three minutes later, the bell rings and I scuttle out of the classroom before I have to engage with anyone. My best friend (and pretty much my only friend at this point), Janina, waits for me at my locker, long, dark hair effortlessly coiffed in a messy bun. She towers over me, obscuring the fluorescent hallway light. Ironically, Janina has been the only light for me in these hallways for the last year or so. Friends are hard to keep around when you aren’t pleasant and easygoing. Never mind the fact that I have zero control over the chemical imbalance altering my brain. My dad tried to feed me the “real friends stay with you through thick and thin” BS. My mom, with her standard-poodle-loathing wisdom, put it better: “People can be assholes. You don’t want those people.” Still, it would be nice to have more than one person to eat lunch with. Sucky for me, that one person isn’t even in my lunch period.