It’s not that I didn’t like school. It’s just that the weather was still perfect in September and it was hard to get back into institution-mode with the sun shining so maliciously through the open windows of my butter-yellow concrete cell; the warmth of a sunbeam against my skin taunting me with an almost audible ticking as the end of summer counted down its final hours.
I was staring outside, catching the scent of warm, cut grass and thinking about taking a dip in the pool at the end of the day. The pool was my haven, my one place I could go whenever I wanted to block out the world. Living in New Jersey only allowed about a five month window to indulge in that activity, but my father would sometimes take mercy on me during the winter months and splurge on a day pass for the pool at the Jewish Y. Being that it was September, however, I knew I had at least a couple more weeks before it would become an issue. I’d managed the rare task of getting in a few laps before school that day, waking up before my alarm even went off, allowing a few extra minutes to grab a quick swim. I turned my face into my shoulder and breathed in, picking up a hint of chlorine through the shield of Aqua Net in my hair, offering a small promise of the lazy, floaty afternoon to come.
I’d had a bad run-in with the Sun-In a few weeks back which streaked my dark brown hair the nastiest shades of burnt orange. My best friend Lisa, after laughing hysterically at my predicament, came over and helped me dye it back to my natural color. I would have considered that very helpful if it weren’t for the fact that Lisa was the one who insisted I be the guinea pig for that particular brand of hair lightener in the first place.
I’d been staring wistfully out the window at the sunshine, daydreaming about working on my tan, driving around in Lisa’s beat-up old LeBaron with the top down or getting in a few more laps once I got home from school.
The second bell hadn’t rung yet and already I was zoned out, slouched in my seat, waiting for Mrs. Mason to get on with Part Two of Romeo and Juliet. I had gotten through the entire book over the weekend, a fact I was forced to keep to myself considering Mason’s explicit instructions that we not read ahead.
My ears perked up when I heard Mrs. Mason speaking over the din of a not-yet-settled classroom. “Thank you. You can take the desk over there behind Miss Warren, by the windows.” Teachers always tried to convey some illusion of respect by calling us by our last names.
My parents had saddled me with the unfortunate first name of Layla. My father has always explained that my mother was in the middle of a pretty heady rock-and-roll phase in the years surrounding my birth, which explains, but doesn’t excuse, the fact that my brother’s name is Bruce Springsteen Warren. I shit you not.
In any case, I hadn’t been paying much attention to Mrs. Mason until I heard her say my name. I looked up and saw some new kid hand her a slip of paper then turn toward the direction of her pointed finger. The sight that greeted me was enough to stop my heart.
If I were living in a movie, the opening strains of “Crazy Train” would have piped in, creating a background for this gorgeous boy who was walking slow-motion toward me. Our eyes met for a second before I realized I’d been staring and suddenly looked away.
I tried to look engrossed in my book, flipping pages and avoiding eye contact as he sauntered down the aisle and slipped into the seat behind me.
I normally loved that the seating arrangements were done alphabetically. Most of the time, I wound up with a seat near the windows and I almost always got the last desk in the row. I couldn’t imagine being someone like Sonny Aetine, who normally got stuck in the front seat right next to the classroom door. It always pissed me off whenever I was in a class with Art Zarelli, because that was the only time I ever had to deal with anyone sitting behind me. But now here was this new guy occupying a desk at my back, and suddenly, the idea didn’t seem so bad. No sooner had he gotten himself settled when the bell rang, signaling the start of class.
Mrs. Mason stood and announced the obvious. “Good afternoon, everyone. You may have noticed that we have a new student today and I’d like to invite him up here to introduce himself.”
God, what kind of sadism seminar do teachers attend that encourages torturing the new kid? If I had to get up in front of the whole class and offer some condensed biography of my life, I’d probably die. But New Kid strolled right up to the front of the room without the slightest bit of self-consciousness. And then, because all eyes were on him, I had the excuse to look right at him.
He had sun-streaked, sandy hair which he wore long on top, but short enough in back that Sister Jean wouldn’t drag him by his ear into her office to shave his head as she’d been rumored to do. I hoped he’d keep on top of it, because it would have been a crime to shave off a beautiful mane such as that.
He bared a smile of gleaming, white teeth as he slid a hand into his back pocket, making the muscle of his arm strain against the sleeve of his white Oxford.
My God.