A week and a half later: Charlotte

PVS 15 had really good elective teachers and choices, but the teachers were serious. I'd chosen creative writing, but I wasn't as good at descriptions as I should have been, so the teacher, Mrs. Wenkel, or Mrs. W, had me pulled aside working on them. 

She had a bunch of odd-colored sticky notes laid out in front of me, with sheets of paper taped under them. I was supposed to describe the colors- Three times each- And then have her judge them on how interesting it was to visualize the color without actually seeing the sticky note. And every time I did it I was supposed to try harder and harder. 

Kind of a genius exercise. But she was a little too enthusiastic about it. 

I had a red one placed in front of me with an off-brown tint. 

Desc. 1:

Bright red, sorta off-brown. 

Desc. 2: 

The color of ladybug wings beneath a thin layer of mud. 

Desc. 3:

 Tired fire, slowly flickering and fading into the wood fueling it- And for just a moment, this color is the color of the fire- Reds and small, dotted oranges and browns- Then it fades. 

"Hmm," Mrs. W sighs. "I like them. But I've just realized another flaw in your writing style, Charlotte." 

I blow out a breath. "Yeah?" 

"Re-read description three. See if you notice any recurring grammar points that happen too often." 

I squint at it- Then let out a little laugh. "Dashes? Hyphens?" 

"Exactly. See if you can change some of them to better fit the sentence." 

Huh. I'd noticed this before. 

So I picked up my pencil and erased all of them. 

"No, no," Mrs. W interrupted. "Just because there are too many of them does not mean you need to eradicate them completely." 

I blinked- nodded and continued. 

When I finished, I re-read it- It was much better, and more ominous-sounding like I'd intended. 

 Tired fire, slowly flickering and fading into the wood fueling it- And for just a moment, this color is the color of the fire... Reds, and small dotted oranges and browns. Then it fades. 

"Much better," Mrs. W smiles. "The middle of the description needs some rewriting; It's a little confusing- But otherwise, good job. Need to do any more?" 

I shake my head. "I'll do some later tonight. Thanks, Mrs. W." I pick up my laptop bag and sling it over my shoulder and walk out of the classroom- I'd stayed a few minutes over.

And immediately bumped into someone.

Well, not just someone.

"You're creepy," I mumbled. Patrick had been waiting outside this classroom every day for about a week- And I'd forgotten for a moment since I was kind of excited I'd earned Mrs. W's temporary approval. 

But he just laughed. "For what? Waiting for a friend?" 

"Patrick, we're not-" I sighed. "Friends. Right now. Give me more time." 

"Well. I'm walking you to the door so I can convince you to reconsider faster. Don't give up six years of friendship, eh?"

"Consider it given up." 

Patrick's face fell. "Charlotte, I've apologized-" 

"You stomped your foot like a little kid and yelled 'I'm sorry.' It was the whiniest thing I've ever seen, not to mention halfway sarcastic." 

He puffed out a breath as we rounded the corner, and I pushed open the front doors of the school. Not many people were still there- The place cleared out fast, I guess. I stopped at the bottom of the white concrete stairs and leaned against the railing. 

Patrick stopped three feet away. "Huh?" 

"Give me your reasons. An excuse. Then I'm going to go home. My- My ride is over there." I pointed to the left, where the chauffeur sat reading some magazine. I hated having a chauffeur. 

Patrick let a slow smile spread across his face. Then it turned into a smirk. 

"What's that face for?" I muttered. He just pointed behind me. 

"Some scrawny kid is coming up behind you. Kinda hugging the railing." 

Just as I'd decided to turn around, I heard a thud and a cry of pain. I immediately spun around, almost stepping on the guy's hand.

"And... He fell." Patrick let out a chuckle, but I saw a kid who was probably in the same grade laying on his face less than six inches from my foot- But he was diagonal, too, since he'd fallen on the stairs. 

He had messy brown hair- Not quite curly but not straight either. Like wavy? I wasn't sure. He wore A black long-sleeved undershirt and a red T-shirt over it. 

"Ugh, this is what I get for escaping," He groaned, attempting to roll over onto his back. 

And I kind of recognized him. "You kind of look like... Jackson Turner?" 

His eyes widened. "Oh, man. You saw that. Uh-" He winced. "Yeah. I'm Jamson. Super cool hockey player- Ow. How'd you know?" 

"My Dad is Avery Dasah," I grumbled. "We've probably met before." 

"I got in a sledding accident and have amnesia," He blurted- "And probably another broken rib now." 

"You look ridiculous," Patrick muttered. 

Jackson reddened. "Yeah. We're having a conversation while I'm a little dead right here." He did a messy backward somersault that looked extremely painful and landed on his knees next to me- He let out a shaky breath and rubbed his ribs, his wince coming back. 

"You said another broken rib?" I asked, holding out a hand. "I think the nurse is still here?"

He took my hand and slowly stood up. "Is the nurse allowed to treat non-students?" 

Man, this guy looked uncomfortable. Like he hadn't ever talked to a girl and a judgy guy before.-

"Yeah, what's that about?" Patrick snapped, annoyed. "If you're not a student, why are you tumbling down the front steps?" 

"Orientation, kinda," Jackson sighed. His eyes kept flicking between me and Patrick. "My parents hate me, so uncomfortable metal chairs for life, but they got caught up talking to Mister Cheese about something dumb. Escape opportunity." 

"Mr. Keys," Patrick corrected, but I laughed. Patrick of course most likely decided he hated Jackson right that second, but Patrick had gotten annoying at the start of high school. Who cared what he thought. 

Jackson blushed again. "Uh- Right." 

"Wait," I realized. "You said your parents hate you? Every time my Dad watches your games on those amateur youtube livestreams, your parents are coddling you every chance they get." 

"Oh-" He seemed extremely flustered. "Yeah. Sorry. I meant-"

"Jackson," Someone yelled, and I looked up the stairs to see a man with brown hair and a mustache storming down the stairs. He whizzed past us and grabbed Jackson's arm. Jackson's face contorted.

"Ow, Dad, ow," He groaned- "See you guys," He waved, then turned and walked with his dad. A short-haired woman hurried after them. 

I was surprised, honestly. Jackson had made himself out to be a self-absorbed jerk every time I'd ever seen him, but this time, he just seemed nervous. Flustered. Unsure of himself, unlike all the Canada kids who thought they'd end up being the one guy that actually ended up with a professional hockey career... He had just fallen on his face in front of us and was possibly trying to hide the pain of his rib. But that didn't change the fact that this didn't look like the Jackson I remembered slapping at a tournament my Dad had forced me to attend two years ago.

"So-" Patrick started, but I shushed him and sped over to the car. It was a Mercedes or something- I didn't really care about those things. He followed.

He was slightly faster, so he yanked the car door open- Doing that pose guys do when they open doors for girls, like a half (kinda awkward) bow. 

I huffed and just walked to the other side of the car and opened the opposite door myself.

"I'll text you?" He called, but I ignored him as I slammed the back door shut. 

Maybe hockey players were dumb, but I'd see how Jackson played out. Anything would be better than Patrick's faked apologies.