The Charm (Olivia Hart and the Gifted Program Book 1) Page 3

  Jaime stopped her, “You felt that, too?” There was a frantic look in Jaime’s eyes. I was sure that she was referring to the electric buzz of tension that swept the room when Max was angry. Maybe I didn’t make it up in my head. Maybe Jaime also saw that the monsoon-crossed-with-a-hurricane in the cafeteria was maneuvered by Max as the ringmaster. After seeing all the other kids’ faces, I was starting to believe I had made it up.

  “Felt what? Jaime, are you feeling alright? You look a little pale.” Helen’s eyebrows knit together in concern. She turned to face Jaime and get a better look at her. I’ll admit, it took a lot to get Jaime riled up.

  Jaime shot a quick, desperate look my way, hoping for any form of confirmation. I knew what Jaime was asking but decided to keep quiet. I wasn’t ready to believe it myself so I certainly did not want to admit anything to her. Plus, I wasn’t going to voluntarily pull myself into any more of Max’s drama. I kept a concerned and confused look on my face.

  “Never mind,” Jaime quickly busied herself with her books and plunged into her pocket for her phone.

  The bell rang signaling the beginning of the period. We all dropped the subject. I followed Helen and Jaime as we hurried toward the classroom, while mentally going through the books I would need. Compared to the other-worldly issues I faced last period, this was a welcome and comforting worry.

  I slowed my pace as I sorted through the pile of books in my arm. The large wooden door marked with classroom number twenty-seven was open. I stood under the navy-colored metal frame as I checked off each notebook and textbook.

  Thud! I felt someone’s wide shoulders brush against my right side as they tried to pass into the doorway I blocked. The push didn’t feel intentional, but it was hard enough to knock the books out of my hands and scatter them on the floor, making a semi-circle of paper debris two feet wide into the entryway of the classroom.

  Today was not my day. I sighed as I bent down to gather my notes in perfect view of the speed demon's shoes as he hovered over me.

  “The least you could do is help me pick it up,” I muttered, barely looking up from the loose-leaf papers I had already collected.

  The stoic features of Justin Benz dropped to my eye level, and my stomach did its usual involuntary flip whenever he appeared. I closed my eyes and pictured his plain white sneakers with navy stitching zigzagging down the sides. I should have known.

  Of course it was Justin. I was always in his way. Not that I made a point of lingering around his locker a few times each day on my way to the girls’ bathroom, but moments like this, where our paths crossed, happened frequently. That didn’t mean that Justin was happy about it.

  Reserved, quiet, and flying under the radar, his emotions were rarely reflected on his face. Yet, he often stared at me for a minute longer than was comfortable, like I was an irritating pebble that he couldn’t get out of his shoe.

  He had thick, stern eyebrows that hung over sad, piercing seafoam eyes and two thin lines for lips that were barely visible since they never curved up or down. Around me, his tight lips were slightly straighter and his antagonizing eyes were more serious, like my main objective in life was to annoy him. The sharp lines of his jaw that outlined the perfect features on his face made each glare statuesque, godly, and seriously sexy, which I’m sure was the opposite effect he was hoping for.

  I sat behind him in a number of classes, and despite his obvious aversion to me, my mind often drifted off, daydreaming that he would turn around and ask to borrow a pencil, my homework, or my soul. I’d gladly give up any one of them for that moment of connection.

  His reserved nature was what drew me in. He already shared my fears, preferring to blend in rather than awkwardly stand out from our peers. Unlike Max’s need to publicly air his aggression, Justin kept his life personal, and to be included in his secret world was part of his appeal.

  It was the shy nature we shared that kept me from communicating my feelings to him. Plus, the same reason I wanted to be with him, to share a private misery hiding from the eyes of others, was the reason I would never spark his interest. I was just another average girl in the school. It was a vicious cycle.

  He handed over my papers and rushed to his chair before I had a chance to say thank you. He couldn’t get away fast enough. Flustered, I made it to my seat as well.

  Ms. Magos finished writing her outline of today’s lesson on the board before turning to face the class. Conversations drifted off, bodies shifted away from their neighbors, heads turned to face forward. Responses of conditioned respect.

  Ms. Magos definitely had respect from her students. She didn’t need to ask for it, her sheer existence had demanded it. From day one she had formed a bond with her students that had resulted in admiration and an unusually high level of obedience from sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds.

  Maybe it was because she was the newest teacher to join the Pandora High School faculty. Perhaps it was because she was in her late twenties, not so far removed from her own high school days. Or possibly it was because she came from all the way across the country and a lot of us had never left the state. In truth, I think it was the combination of all of it.

  She was intriguing. Her quick wit and sarcasm made you laugh. At the same time, her quizzes made you want to cry, or at least made you wish you had read the chapter of the textbook she assigned the night before. Her class may have been fun, but it was definitely not easy.

  Ms. Magos had spent her college years and a few years right after on the west coast. Before moving back east, she had travelled the world. If we named any foreign or remote location in class, she had been there, and she had some crazy story to tell us about it.

  Not only were her stories and her personality captivating, but her looks were intriguing. She was exotic, tall and shapely with short-cropped charcoal hair and dark wide eyes that were nearly black. She had that laid-back West Coast attitude with an East Coast sense of style. The boys loved her and the girls wanted to be like her.

  Ms. Magos moved away from the blackboard, coming out from behind the desk. She leaned casually against the metal desk with her arms crossed for an extra minute despite our immediate silence. She wore the same show-no-teeth, just-try-me, grin during every class. It was engaging, yet also intimidating.

  Just as she was about to start the day’s lesson, Max walked through the classroom door, three minutes after the bell. My whole body tensed, but he seemed at ease, a vast difference from the anger that trailed him last period. I watched him walk across the front of the classroom and around the rows of desks to his seat, making no attempt to sneak into class unnoticed, and to my relief, giving no acknowledgment of my presence.

  He absentmindedly combed his fingers through shaggy, sun-streaked hair. The five o'clock shadow was the perfect amount of scruff to look carelessly handsome and set him apart from the other high school boys who didn’t yet need to shave.

  Finally noticing the silence in the classroom, Max looked up at Ms. Magos, a silky smile spreading across his face. Why’d he have to be so damn arrogant?

  That was part of the reason Max irked Ms. Magos. Since the beginning of the year they had been at odds with one another. She stood there a few more minutes with her smile glued on her face. We all waited for one of them to back down.

  These challenges were common. Max loved an opportunity to argue, but it was always interesting to see who would come out the winner. Today it was Max. Ms. Magos simply turned away. I guess the fight wasn’t worth it this time. To me, the fight was never worth it.

  Ms. Magos moved around behind her desk and started lecturing, “Okay class, so far this year we’ve answered why early civilizations developed, how global civilizations organized and grew, and how and why they changed overtime. We’ve explored cultural diffusion, differences in belief systems, migration trends, trade and conflict, and the growth of multi-regional empires. Behind all of these concepts, whether apparent or not, was the role of government. That brings us to our last question to cover this
quarter; how are governments created, structured, maintained and changed?...”

  I looked at my watch; twelve minutes left of class. Just in time to hear Ms. Magos announce an end-of-the-quarter project.

  “With limited time left in the quarter and such a broad topic to cover, I’m going to take a different approach. Instead of me lecturing to you and boring you half to death, you will all be broken up into teams of two. Each team will be assigned a time period in history to research, focusing on the development of the governmental system during that time period. You will need to come up with a forty minute presentation. I will be scheduling each team to teach one class.”

  As she announced the pairs, I felt my lunch threatening to come up. I didn’t mind a ten-page book report, but standing in front of the class was my worst nightmare. I reminded myself to breathe as she read off her list of pairs and topics.

  “Last but not least, Olivia Hart and Jaime Forte will be researching democracy in Ancient Greece.” Ms. Magos looked right at me and winked as if we shared a secret. I wondered if I was the only one who noticed it. Glancing around, everyone’s heads were down recording their project topics and the due date. Maybe she had just blinked. Or maybe I was seeing things. I really needed to start getting some more sleep.

  The terror of public speaking threatened to paralyze me, but I tried to push the project to the back of my mind. At least Jaime was my partner. It was odd that Ms. Magos put us together. The teachers usually paired the smart students with people who didn’t do well in class, hoping we would rub off on them. I usually got stuck with someone who didn’t know who the first president of the United States was.

  I glanced in Jaime’s direction and wondered what else we would talk about. She was re-tying the laces on her perfectly white running sneakers, pausing only to tuck a few stray hairs behind her ears that refused to stay in the tight ball of hair on top of her head. Jaime got the best grades in the class, but I doubted she read this month's Glamour magazine. I guessed that meant we would get the project done faster.

  She was comfortable talking with boys; maybe we would run into a bunch of her male friends. Didn’t they always invite her to lunch or to meet up after school? The anticipation I felt for working on the project increased marginally.

  I bet she already had a date for the homecoming dance. Maybe she could speak to Justin for me? I sat up straighter, suddenly excited and ready to work on the project with Jaime.

  As Ms. Magos described the final section of the curriculum we would be covering this quarter, I half jotted down notes and half watched the interaction taking place in the next row over.

  With Ms. Magos’s back to the class, Cliff Adams turned around in his desk and was animatedly pointing at Justin’s notebook. Despite his enthusiastic gestures, Cliff was careful to be silent. Leaning back in his chair, with his hand holding up his chin, Justin watched Cliff with his usual bored look on his face.

  Cliff lived with his parents and brother in a house one block north of mine and Justin lived with his mom one block south. I was often amazed how two people with such diverse personalities remained friends.

  Cliff was outgoing, easily excited, and friends with everyone. He was a jock. Growing into his body at a young age, he starred as Most Valuable Player on every sports team he played on since the sixth grade. He was bulky in a toned and athletic way, without being chunky. Even as a junior he was quarterback of our Pandora High School football team and en route to college with a baseball scholarship.

  Cliff had thick, unruly brown hair that framed his constant smile. In contrast, Justin had straight, light brown hair that hung over his thick eyebrows and was long enough to conceal his criticizing eyes like a shield. He matched Cliff’s height, but not his girth. Besides his broad shoulders, Justin appeared to be your average lanky teenager, which he hid by leaning back in his seat or hunching over his desk. To the rest of the student body he blended in and was nearly invisible, and I think he preferred living his life that way, as a spectator. To me, however, every aspect about Justin Benz produced just the opposite result, and I was constantly aware of him.

  From where I was sitting it looked like Cliff was sketching some kind of sports car. The two of them were always scheming up something. Justin’s head barely turned toward the paper, but his eyes were scanning it thoughtfully.

  Despite Justin’s nudge with his pen, Cliff was too involved in his drawing, and continued to describe details of his design. Finally, the message became clear to Cliff, but I saw Ms. Magos turning away from the board in the opposite direction of the broad windowsill, covered with student’s jackets, bags, books, and other belongings, that lined the west wall. Cliff started to swivel back around in his seat, but it was going to be too late.

  Right then, my view of Justin went slightly fuzzy with a blue haze. As if Justin had planned and calculated it, a strong breeze blew one of the windows shut. The frame slammed down, causing a water bottle to fall off the windowsill. The loosely screwed on cap flew across the room. After completing a perfect arc, the cap hit the wall, then somersaulted across the floor under the desks. Surprise at the sudden commotion distracted Ms. Magos long enough for Cliff to turn around in his seat.

  Cliff looked relieved, but Justin’s expression never changed. Except that the blue fog that surrounded him dissipated.

  Unsure of what I saw and not wanting to believe another superhuman event, I went back to taking notes, trying to focus on the rest of the lesson instead.

  * * * *

  Chapter Three: Time to Move On

  Helen and I walked across the front of the room, making our way to the back left corner of the classroom and to the seats we sat in every seventh period since September. I was looking forward to Mr. Rowling’s calming voice. It would be a relief from the thoughts clogging my mind that I might be going insane. English was a breath of fresh air.

  Relaxing into our usual routine, I turned to the side in my chair and looked back as Helen took her seat, crossing her right leg over left. True to form, her right foot was pointed and bouncing slightly. I wondered what tune her mental radio was playing now.

  For the past month, our afternoon discussions centered on the upcoming homecoming game. Our kickline team was performing during halftime. It was a week from this Friday, and it was the only thing distracting me from midterm projects and my overwhelming fear that I wouldn’t have a date for the homecoming dance.

  Five minutes with Helen and my day was always instantly brightened. Wit and sarcasm may not be my strong point, but with Helen I always felt funny. She laughed at my jokes with big, deep, throw your head back, slap your knee laughs. If only I could find a guy who made me feel that good.

  With her head tilted slightly, she listened to my story. Her golden curls sat like a halo on top of her head, tumbling down past her shoulders and bouncing right along with the beat.

  Finally feeling normal again, I updated her on the status of my outfit for the homecoming dance. Even though I had filled her in on every unnecessary detail of my quest for the ideal ensemble, she listened intently. Her eyebrows were joined together like I might tell her that my cat died instead of that I’d discovered the perfect pair of shoes.

  Her eyes filled with excitement, her head nodding in agreement, as I described how well the shoes would match and add to my dress.

  “But…” I added.

  “Oh no, there’s a but.”

  “Yeah..,” I frowned. “They’re way out of my price range. Even if I didn’t go shopping for the rest of the school year and the entire summer, I couldn’t afford them.”

  Helen’s shoulders slumped and the excitement drained from her eyes, replaced by a sudden sympathy. She dragged her hands through her thick curls, just as frustrated as I was when I had turned over the price tag.

  She touched her hand to my shoulder, “I’m sorry, Liv. That’s disappointing.”

  Whether it was understanding or compassion, excitement or genuine happiness, Helen’s face gave away her emotions.
Her mannerisms and facial expressions mirrored her feelings. Everything she felt you could see in her eyes, deep almond-shaped pools of emerald.

  The bell rang and I shifted around in my desk to face forward. Helen gave my shoulder one gentle squeeze before reaching into her bag for a pen. Mr. Rowling wasted no time, launching into a discussion of another assignment.

  Nearing six feet but with a thin frame, Mr. Rowling leaned gently against the steel desk in the front center of the classroom. He had taught at Pandora High School for the past ten years and was a favorite among the student body.

  My guess was that he was in his late thirties, but with a balding head, it was hard to judge. His quick smile and goofy nature gave off a warmth that not only won the students’ admiration, but also their friendship.

  That didn’t stop the classic groan that filled the room when he gave the due date for the midterm eleventh grade English assignment we would have to hand in. Add it to the list.

  I looked up from doodling on my notebook just in time to catch the smirk on Mr. Rowling’s face as he turned to write something on the board. He was trying to hold in a laugh. Teachers must get a kick out of the fuss students make when a new project has been added to their already heavy work load.

  I caught the tail end of the groan, half-heartedly adding to the glum chorus in an attempt to blend in with the frowning faces that surrounded me. I didn’t really care that we had another project, but no one else had to know that. It was a chance for me to prove I had been listening in class without raising my hand and answering his questions in front of all the critical eyes of the other students.

  Comforted by this fact, I sat back in my chair, and let my mind drift. I glanced up to make sure I shouldn’t be writing down anything and caught movement on the other side of the room.

  Some meathead on the football team leaned forward and whispered to Jaime, asking to copy her homework. She passed it over without a question. We were in a number of classes together, but I didn’t know Jaime well. What I did know was that everyone liked her. I never heard anyone say anything bad about her. Or her about anyone else.