Transcendence (2 page)

“You must be Andrew Carmichael,” Mrs. Wilder
stated the familiar name. I looked back up at him, but was still
unable to figure out why I felt like I’d met him before.

He leaned against the door and crossed his
arms over his chest, glancing around the room again. “I go by
Drew,” he said, sounding just as bored as he looked.

Mrs. Wilder ignored his attitude. “Please
take a seat next to Elizabeth,” she suggested, pointing to the
chair next to mine—the last empty seat in the classroom.

Not wanting to be caught staring at him for
a second time, I leaned down to grab a pen from my bag, trying to
ignore the feeling of my blood pulsing faster through my body as he
got closer. I was aware of his every movement, and it was
impossible to act unaffected as he took the seat beside me.
Goosebumps sprung up along my arms, and I inhaled the scent of new
leather accompanied by a crisp trace of pine, reminding me of a
campfire on a winter night. I tried taking shorter breaths in an
attempt to ignore his presence beside me, but it didn’t work.

Making sure not to look at Drew again, I
readjusted in the chair, turning to Chelsea to see her reaction to
him. She was looking at him, her eyes glinting with determination
as she twirled a strand of hair around her finger, forming her
mouth into what she probably believed was a seductive pout to try
getting his attention. He must have not noticed, because an annoyed
look crossed her face and she redirected her attention to Mrs.
Wilder, who was walking around the room handing out the syllabus
describing what to expect from the course that year.

I focused on the paper in front of me,
shaking my pen back and forth between my index and middle fingers
in the hope that I looked like I was deep in concentration.
However, it was impossible to forget that Drew was sitting so close
to me. My eyes kept drifting to the side, forcing me to see him in
my peripheral vision. The pen wasn’t enough of a distraction, so I
dropped it on the table and gathered my hair over my shoulder,
using it as a shield to block him from my line of sight.

Before I knew what was happening, the pen
rolled off the side of the table, landing on the floor between us.
I tried not to look at Drew when I leaned down to pick it up, but I
was trying so hard to not acknowledge his presence that I didn’t
realize he had also reached to get it until the warmth of his
fingers brushed against mine. A spark of electricity shot up my
arm, and my breath caught in my chest at the sight of his dark
brown eyes with a ring of golden flecks bordering his pupils. My
mind grew hazy; everyone else disappeared around us, making it feel
more like a dream than real life. I wondered if he felt it too.

The late bell shrieked through the halls
before either of us could say anything, jolting my mind back into
reality. He lifted the pen up and I smiled in thanks, making sure
not to brush against his hand as I took it back. It was tempting to
look at him to see if he felt the same draw towards me that I did
towards him, but instead I gathered my hair over my shoulder again,
re-creating the makeshift barrier between us. If I couldn’t see
him, maybe I would forget the strange attraction I felt towards
him.

I also reminded myself that despite his
recent change of attitude, Jeremy was still my boyfriend. Chelsea
always gushed about how perfect Jeremy and I were for each other.
My mom loved him, and she was best friends with his mom. Sometimes
I wondered if they were already planning the wedding. Still, it
took a concentrated effort to not look at Drew again—so much so
that it felt like my struggle to keep my eyes focused on the front
of the room must have been obvious to everyone else in the
class.

The bell signaled the end of first period,
and the only thing I could think about was getting out of the room
so I could gather my thoughts. The best thing to do would be to get
Drew out of my head, but it was impossible when I felt the energy
pulsing off his skin, making me unable to ignore his presence as he
gathered his books beside me. My heart thudded in my chest at a
million times per second as I rushed towards the door, glad when I
found myself amidst the bustling students in the hallway going to
their next class.

“Lizzie!” Chelsea called from behind, making
me stop in place. “Wait up!” We were both heading towards the
language wing since I had French next period and she had Spanish,
but apparently I was so caught up in thinking about Drew that I’d
forgotten to wait for her in my dash out of the room. She bounced
to my side, clutching her books to her chest. “So, how hot is
Drew?” she asked, her eyes shining with enthusiasm.

I nodded and managed a small smile, hoping
she would continue talking so I wouldn’t have to reply. I was still
trying to figure out why he seemed so familiar, and the last thing
I wanted was for Chelsea to think I was interested in him.

She leaned in closer and lowered her voice.
“He moved here last week from Manhattan,” she said, glancing around
to make sure no one was listening. “He lives on Lakeside Circle. I
heard some people talking about him before you got here this
morning.”

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. The
biggest, most elaborate houses in Manchester were on Lakeside
Circle—the people who lived there were so rich that they didn’t
even need to work.

“Why would they move here?” I asked,
wondering why someone would go from Manhattan to Pembrooke. Judging
from Drew’s lack of enthusiasm about being here, I figured there
must be a story behind the move.

“I don’t know,” she said, her eyes wide with
excitement. “But I’m going to find out.”

“You do that.” I laughed, doing my best to
pretend not to care, despite the fact that I hadn’t stopped
thinking about Drew since leaving the classroom. “But we have to
get to class. Meet you in the cafeteria for lunch?”

She smirked and stopped in front of the
Spanish room. “Sounds good,” she said, glancing at something in the
distance before looking back over at me. “I’ll let you know what I
discover.”

Drew was the first person I noticed when I
entered the French classroom. He didn’t strike me as the first row
type—that was typically reserved for teacher’s pets who raised
their hand after every question to show off their mastery of the
material—yet he was front and center. He leaned back in his seat,
not making an effort to talk to anyone.

His eyes locked with mine when I entered,
and I paused in the doorway, wondering what would happen if I sat
near him. However, his expression twisted into one of annoyance a
second later, and he looked down at his desk, making me wonder why
the idea had passed through my mind in the first place.

“Liz!” Jeremy called from the back of the
room, breaking my train of thought. I saw him waving at me and
walked over to join him, glad that he’d chosen a seat in back.
“Mrs. Evans has assigned seating,” he said as I navigated my way
through the multiple rows of desks. “Which means you’re all the way
up there.” He pointed to the first row.

I reached the empty desk next to him and
widened my eyes, hoping he was joking. “Really?” I asked, looking
at the front row with dread. Drew’s expression when he saw me walk
into the room made it clear that he didn’t want me to sit anywhere
near him, and the last thing I needed was for him to make it
difficult for me to concentrate during another class as well.

“Really.” Jeremy laughed, pointing at the
piece of paper on his desk that said Jeremy Williams in black
permanent marker.

“Great.” I looked at the front row in
agitation. “Now I’ll be forced to participate.”

I trudged forward to find my seat, my eyes
traveling to Drew sitting with his back towards me, and then to the
desk on his left. Andrew Carmichael … Elizabeth Davenport. The
seating was alphabetical, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when I
saw that mine was next to his.

Unsure if I should say hi or not, I took out
my notebook and turned to the front page, writing ‘AP French’ on
the top to stop myself from looking over at him. My hand started to
shake and I concentrated on steadying it, not wanting him to think
that I noticed him more than any other student in the
classroom.

“This class should be easy,” he broke the
silence, his voice flowing with a warmth I didn’t expect.

I looked at him to make sure he was talking
to me, surprised to discover not only that he was, but that he was
also leaning forward, like he was interested in my response.
“Maybe,” I said, trying to think of a way to continue the
conversation. “I guess your old school had a good program?”

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair
again. “You could say that.”

I tilted my head in confusion, wondering if
I was supposed to understand what he meant, but Mrs. Evans walked
to the front of the room and greeted us in French before I could
ask. Everyone quieted down as she handed out the book we would be
reading for the semester and began going over the syllabus. We were
only allowed to speak in French in the class, and I only caught
half of what she said—partly because I didn’t understand it, and
the other part because I was too busy trying to act unaffected by
Drew’s presence next to me. I copied whatever she wrote on the
board in the pretense that I knew what was going on, figuring she
wouldn’t call on me if I looked busy.

“
Élisabeth
?” she spoke my name,
causing my pen to jolt to a stop on the paper.

I looked up in terror. “
What?
” I
asked in French.

“
Would you care to tell the class what
you did over the summer?
”

“
Okay
,” I began, trying to ignore the
fact that everyone had turned to look at me, including Drew. “
I
went to Pennsylvania. My dad lives there, and I stay with him every
summer
.”

The vocabulary was simple enough, but my
pronunciation was awful.

“
What did you do when you visited
him?
” she prodded.

“
I was a counselor at an art camp
.” I
tried as hard as possible to speak with a proper accent, but the
words refused to come out right.

Someone laughed in the back of the room, and
I knew it was Jeremy before turning around. I narrowed my eyes at
him before refocusing on my notes. I was already embarrassed
enough—he didn’t need to draw more attention to the fact that I had
a difficult time speaking French, especially since he knew it was
something I was self-conscious about.

Mrs. Evans moved on to ask Drew about his
summer, and he replied flawlessly. I somehow managed to stop myself
from looking at him. The class was easy for him, yet I stumbled
over simple sentences, looking like a bumbling idiot. I started to
regret not dropping down to the regular level French class. Then I
reminded myself that AP classes looked good on college
applications, and I didn’t want to let my mom down by switching to
the lower level class. She would tell me that it was fine either
way, since she believed I was capable of making my own decisions,
but she was proud that I was taking AP classes. I would just have
to study really hard.

Mrs. Evans didn’t call on me again for the
remainder of class, and I managed to fill the sides of the page
where I was supposed to be taking notes with senseless geometrical
designs by the time the bell rang. Not wanting to deal with another
awkward moment like the one in history class, I made sure to take
my time gathering my books so Drew could leave before me.

“Nice job pretending you’re awful at
French,” he said as he leaned down to get his bag, speaking quietly
enough so no one else could hear but me.

I looked at him and raised my eyebrows.
“Pretending?”

“Yeah,” he said with a smirk. “And you did a
good job of it. I think they all believed you.”

I pressed my lips together, hoping he wasn’t
making fun of me, too. “What are you talking about?” I asked,
trying not to sound as interested as I was.

He leaned in closer, holding his gaze with
mine. “You
know
what I’m talking about.”

“I honestly don’t.” I kept focused on him
and tried to figure out what he meant, but there was no way to make
sense of it.

Now he looked confused. “You mean you don’t
speak French?”

“Well, I’m decent at it,” I answered in
defense. “But it’s not exactly my best subject.”

His eyebrows furrowed as he looked at me,
like he was trying to figure something out, or waiting for me to
admit some non-existent fluency in the language. “Right,” he said,
pushing his chair back as he stood, the metal screeching against
the floor. “I guess you just struck me as the straight A type.”

“I like my other classes,” I said, trying to
lighten the conversation. “It’s just French that gives me a hard
time. I’m thinking about dropping AP and moving down to the regular
level class.”

“You’ll do fine in this one.” He shook his
head and laughed, like he found my idea of switching into the other
class ridiculous. “Trust me.”

Before I could come up with a coherent
reply, he turned around and walked out of the room. I looked at the
door in shock. He had no reason to think I would do well in the
class, especially after how much I’d messed up when called on to
speak.

Jeremy approached my desk a second later,
resting his hand on the back of my chair. “What was that all
about?” he asked, staring at the place where Drew had just
stood.

“I have no idea,” I mused, leaning away from
him to pick up my bag. Then I remembered what had happened earlier
and looked back up at him, becoming irritated all over again. “But
why did you laugh at me in front of everyone?”

He bit the inside of his cheek to keep
himself from laughing. “You have to admit it’s kind of funny that
you sound like a clueless American tourist when you speak French,”
he said with a chuckle.