In between classes she darted into the restroom to check her hair. Leaning against the damp sinks, she peered into the mirror, sighing at the errant tendrils that seemed to pull themselves, willy-nilly, from whatever arrangement she designed. She wet her fingers and raked them through the gold-brown skeins of hair, half of her mind attentive for the bell, the other twisting around her appearance, lamenting.
She didn't like her face. It didn't have the fresh perkiness that the cheerleaders had in such abundance, and it wasn't the emaciated thin-boned elegance she imagined possessing. Her heritage was northern, a scattered genetics that encompassed the Vikings who'd ruled northern Scotland, the slim darkness of the Welsh tucked into their folded valleys, the clear-skinned paleness of the Irish. Her forehead was high, fringed with tiny curls that escaped all holding, her eyes a dark and steady gray; it was a face where animation determined what the beholder found within it.
She was barely conscious of the bell when it rang; she'd twisted her body between two of the cheap sinks so that she could examine her eye makeup. In the back of her mind, she heard the slow dimming of traffic in the halls, but it wasn't until it whispered into silence that she realized how late she was.
"Shit!" and she extricated herself with a deft movement, brushing at the damp spots on her skirt at the same time she grabbed her stack of books from the shelf. A last glance into the mirror and she whirled out into the hall, her low-heeled shoes tapping briskly over the gleaming linoleum.
Ahead of her, she could see the door to her English class still standing open and she hurried her step; just as she saw her teacher's hand reach through the door to pull it closed, another hand closed on her arm.
"And just what do we have here?" the hall monitor inquired genially. 'Late again, Alayne?'
She hissed in resignation and let herself be towed away through the halls to the office.
'The school counselor?' she could hardly believe her ears.
The assistant principal shook his head at her from behind his desk. 'You've been late to class six times this week, Alayne. Your teachers say you're not paying attention, your grades are falling. I want you to see Mr. Borden. This afternoon.' He handed her a hall-pass. 'Now get off to class.'
She was steaming quietly as she trudged back through the halls to her classroom. A long afternoon of staring at a clock stood in front of her and she was not amused.
Her teacher accepted the hall-pass wordlessly and gestured her to her seat. Alayne settled back into her chair and tried to turn her mind towards the Romantic Poets.
When the final bell rang, Alayne lingered at her locker, slowly gathering books and papers against the hours ahead of her. The halls held that strangely deserted aspect of 'after school', everything echoed more largely.
She scuffed slowly down the hallway to the school counselor's office and knocked on the door. Mr. Borden pulled it open and looked at her appraisingly. 'Alayne Rikardson?' he asked, and to her nod continued, 'I've got to read over your file - why don't you come in and get a start on your homework while I go through it.'
Once in his office, she found an armchair beneath the window and settled into it, pulling her history book onto her lap to read the next assignment. Mr. Borden sank down behind his desk and was soon engrossed in sifting through papers. The room was so silent that she could hear the soft tick of his clock upon the shelves. She tried to concentrate on the Plantagenet kings, but her mind wandered.
Jamie was going to take her to the Homecoming dance and she had to decide what to wear, it couldn't be anything too daring or she'd be fighting his hands all night . . . she mused over her options, imagination painting her into a thin green sheath or perhaps the white dress with the swishing skirt . . .
She was suddenly aware that Mr. Borden was watching her, his eyebrows raised in quizzical inquiry. She flushed, realizing that she'd been conducting an imaginary flirtation before his gaze.
He leaned back in his seat, amused. "You're quite the accomplished little tease," he observed, his fingers setting aside a sheaf of papers.
She pressed back against the chair, her fingers nervously brushing the hem of her plaid skirt down over her bare thighs. 'I don't know what you mean,' she responded with studied dignity.
He laughed, the intent lines of his face relaxing. 'Oh yes, you do. I was watching you practice, remember.'
Her eyes darted to the clock and his followed. 'Two more hours, Alayne. So tell me, why are you always late to class? A boyfriend at a distant locker, perhaps?'
Two more hours of this inquisition! She groaned inwardly. 'No, nothing like that,' she replied.
He cocked an eyebrow at her again and got up from his chair, walking about the room, stretching. He stood by the window, looking out over the empty quadrangle of the school. 'I just finished looking at your grades, Alayne. You're not doing very good work this semester. What's distracting you?'
'I just have too many hard classes,' she said defensively.
His voice was thoughtful. 'No, I don't think that's it.' He turned and put his hands on the back of her chair, tilting it so that she was forced to look up into his face. 'I don't think that's it at all, Alayne.'
She couldn't help herself, 'Then what do you think it is?' she asked tartly.
