One
Noah
Eleven Years Old
Being the new kid at school sucked.
The sounds of lockers clanging shut and the constant hum of chatter, broken by bursts of laughter, trailed my steps as I navigated the long, unfamiliar hallways of Blakefield Middle School.
Dodging the students hurrying to last period, I followed the scuffed floors, squinting at the metal numbers mounted on the exposed red brick trim around the doors. I had been given vague directions when I’d picked up my schedule from the office this morning, but for a school only a fifth the size of the one I'd transferred from, the layout was confusing.
As the hall emptied and classroom doors closed, I quickened my pace. The bell rang, signaling I was officially late and I groaned. After the curious stares that had followed me all morning, the last thing I needed was more attention drawn to me.
Room 202. I breathed a sigh of relief at finding my science class and pulled open the heavy door.
The teacher, a woman with graying hair and rosy cheeks, paused what she was saying and every set of eyes turned, trained on me while my face burned.
"Hello, can I help you?" she asked in a bright tone that contrasted with my sullen mood.
"I'm Noah Stephens," I offered quietly while passing her my schedule.
She grabbed it and quickly scanned the page. Nodding, she handed it back. "Welcome to Blakefield, Noah. I’m Mrs. Bradshaw, and I’m happy to have you in my class." She gestured to the far side of the classroom. "Find a seat. I’ll spare you the embarrassing introduction."
Thank god. My shoulders sagged beneath the weight of my backpack. The other teachers hadn’t been as generous.
Scanning the room, I noted large white-topped tables with two seats each, set in rows instead of single desks. All but one was taken, and I was glad it appeared I wouldn't have to share with anyone. I trudged along the aisle of the last row and dropped my backpack by the third table before sliding into the squeaky plastic chair.
"We are going to pick up where we left off on Friday," Mrs. Bradshaw said before glancing at me. "Mr. Stephens, I'll send you home with the materials to catch up if you need it. Stop by my desk on the way out."
"Yes, ma'am." I kept my eyes aimed forward, ignoring the murmurs around me. Back home, or rather what used to be home, I'd had friends. But with my parents’ divorce still fresh, I couldn't muster up a smile, much less try to meet new people.
One minute it had seemed we'd been a happy family with our portraits filling large picture frames mounted on the walls. The next, my mom, brother and I were packing our things. Nothing made sense, and I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that my life had been uprooted simply because my parents had grown apart. Whatever that meant. I shoved the thoughts away.
Mrs. Bradshaw beamed before shifting her focus over my shoulder. "Mr. Oliveira, could you retrieve an extra textbook for our new student?"
"Sure." A voice deeper than any eleven-year-old I'd met answered from behind me. His chair scraped back and several seconds later a heavy book thudded against my tabletop.
My gaze flicked up to the guy, surprisingly tall for a seventh grader. His hair was the color of a starless night and cropped short. Wearing a red hoodie and jeans, he appeared relaxed as he casually tapped the hard book cover.
"Here. Page fifty-nine." He studied me with eyes a shade I hadn't seen before. A light brown with bright flecks of gold that glowed with warmth.
"Thanks…" I hesitated because I had no idea what his name was.
“Rook,” he filled in just before his lips slanted in a crooked grin. White straight teeth—minus one that slightly overlapped the other—stood out against his heavily bronzed skin.
I was still self-conscious about the new braces that were doing their best to close the wide gaps in my teeth, so I held back the impulse to smile for the first time in weeks.
He didn't move, and I suddenly realized he was stubbornly waiting for me to answer as if he had all day instead of holding up the lesson.
I cleared my throat and croaked, "Noah."
Rook chuckled. "I was beginning to think you didn't have a name other than Mr. Stephens." He tossed me another grin before he retreated to his seat.
His chair creaked in protest as he plopped back down, and I battled the urge to glance back at him. I admitted to myself that Rook had gained my interest. There was an air of confidence that hovered around him.
He was also cute, but I shook off the odd thought. Well not so odd, but I wasn't ready to consider what that meant yet.
Mrs. Bradshaw stood before the whiteboard that stretched across the front of the room. "Let's talk about eye color."
As she spoke, it quickly became clear that I had no idea what they were working on. The lesson was on genetics, and we hadn't reached that part of the curriculum at my old school.
Forty-five minutes later, I was relieved when the final bell rang.
"We have a quiz on Friday, so review the last two chapters and come prepared." She spoke over the rustling of students shuffling around, preparing to leave.
I stifled a groan at the mention of a quiz and stuffed my book in my backpack before slinging the straps over my shoulders.
As the room cleared, Mrs. Bradshaw stopped me as I passed her desk. "Just a minute, Noah."
Crap. I'd completely forgotten she'd wanted to speak to me. Glancing at the clock, I hoped she'd keep it brief. High school let out before middle school, and my brother would be outside waiting for me.
She went over the material and walked me through what I needed to catch up. My gaze strayed to the time again.
She noticed. "I don't want to keep you too long, so if you have any questions or need more instruction, we can set up short-term tutoring."
"Thanks." I took a step back and she nodded.
"Of course. Just let me know."
Once I thanked her again, I hurried through the school, foregoing a stop at my locker.
On my way out, I had to cross the cafeteria to reach the front entrance. Just as I cleared a glass case that took up a chunk of the wall, displaying a variety of trophies, the door to the gym swung open.
I whispered a curse that would have gotten me grounded if my mother was around as I barely stopped in time to avoid slamming into it. Oblivious to the near disaster, a guy jogged out, dressed in black and red basketball shorts with a matching sleeveless practice jersey—the colors of the Blakefield Lions.
The sound of tennis shoes squeaking across the polished floor drew my attention, and I peeked into the vast room lined with slide-out bleachers.
A musky odor lingered in the air, and my gaze quickly swept over the banners with the mascot printed on them that hung from the walls and then down to the gathered basketball team at center court.
My gaze froze on the player standing a head taller than the others, giving me his profile. Rook laughed, and even from where I stood, the husky sound reached my ears. He had an easy, relaxed posture, a basketball hugged between his arm and hip. He lazily shoved a guy away before another round of laughter echoed off the walls.
"Stop standing around and line up!" A loud voice boomed. My history teacher, who clearly held two positions, stepped out onto the court, appearing even more comfortable in athletic gear than he did while lecturing on World History.