All This Time: Chapter 1

Part 1
Chapter 1
Annabel

Sophomore year at a new school. The best public school in North Carolina, Ridgeview Heights High. Here at RHH, the kids pretty much know each other. Ridgeview Heights is the kind of sleepy little town in the suburbs that is just far enough away from the city, and just far enough away from the country, although I do wish it were just a little farther away from the country. Some people here have accents that drive me nuts. I’m from Michigan, but I transferred here from the city in Charlotte.

I look at my schedule as I walk into the school. I have had a few first days at new schools, so I know the drill. Even though it’s everybody’s first day of school, there are only about 30 transfers this year. This school has about 2,000 students. The new kids here are a novelty, especially for a Sophomore transfer. The school counselor for each grade will show us around as if we are touring a museum. I dodge the counselors standing by the front of the office. I can find my own way around.

The first room I come to is the cafeteria. It’s wide open and in the center of the school. Branching off are a few hallways and the auditorium. People are milling about and greeting their friends, the time before school starts is clearly the social hour here. I noticed on my schedule that I have half an hour for lunch, no free periods and no study halls. That’s fine with me. The sooner I can get in and get out every day, the better. The people here have been friends with one another since they were tykes. I’m barging in on the harmonious social circles called high school.

I stroll into the hallway on my far left and notice a few weird glances. I need to get to upper F hall, and I need a little time to do it. The bell rings then, and I realized how utterly screwed I am. Great. Oh well, at least the rooms are fairly straightforward, the signs for halls are posted on every wall. Eventually, I make it to my homeroom after much squishing and squashing from the excited teens.

There are other Sophomores in the room. Just Sophomores. The homerooms are arranged in alphabetical order by grade. My last name is Anderson, so I’m with the Sophomores with last names starting with A. People stare at me as I walk in the room. Personally, I don’t think there’s anything that interesting about me. I run my fingers self consciously through my chin length mahogany brown hair. I’m not extremely tall and I’m not super pretty or super ugly. I’m not dressed funny, I wear red high top Chuck Taylor’s with black jeans and a red t-shirt. I take a seat, and tune in to the whispers. Do I have something on my face?

“...transfer student… moved… Florida….” I pick out a few words here and there.

“-Only Sophomore student-”

“Moved…”

“Casual… Not pimply…”

“Kinda pretty…”

“Kelly’s hotter than her, definitely.”

Okay so Kelly is hotter than me, whoever Kelly is. I guess they know I’m from Florida, and they’ve managed to deduce that I am in fact, pimple free. Okay. I can work with this. I feel a little more confident as we receive yet another copy of our schedules. This school can’t be all that bad.

The bell for first period rings and I slip into the hall with the other masses of students heading to their first class. I don’t get too many curious glances, most people are more focused on trying to push their way to their classes through the hall. My first class is history. Thankfully, it is in lower F hall. All I have to do is go down a flight of stairs.

Going down a flight of stairs should be easy enough, except it isn’t. I’m at the top of the stairs and I follow the crowd down about ten steps until the first landing. At this point, the crowd has thinned out. There are maybe twenty people in front of me and about fifty people behind me. The steps are fairly wide, and I have a clear path in front of me. Some guy from behind slams into my front. Down I go, sailing down ten stairs and landing on the ground with a thud.

Sharp pains go through my hands and my knees. Thankfully I land on my wrists, and not my head. Otherwise I probably would be knocked out or have a serious concussion. At least, that’s what the nurse tells me after Mr. Abernathy rushes me to her office. Although his hair is gray and he must be at least fifty years old, he’s swift. The nurse takes one look at me, gives me my diagnosis and bags of ice for my wrists. One wrist is twisted, the other is fine. I’ll live.

Just before she leaves, the nurse tells me her name is Mrs. Hamilton before she leaves to o to a meeting. That’s when I notice there is another boy in the office. The dude has an ice pack on his ankle. There is a black boot sitting next to him, as if he’s broken his leg. He turns to me and assesses my injuries.

“I fell down a flight of stairs.” I say. He nods as if this explains a lot. He is probably in my grade, he has light skin and dark, shaggy hair. The light glints off his glasses and his face is formed into a permanent scowl. He isn’t fat, but he isn’t as thin as some boys I’ve seen. The best word I can use for him is healthy looking. His frame is slightly short for a guy’s, and he wears the frame of his bones well. I nod at his ankle.

“What happened to you?” I ask. He gives me this blank stare and the scowl refuses to leave his face as he replies.

“Tendonitis.” One word answer. Short, sweet, and to the point. Looks like I’m just going to have to ask him multiple questions. I’m bored and he isn’t volunteering any information.

“What sport do you play?” I ask. He looks at me and furrows his brow as if he’s trying to figure me out. “Well,” I continue, “People typically get tendonitis from too much physical activity. What sport?” He blinks.

“Marching Band. It’s a sport, so don’t say that it’s not.” When he adds the last part, I can tell he expects me to contradict him. So he’s a band geek. That makes sense. I agree with him though, Marching Band is a sport. So I say so.

“Yeah I agree. It takes more skill to do Marching Band than it does to play Football.” He turns his head to look at me. I can tell I’ve said something he likes to hear, so I continue. “You know, all of the drilling and blocking as well as counting beats, staying in synch with everybody else, playing and handling your instrument while remembering the music. It takes a lot of work. Especially with those bulky hats.” His eyebrows shoot up.

“You in band?” He asks me.

“Nope,” I say. “I just moved here from Florida. I’m a Sophomore.” He nods.

“So you’re Annabel. I heard about you, you're the only Sophomore transfer. I’m in your grade. .” I lean against the wall behind us and cross my arms. We just sit there for a while. When our ice has turned mostly to liquid, I help the boy with dumping out his ice and getting his boot back on.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Daniel. What class do you have next?” Everything Daniel says is pretty much flat and to the point. He doesn’t elaborate on much of anything, and I have a feeling his face sits in that scowl most of the time.

“History with Mr… White? With Mr. White.” I hand him my schedule and he chuckles and shakes his head. The tiny laugh contains no humor, only the sarcasm he probably uses often.

“That’s where I’m going now. Let’s walk.” We take passes from the nurse’s desk; she wrote them out to us before she left for the meeting. Daniel limps so we take our time getting back to class. We walk mostly in silence. He knows his way around the school better than me, so I trust him. I just kinda go with the flow and hope to god he isn’t a crazy person or a liar. After ten minutes we stop in G hall at a classroom. As we step in, I’m a little surprised at what I see.