The Boys of Hawthorne by Ashtyn Short

Chapter Fourteen 

Aspen 

“Bonjour!” hello The French teacher says when I walk into the classroom, the first to arrive since I left lunch early. Looking at my schedule again, I note her name is Mrs. Atkinson. 

“Bonjour, Mme Atkinson. Je m’appelle Aspen Clark.” Hello, Mrs. Atkinson. My name is Aspen Clark. I respond, telling her hello and then introducing myself to her. 

“Vous avez déjà suivi des cours de français, qui ?” You have already taken French lessons, yes? 

Well, I mean hopefully I wouldn’t have been put into French II If I hadn’t. 

But I don’t say that instead, I let her know that I took French last year at my old school. “Oui, j’ai pris le français l’année dernière dans mon ancienne école.” Yes, I took French last year at my old school. 

“Très bien. Ravi de vous rencontrer, Miss Clark. Asseyez–vous, s’il vous plait. Le cours commencera sous peu.” Very well. Nice to meet you, Miss Clark. Sit down, please. The course will start shortly. 

As instructed, I make my way to the back of the classroom and find a seat in the back corner. 

After being the new girl so many times throughout the years, I’ve found that I prefer being tucked away in the back than being front and center. Although that hasn’t exactly worked out so well today no thanks to the four horsemen. 

I can only hope that I don’t share any more classes with them. I need a break from whatever crawled up their asses. and made them decide to treat me like a leper today. 

Is this how it’s going to be every day? 

At home, they know me and interact with me. But, in public I’m nobody? 

Are they embarrassed to be seen with me? 

That doesn’t seem right though, because if that were the case, they wouldn’t be treating me with such hostility. They would Just ignore me, which they’re doing that too when they aren’t tormenting me. 

Ugh! 

Why do I even care? 

Students begin filtering into the classroom, but instead of paying attention to them, I doodle in my notebook. By the time class starts, I’ve got the beginnings of a face looking back at me on the sheet of notebook paper. 

And can you guess whose face it is? 

I didn’t draw it on purpose. I was just doodling, letting the invisible lines on the paper guide my hand. 

“Bon après–midi. Prenons les présences et ensuite nous commencerons.” Good afternoon. Let’s take attendance and then 

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Chapter Fourteen 

well start. 

“Claire Antoine?” Mrs. Atkinson calls and a blonde girl with curly hair raises her hand. 

“Ici.” Here. 

“Aspen Clark, je sais que vous êtes ici.” Aspen Clark, I know you’re here. Mrs. Atkinson mumbles under her breath as she marks off my name, and then calls out the next name on her list. I watch with rapt attention to who each student is ast she calls their names, trying to commit their names and faces to memory. 

“Kenneth Jackson?” Mrs. Atkinson asks, looking around. 

A skinny guy in front of me raises his hand, “Ici.” Here. 

“Anne Marie Johnston?” A tiny girl with long, pin–straight black hair raises her hand. 

“Ici.” Here. 

“Boston Jones?” At his name, I freeze up and my pencil falls from my hand, rolling across my notebook and falling to 

the floor. 

“Ici.” Here. Boston’s response comes from right next to me as he reaches down and picks up my pencil, handing it back 

to me. 

“Thanks,” I mutter, taking the offered pencil back from him without looking at him. 

“Dallas Jones?” 

“Ici.” Here Comes from next to Boston. 

And I’m not at all surprised when Mrs. Atkinson calls both Jackson and Lincoln’s names following Boston and Dallas. 

“Ici.” Here. They each say from down the same row that I’m sitting in at the back of the classroom. 

A throat clears from next to me and knowing that it’s Boston, I make no attempt to acknowledge it. Instead, I go back to my doodling as the teacher finishes calling roll. 

Before she even calls another name, a folded–up piece of paper lands on my desk on top of the paper that I’ve been doodling on. Brushing it aside, it falls to my desk next to the edge of my notebook and I go back to my doodle. 

As I’m working on his eyes, trying to capture the lighthearted twinkle that I’d found in them that first night, another folded piece of paper lands on the drawing. Sweeping it too out of the way, the folded paper lands next to the first. Down the row a bit, I hear someone snicker bringing a smirk to my face before I realize that it was likely one of the guys and that they need to fuc*k off and leave me the hell alone. 

Schooling my face back to one that shows indifference, I look to the front of the class to see Mrs. Atkinson watching Boston and me with curiosity. 

“Boston, si vous demandiez à Mme Clark d’aller au cinéma, que lui diriez–vous ?” Boston, if you asked Ms. Clark to go to the movies, what would you say to her? 

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“Aspen, voudrais–tu aller voir un film avec moi ce vendredi soir ?” Aspen, do you want to go see a movie with me this Friday night? Boston says, looking at me. Even though he is doing as the teacher asked, the way he asks it combined with the look on his face, makes it seem like he’s actually asking me out on a date for Friday night. 

But I know that’s not the case and I’m not interested in even entertaining the thought of going out on a date with 

him. 

Mrs. Atkinson smiles and nods her head at Boston, “Tres bon, M. Jones. Et Mme Clark, comment répondriez–vous?“ Very good, Mr. Jones. And Ms. Clark, how would you respond? she asks, turning her attention to me, how I would 

respond. 

1 

“Merci mais, non merci.” Thanks, but no thanks. I say to Boston before looking back up at Mrs. Atkinson, who’s trying to fight off a smile as the rest of the class laughs and Boston’s face turns red. 

“D’accord. Passer à autre chose. Mme Patel…” Okay. Moving on. Mrs. Patel… Mrs. Atkinson says, moving on to the next student, Anja Patel, and asking her what she did this past weekend. 

Going back to my drawing, I start on the shading now that I’ve got the main structure of the face worked out, all I lack is shading and refining the details that really bring the image to life. 

I’ve just finished working on some of the details in his eyes when a third folded piece of paper lands on the face with the word please written on the front. Flipping it over, I find the word is written on both sides. Again, I put it with the others, garnering a growl and mumbled words that I don’t catch from the person next to me. 

What the heck is his deal? 

Why is he bothering to try communicating with me now, when he couldn’t bother less than an hour ago? 

By the time the bell rings, I have a pile of folded pieces of paper that Boston tossed onto my desk all throughout class 

Each one being ignored. 

The boy is dang persistent, I’ll give him that. Even if he is giving me whiplash from his mood swings. 

Scooping the pile up, I toss them along with my notebook and pencil into my backpack and rush out of class, not having the slightest clue where my physics class is at, and no doubt needing every single second to find it.