On My Way To Mr. Right

It all started one sunny afternoon. Or actually, a rainy afternoon. We were all gathered in one room, the class clown who got her heartbroken, Beatrice; the sweet tomboy, Rossalyn; the renowned genius, Charles; the troubled dancer, James; and the one who runs this story, me, Charlotte. "Guys, you should check out what Ross is doing here. She is straightening upon us!" Charles practically squealed, which made us do the most logical thing to do: rush over to Ross and see what she's doing. "It's nothing, you idiots," Ross defended once we rounded up on her. But, of course, we knew better than to believe her 'nothing'. James grabbed her phone while she was distracted and showed us the screen. The brightly lit phone displayed pictures of a guy who was pretty athletic if you ask me. "Kyle Lennon?! Stalking is an illegal activity, Ross," Beatrice laughed, and we did the same as well. "It's not stalking, nitwits. Give me that!" Well, most of us. Ross angrily backs her phone but to no avail, since James is tall and Ross' is struggling to reach five feet tall. Although as much as I find this situation funny, seeing Ross all flared up is not a picture you want to see. She becomes unreasonable when you make her mad. "James, just give her the phone. Come on, let's get out of here," I said, grabbing my bag from my seat. The group was left in giggles but Ross calmed down after having her phone returned to her. "Who was that anyway? She seemed pretty engrossed in looking at his pictures.", Charles muttered as he followed Bea and Ross, who had already gone out of the room before us. "Must be another player from last week's tournament," James answered, and he went out the door as well. "I don't remember him," Charles remarked before going out. Kyle Lennon. I think—no, I don't think I remember him. But he must be there from last week. Unless Rossalyn is seeing guys without telling us. Nah, I do think he's from the basketball tournament last week. I just can't put my finger on which team he played for. He looked familiar. Too familiar. To explain to the unfamiliar readers, our school participates in interschool tournaments every year. To explore talents and give equal opportunities, they said. But honestly, I think they just like winning. The basketball team was the frontrunner for these tournaments. Maybeck High school has held the golden trophy for five years straight now, and the principal was not going to let it slip away very easily from his hands. It was favorable to us students, though. We get three hours of early dismissal once a week to ‘support’ our players. Most just go home to get wasted though. I don’t understand why they would free up Fridays for students. That is like the one day they spend drinking. Last week, the Maybeck Peckers were up against the Bayhill Hounds. It was a pretty intense game. Maybe I’ll talk about it sometime later. But right now, I obsess over the handsome picture James had pulled up on his phone. "He is working gorgeous," I mutter without meaning to. I didn't even think of him that way. But to realize, he is handsome. “Why do you have his picture?” “The team sent this to the group chat. We were scouting our opponents.” He answers. We made our way to our usual hangout, which was at the picnic tables in front of the school. The decks were a faded white. The sun had soaked up all the fresh paint over the years. “Rossalyn, we’d appreciate it if you weren’t so moody, always,” I told her truthfully, meaning no disrespect. The group stays silent. No one ever bothers to face the awkward moments of tension but I do. “I would also appreciate it if you guys left my business alone,” She retorts, staring at all of us. “I was only doing that for research purposes, anyways. I have to write an editorial by the end of the week. What’s your excuse, asshats?” Embarrassed and drowning in regret, I approach Ross and hug her. She was always a temperamental person, but she was a big softie. “I’m sorry,” I apologized. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. It’s just been so stressful having to handle all these and some problems at home.” “What problems?” Beatrice asked. She shrugs and faces us, completely dodging the question. The day goes on as usual and we eat our lunch by the picnic tables.