Yours truly, Elanah

Eagle Eyes

The usual evening catechism commenced as Mom settled onto the sofa, her knitting needles clicking a steady rhythm. "How was school today, sweet pea? Everything alright?"

I mumbled around a mouthful of spaghetti bolognese. "Yeah, fine."

"Are you starting to like your new school now? Making friends?"

"Sure, Mom." The same answers I'd given every night since we moved. Easy, non-committal. They didn't require explaining the weirdness, the awkwardness, or the question that had been a physical weight in my chest since Monday. Why is Lila here?

The question gnawed at me, a persistent itch I couldn't scratch. Lila. From my old school. The one everyone gossiped about after... well, after the whispers started. I'd even tried a casual probe with Mom earlier, just in case she knew something, maybe something official about transfers or reasons. But I got nothing. A shrug, a "I wouldn't know, honey," and back to her crossword puzzle.

So, the rumour persisted, clinging to the edge of my thoughts like a bad smell. The one spread by the popular girls at my old place, laced with malice but perhaps, just perhaps, rooted in something awful. Could it be true? That she was... harmed? By teachers? It felt too dark, too sensational to be real, but Lila was here now, quiet and alone, looking like a startled fawn.

I shook my head, trying to dislodge the thoughts. Dinner finished, I did the usual drill – cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher – then retreated to the sanctuary of my room. No time to dwell on Lila and chilling gossip. Tomorrow was Sir Alfred's Politics oral recitation, and he wasn't known for going easy just because you were the new kid. Notes spread across my desk, highlighting key terms – civic duty, democratic process, tyranny of the majority. I studied until my eyes blurred, determined to conquer whatever obscure question he decided to throw my way.

The next morning, the air in the classroom was thick with pre-oral anxiety. Desks were spaced out, creating islands of nervous energy. Renzo, my friend and a walking paradox of academic prowess and dramatic flair, was practically vibrating beside me.

"Girl, this is killing me," he groaned, clutching a crumpled set of notes like a life raft. "My brain feels like it's being pureed. I'm going to forget everything." Renzo, who could probably recite the entire history of political thought backwards if bribed with sufficient amounts of sugar.

"Chill out, girl," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. "It's just talking about things. You literally eat textbooks for breakfast." I unwrapped the sandwich Mom had packed. Half soggy, as usual. Nervous Renzo's fidgeting wasn't exactly helping my appetite.

Sir Alfred, looking impeccably sharp as always, was chatting with Mrs. Corolla near the front. My gaze drifted across the room. There she was. Lila. Sitting alone in the corner, completely still, eyes fixed on her intertwined hands. And then I saw it. Mrs. Corolla, our adviser, normally bustling and motherly ("Ma'am Florence" to us, "Mrs. Corolla" on official documents), was watching Lila. Not a casual glance, but a long, intense stare. Something tight and unreadable in her expression persisted.

Really, something was fishy. Lila's sudden appearance, the unsettling rumour, Mrs. Corolla's scrutiny... it all felt connected in a way I didn't understand, but that set off quiet alarms in my head. For the sake of my precarious high school sanity, I decided to ignore it. Focus on Sir Alfred. Focus on the oral.

Except, when I looked away from Lila and back towards the front, Mrs. Corolla's eyes weren't on Lila anymore. They were on me. Her gaze lingered, sharp and assessing, then flicked away quickly. It was brief, but enough to make my stomach clench. Did she suspect I knew something? Was I looking too closely? The thought made me feel exposed, suddenly scared that I might stumble into something I wasn't supposed to know, something dangerous.

The oral recitation began. One by one, names were called. Renzo, after a moment of performative agony, aced his questions. My turn came. Sir Alfred, strict, funny, and somehow managing to teach us while studying law himself, fired questions. I took a deep breath and answered, pulling from my notes, connecting ideas. I ate up all the questions thrown at me, feeling a surge of relief and quiet triumph as I finished.

Sir Alfred dismissed us, giving everyone time before the next period. Most kids scattered, heading for the canteen or just escaping the tense room. I lingered, gathering my things. The room emptied quickly, leaving just me, Sir Alfred packing up his laptop, and Lila, still in her corner seat.

Then, unexpectedly, Lila started to move. She rose slowly, looking towards where I was standing. For a moment, I thought she was coming over, maybe to say something, anything. My heart gave a small, uncomfortable lurch. But as she took a couple of steps, her eyes darted towards Mrs. Corolla, who was pretending to organize papers but whose "eagle eyes" I knew weren't missing a thing. Lila hesitated, her shoulders slumping slightly, and then she quietly turned back and resumed her seat.

The air thickened with unspoken things, with awkwardness. Mrs. Corolla's gaze tracked Lila's aborted movement, then flicked back to me. It was too much. I needed out. I decided to slip away, grabbing my bag and heading for the door, aiming for the hallway where the comfort rooms offered temporary refuge.

I was almost at the threshold, the noise of the busy corridor just audible, when I felt it. A slight pressure on my arm, not a grab, but a gentle, firm touch. A tiny, soft hand. I stopped and turned.

It was Ma'am Florence. Mrs. Corolla. Standing too close, holding my arm lightly. The motherly facade was gone, replaced by an intensity that made my breath catch. Her eyes, usually warm, were now sharp, analytical.

They were knowing.