Softly, in September

The wind carried the first whispers of September by the rusty gates of Maplewood High—dry leaves scuttling along the ground like summer's ghosts. The sky was thick, gray with the sort of heaviness that would always predict something. Ava Lane knew it. Ava Lane always knew before it did. She stood by herself under the lofty bell tower, arms crossed over chest, hooded sleeves drawn over hands. Cold did not bother her. It was the way the world had tilted ever so imperceptibly that morning, as if someone had altered the rules without asking her. The bell had rung. Harsh. Final. The students poured out of buses and automobiles, streaming down the front steps. She turned, becoming one with the quiet river of half-awake bodies, books clutched, talk buzzing. Room 3B was the starting point. She arrived early—always did. Ava preferred to sit in front of the mayhem, to give the room breath before it was filled with sound. Her chair, by the window, second row from the back. Safe. Comfortable. A spot where no one ever questioned. But today, there was someone in it. He sat with legs spread too informally, a black backpack slumping at his feet as if it had seen too much already. A black hoodie was worn under a half-unzipped leather jacket, the sort that yelled, I don't care, which only made it so he did—just not in the right ways. Ava hesitated for only a split second. "That's my seat." He lifted his head slowly, as though the world had no right to dictate his pace. His eyes were dark—not merely in color, but in something inside. Something Ava knew and despised herself for knowing immediately. "Didn't see your name on it," he said, talking low and raspy, like he didn't talk a lot. She clenched her teeth. "I'm sitting there every day." "Sit down today," he said, and gazed down at his phone again. The nerve. Mr. Kent appeared before she had a chance to complain. The class was half-full already, so she fell into the seat next to him—near enough to hear him breathe, far enough to keep in mind that she didn't care. The lesson dissolved. Her mind wandered. His presence tugged at her like radio static—constant, humming just beneath the surface. And then, halfway through the period, she saw it. His hands. His knuckles were bruised. Faint, but fresh. And along the side of his wrist was a thin red line, as though something had tried to get out—or in. Her breathing ceased, for a short while. He stood up at the end of class and walked out without glancing at anyone. Then, in the hall New kid," Becca, Ava's only sort-of friend, whispered. "Name's Noah. He came from Grayson Heights. You know, the private school? People say he got expelled.". Ava remained silent. "He's hot, though," Becca said. "Like, dangerously hot." Ava's eyes darted to the lockers, where he stood, headphone on, gazing at nothing. Too many scars to be interesting," she grumbled. But she went on viewing. Two Days Later Ava sat in the library, corner seat, her sanctuary. Rain drummed against the windows like a secret seeking admission. She leafed through her notebook, pen in hand, but the words would not come. A shadow fell across her table. She looked up. Him. Again. He collapsed in the chair opposite me, no invitation needed. Hoodie damp with rain, hair mussed as if he'd been struggling with ghosts. "You're in my seat again," she exclaimed. He grinned without looking at her. "This one as well?" She groaned and reached for her bag. "Don't," he whispered. "Just stay." There was something in his voice that stopped her. It was not a command. It was not a request, either. It was… empty. Like a warning wrapped in loneliness. "You don't talk a lot, do you?" he remarked, finally looking at her. "Perhaps I simply do not speak to you." There was a small, near-real smile on his lips. "That's fair." She examined him then. Not his appearance—those were easy. It was the fissures she was interested in. The pauses between his words. The manner in which his smile never reached his eyes. "You're not from around here," she said. "Nope." "What happened?" He stopped. "You have a lot of questions for somebody who doesn't speak." "And you avoid them for a person who's clearly hiding something." His jaw clenched. Then: "I hit someone I shouldn't have. They called it 'violent conduct.'" He leaned back. "So here I am." Ava raised an eyebrow. "And you're proud of that?" "No," he said. "But I'm not lying, either." Silence settled between them. It wasn’t awkward. It was thick. Real. And lastly, she questioned, "Why sit here? Noah glanced at her, really looked this time. "Because you don't act like somebody you aren't. Everybody else in this school has masks on. Yours is just. a wall." She wasn't sure if she should feel vulnerable or visible. "You don't know me," she whispered. "I don't need to," he said, rising. "I see enough." And then he was gone. That Night Ava was in bed, her eyes following the ceiling fan whirl darknesses around her room. Her hand traced the border of her journal without opening it. There was something about Noah Carter that she couldn't figure out. But she wanted to. Meanwhile… Noah perched on the roof of his aunt's townhouse, unlit cigarette between his fingers. He didn't smoke. It just provided an excuse to be by himself. He withdrew a faded photo from his jacket. Two faces. One of them now gone. One interred in a location he never mentioned. His fist contracted, the knuckles growing white. Back off, he told himself. Keep them at arm's length. But her eyes… the way she gazed at him like he was a puzzle piece and not a warning sign… Perhaps Ava Lane was more perilous than he realized.