The Grey Area

Chapter Three

The first Monday of the last term rolled in, and Isla was not surprised to see her Carrey jogging towards her. She waited for the fiery glare draw closer and closer.

She tilted her head back, stretching out her spine, and admired what she saw. It was by no means a warm day, but the sky had been a clear blue nonetheless. There were barely any clouds, and the air was fresh, like if you were to run through a field of flowers. Looking back down, she could hear the occasional tweeting bird fly over her head as she waited. She waited with one hand tucked away in her coat pocket, and the other clutching the strap of her shoulder bag tightly, as though she were in search of something that would help her to look less skittish. Other students stood nearby some were smoking — some were chatting, some were smoking — and breathed in deeply. She soon realised that the once fresh air, wasn't so fresh anymore. It had been contaminated with something that tasted ashy; her mouth felt foggy, like she'd accidentally swallowed one of the few clouds in the sky. She turned her head over her shoulder, coughing, and noticed someone she hadn't seen nearby.

It came as a shock to her when she peered closer. She recognised the person to be the one and only Callum. Yes, the Callum she'd fantasised about for as long as she could remember: the Callum with those grey eyes. She watched in awe as he leant against the front of the building, not far behind, and felt a pang of an indistinguishable feeling in her chest. Though she'd felt it before, she never had any idea of what exactly it was. Lust? Admiration? Plane old admiration?

His sleeves were pulled to the middle of his forearms, and he held the cigarette that she concluded to be the cause her the fit. A pair of headphones were plugged into his ears, white wires criss crossing messily over his black shirt. His backpack pressed against the wall as he leant against it, and he continued to inhale from the stick of tobacco. (She wasn't exactly in favour of the smell of lit cigarettes: unpleasant, not to her taste, sickly.) He let the smoke out through his nostrils with each intake. She wondered if that was painful. (Did it burn?) He was completely unaware it seemed. In his own little world, but then he looked up and made eye contact.

Turning almost instantly — and hoping that she hadn't been caught — she went back to examining her surroundings, unable to cope with the emotions he conjured within her.

At the same time two arms reached out from what felt like nowhere. They circled around her waist and she jumped at the unanticipated contact. She swiftly snapped back into reality to be met with the only redhead she knew.

The silent exchange that'd taken place between her and Callum only lasted a few milliseconds, but somehow it had felt longer. The only way to describe it: it was like the world was in full slow-mo mode.

"I'm so excited!" Carrey all but sing-songed and released her arms from where they'd been. She eagerly stepped side to side on her feet. The ringlets on her head bounced with the movement, and her swaying earned her various looks from the people around them. "Ninety days..." she said, ignoring the onlookers. They both moved to look to their left, at the somewhat ugly building next to them. "And then we're out!" She finished off her description of the building, making it seem like it were some kind of prison.

"Give or take." Isla was sarcastic, making her fingers into air quotations. "You're no good at maths. Remember?" She trailed her eyes past the main doors, and up the glass panes, until they landed on the discoloured grey letters at the top of them spelling out: Westside Education Centre.

Carrey rolled her eyes, "Yeah, yeah. Let's get this show on the road." She balled up her fist, punching the air between them — a little too enthusiastically for Isla's liking — and tightened the straps on her backpack, then linked their arms together.

Isla couldn't resist taking one more look at the lonely figure one more time, and was taken aback when she did. She wasn't expecting his attention to already be back on her. The boy who kept to himself was the last person she'd expect that from.

They strolled into the building, immediately surrounded by loud, bustling late teens to early twenty-somethings crowding them. Making an immediate turn to the right, they lead themselves into the administration office.

One of the three secretaries walked over and greeted them, and the other women sat at desks.

There were two things that the woman made sure she was never seen without. Her blinding smile, and a name badge that read Hilda Schmidt, (a part of her uniform). She greeted them cheerily — a foreign accent. (Isla always thought that she may have been german.) Hilda flicked her hair behind her shoulders, simultaneously passing them a clipboard and pen.

And she wondered what it must be like, to be part of the miniscule group of people, who were optimistic. She didn't exactly class herself as one of them.

Carrey was the first to scrawl her name along one of the blank lines in curly writing, and she then jotted the time on the right of the sheet afterwards.

When Isla had done the same, they made their way to the the other end of the hall and waited for the lift. Though the building wasn't very wide, where its width lacked was made up for in height. There was always the option to take the stairs, but to say the least they were far from athletic.

The ring of a bell was soon heard. (Brrring, brrring.) It was an obnoxious sound that seemed to shout: "Look at me, I'm here!" She stepped passed the spreading doors, carefully putting one foot before the other, and made sure to press the button that would take them to the to the fifth floor. It was where they'd met nearly two years before. A minute later the doors reopened. It only took a few more twists and turns between the narrow walls, before they made it outside of room 321. Leaning up on their tiptoes, they attempted to spy through the small window at the top of the door.

"Think it'll be any more interesting this year?" The words were whispered into her ear as she peered into the room.

Her face morphed into a look of distaste. "We can only hope." She pushed into the room, coming face to face with a visibly disapproving middle-aged man.

Their teacher, Mr Graham, wriggled his wrist out from under his sleeve and looked down at his watch. His eyebrows rose incredulously at the two of them, and the early signs of wrinkles began to reveal themselves. Crevices and cracks in his skin became more obvious. "Isla and Carrey, how good of you to join us...a whole two minutes late."

Isla mumbled her response. "Sorry. It won't, uh, happen again." She knew that it was probably a lie, but still hoped he would take her word for it and let her be. It was moments like these that she would feel like a little girl being told off by her mother again. Time had flown by, and her primary school days felt like an entire lifetime away.

Feeling awkward, she followed Carrey, shuffling towards the back of the room. She'd been heading for a pair of vacant seats.

They settled down when they reached the chairs, taking a place on either side of Eli Clark — a fellow classmate. He was the stereotypical trouble maker type: tall, dark, handsome. Right down to his chocolate skin tone. He had a certain aura most girls weren't able to resist, always worked to get what he wanted: when he didn't all hell broke loose. He was never not up to no good...at least from what she'd heard. Rumours exaggerated things though, didn't they?

He'd never really caught her attention, but she could see that he'd certainly caught Carrey's. She saw the girl's cheeks deepen in colour, spreading outwards like a rose would to sunlight. Her lips shaped into a smile. She pulled out her notepad and a biro, then scribbled down Sociology Notes on the first line of the first page.

"Today, we'll be introducing the final module of this course," Mr Graham announced. "More specifically, we'll be learning all about Crime and Deviance. What do we all think about it as a society?" His finger traced underneath the words as they lit up on a projector screen, drawing an invisible line as he said them. He picked up a file from the desk he stood behind and began reading it. He briefed over the key points they were going to be covering, but as much as she tried not to be, she was a little distracted.

Isla couldn't resist spending the rest of the lesson watching how a certain someone gave subtle — or not so subtle — looks to a certain other someone.