Survival

3. Social Plague

Stephanie stared at the windowless door in front of her. She was late. Some mix up with room numbers on her schedule had completely turned her around. It was a pathetic excuse, right? Being a werewolf and all, she should have been able to use some insane power to find it. Right. As if gym hadn't been enough of a trial.

Stephanie sighed, squared her shoulders and knocked on the door before pushing it open. Without resistance, it gave way and swung into the room.

Eyes turned, an ocean of faces angling their attention on her in waves. To say that she was intimidated was a sore understatement.

"Miss Armstrong," The English teacher said sharply as he looked up. “If you’ll do the honor of having a seat and taking part in my class, it would be greatly appreciated.”

Stifled giggles and murmurs radiated through the classroom as Stephanie nodded stiffly and took the first seat she could think to.

“Back to work,” snapped the English teacher- Mr. Wilcox as Stephanie suddenly remembered. Then, he took a seat and scribbled down a few things on what looked like an essay with red pen.

The undertone of mutters died down. Stephanie slipped a notebook out of her bag, trying to discern what the class could possibly be doing that Mr. Wilcox had failed to explain to her. It wasn’t her fault that she had been late.

“He’ll warm up to you eventually,” came the quieted whisper from beside her.

Stephanie started, attracting the severe gaze of the teacher once again. Opening her notebook and taking out a pen, Stephanie started to doodle, pointedly making it seem like she was doing something productive.

“I’m sorry?” She asked carefully, keeping her eyes down.

“Wilcox. He doesn’t like change, but he’ll get over it.”

The whisperer’s voice was strangely lucid, unlike the sound of almost all of the voices Stephanie had heard before, slathered with overtones of forced politeness and masked intention. Crystal clear. It was almost impossible to explain or make sense of.

“What am I supposed to be doing?”

“Most likely, not talking to me.”

She lifted her pen from the paper, pausing. “What?”

“You shouldn’t talk to me,” he repeated. “Unless you happen to want the social plague.”

That strange tone he had taken, not wounded or bitter, just resigned and blunt made her pause. Stephanie watched his black pen trace lines over the page, curves, and loops- all in such great detail that amazed her, even now.

She felt a tug at the corners of her mouth. “Just in case you haven’t noticed, I already have it.”

An exhaled sigh.

Steph risked a glance at her partner out of the corner of her eye, catching a glimpse of a boy much too old for his body. He had a way of making it seem like he held the world on his shoulders, slouched down in his chair, a distinct frown on his face. Stephanie would describe him as awkwardly tall; he appeared to be all angles- which would probably almost appear regal… on anyone besides him. His dull brown hair flopped over his forehead, just barely above his eyes.

As if sensing her stare on him, the whisperer looked up. If the rest of him were average and so completely ordinary, then his grey eyes were the opposite. They had the sharpness of a knife-edge and the depth of the ocean, though the nondescript coloring would fool anyone else.

Without meaning to, she read his nonchalant stare.

You still have a chance.

His gaze was unmoving, holding her in place with a strange force, piercing her carefully placed armor. Stephanie was the one to break his stare, surprised by the simple force behind his gaze. She felt his eyes on her for another moment, and then his attention slid back to his own notebook. Stephanie’s breath returned to her, then. But how had he stolen it, just by the lilt in his voice?